airport – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

February 29, 2024February 28, 2024

A Calming Effect

Airport kiosks of the sparser variety often feature elevated circular tables so travelers can munch their edibles while standing. My new South Asia friend had moved to such a table, his modest lunch in hand. Adjusting his backpack, he had a glance around. Suddenly, he paused – shifting his gaze to the beverage in his hand.

No straw.

Taking in the customers around him, he realized all their drinks did include sipping straws, each one poised as if standing at attention within the respective drinks. The travel-worn student’s heart sank.

The kiosk attendant did not give me a straw, Dheeraj moaned inwardly. Surely it is because they do not like my being here. In this place. . . this country.

Reining in his gathering gloom, Dheeraj returned his focus to the checkout counter, noting the small stack of napkins from which he had earlier retrieved his own. He then noticed a newly served customer fetching one for himself. Turning, the gentleman pressed a finger to a metal device near at hand. From this device, a bright, fresh sipping straw magically appeared!

Relief washed over Dheeraj.

Ann and I flashbacked to our own skewed perceptions when arriving in Kenya as youngsters – our first foreign country of residence. Excitement and angst, wonder and trepidation ran the gamut, having a roller coaster field day. (Having grown up in an era of “Me Tarzan–You Jane” movies, I was half-surprised that our Jumbo Jet set down on paved tarmac, rather than a dirt landing strip!

In time our TU ministry team offered cultural orientation sessions for new arrivals coming in from abroad. We relished witnessing the ‘lights come on’, seeing anxieties dissipate even as we handed out copies of a perfectly-labeled booklet, How To Survive In The United States.

In time, opportunities arose where we could pass along treasured phrases from an ancient era, that proved as relevant today as at any time ever,

“Be anxious for nothing*. . . “Do not fear, I am with you**”

October 26, 2023October 25, 2023

Mixed Sensations

Choctaw, Oklahoma.

By the time our plane touched down at Will Rogers Airport, the four of us – typical of any who’s just traversed nine time zones – were ready for an environment change.

From our plane’s starting descent to Will Rogers, I had begun pondering afresh the hazy landscape stretched before us. The vast and wondrous place we had grown to call home – the continent of Africa – lay in our past, at least for now. Images called up through the rearview mirror can stir a special gathering of comforts to the soul. Especially when one is alternating between nostalgic scenes of the past and a fog of bewildering landscapes out ahead.

Shifting my mind to the immediate future a sense of happy anticipation began to rise. Similar stirrings of emotion found their way to Ann and Scott and Amy. Our reunion with Julie lay just ahead. How had she grown up so fast? In a mere two weeks from now she would take my arm to be escorted – my beautifully-gowned princess – down to the wedding altar and her waiting groom. Meanwhile, here in the present moment above OKC the bride’s ever practical mother tweaked her set of musings, Will the dress fit well?

Catching sight of Julie – her bright smile signaling the pleasure of spotting family – stirred our feet to pick up their pace. Two years before, having brought her to the States after high school, we had bid some teary farewells. Our journey back to Africa brought home a too-obvious fact. Our family’s usual ‘fifth passenger’ seat sat vacant, a fact offering nothing to elevate our mood.

A handsome young man donning western wear stood at Julie’s side as we approached.

Seeing her daughter’s fiancé for the first time Ann’s mind went momentarily to that particular garment in the works. A near-complete, carefully arranged wedding dress – making its way right now (hopefully) toward the baggage claim carousel.

The drive from Oklahoma City to Choctaw and to the ever-welcoming presence of my sister and brother-in-law was covered in minutes. Betty and Gene’s residence with its tree-festooned landscape had, since the early 70s, served in some measure as our home base during mission furloughs. Soon we were shuttling a parade of luggage pieces across the entryway into their home.

Further transitions lay ahead. Into just what? We hardly knew.

April 11, 2017August 28, 2017

Airport Angst

I was sorting British currency at one of earth’s busiest airports when my two-year-old girl vanished.

Amy had stood quietly at my side seconds ago as I made a kiosk purchase. In a quick, awkward 360 degree swirl I scanned what I could of this piece of Heathrow’s bustling throng. Amy! My little girl was no where in sight.

We had flown here from Nairobi, Kenya. Our family’s connecting flight to the U.S. would receive passengers in a couple hours. I sprinted the short distance to my wife, Ann, and the two older children. Because of a fractured toe from the day before, Ann could only stay seated, her leg out before her with the bandaged foot resting atop a lower piece of luggage.

“Julie! Scott!” They jumped to action when told their little sister had disappeared – striking off in directions indicated by my commando-like hand signals. I took in the many and varied images of travelers, their luggage pieces trailing behind like obedient pets. Nationalities and languages from all parts. My eyebrows furrowed. Some 75 million travelers pass through London’s Heathrow yearly. Lord. Where? Where can she be? Help us, Lord.

My movements were a vigorous, graceless waltz, craning this way and that, continuously turning, specially scoping for signs of ‘little people’.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours.

In something over five minutes the airport’s public address system gave a pop, then hummed to life. The voice was male.

It was even. Strong. Indisputably English. Voices have a way of projecting personality. The person back of this voice was clearly gentle and good-humored.

“Heathrow travelers, I would like your attention, please.” The din of luggage casters clacking and shoes clicking and people clamoring only barely faded as the announcer went on. “Ladies and gentlemen, it seems we have a young lady, an Amy-BethLout (he blended the middle and last names to sound as one, sparing himself the awkwardness perhaps of associating the unflattering term ‘lout’ with any of his esteemed airport guests.) Regardless, the gentle, good-humored security fellow had got my attention. “Thank you, Lord”, I breathed.

It seems Amy had become sort of spellbound, taking in the grand throng of men and women and children. And their pigmentation. Since her East Africa birth only a tiny fraction of people she had seen had a skin color common to her own. Absentmindedly, after a mere few steps, she had drifted into the river of humanity.

Now I was holding her in a close hug.

”So Amy, tell us, how did you get to the nice man with the microphone?”

“Well,” she swayed back and forth slightly, “after awhile I looked around and I couldn’t see you anymore.” An old man with probably his wife was near to me. So I reached up and pulled down on his jacket. He looked at me and I said, “Do you know my daddy?” And so they got me back to you.

Her smile was unlabored, spontaneous, wonderfully naïve. “I’m glad we found each other daddy.”

I smiled back, only now aware my heart rate had begun normalizing again.

“I am too, Amy.” I hugged her again. “Really glad.”

August 8, 2017August 28, 2017

Embakasi

“Jerry Lout, right?”

The accent, which I would later recognize as New Zealander, came from beyond a short railing. John Maxwell’s hand, its firm grip on a paper, pressed forward past the barrier and into Nairobi airport’s arrivals section. Labeled Immigration, it was the sector where passports, visas and such are green-lighted or rejected.

The paper being handed me was important. My Work Permit, the document required for our long-term stay in Kenya. The Permit had been signed just recently, an inky stamp-print marking approval. Good for four years. Happy to meet a welcoming presence to the continent, I took the paper from our new colleague, nodding my thanks.

Our plane had touched down minutes earlier, having traversed the Mediterranean Sea north-to-south and a long air path over the Sahara Desert.

Mile-high Embakasi Airport was just a short distance beyond the Nairobi Game Park, popular tourist attraction at the east edge of Kenya’s Capital City. The town’s name, Nairobi, was formed from a Maasai phrase meaning “cool water”. Six years would pass before Embakasi’s rechristening, paying homage to this nation’s first president, Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.

“Well, this is good!”, John’s wife announced cheerily, flashing a smile. “Seems your luggage all made it with you fine.” Jenny’s two pre-school boys bustled close by. Noting Ann’s larger-than-life midsection one asked, “Mummy, will Auntie have her baby now?”

Though wearied from travel, Ann felt lifted by the young mother’s warmth, “Let’s get you where you can relax a bit, shall we?” Jenny was Nairobi born-and-raised, and as comfortably at home in Africa as any expatriate we would come to know. From the outset our households, the Maxwells and Louts, had begun a bond.

Another person drew near – a lady graying a little around the temples, but vibrant. “Welcome, Kiddos.” The American accent stirred a good feeling somewhere inside us.

If what were needed for a pair of green missionary-hopefuls landing on the continent was a matronly, plucky veteran of Africa’s bush-country, Eva Butler fit the role. Single-mom. Servant to Kenya’s more remote peoples and cultures. Being in her company, Ann and I sensed a measure of awe. Then my mood shifted and I nearly chuckled, recalling an uncommon meeting in a small college chapel not that long ago. . . “So this is the man with the black heart!”

My wife and I smiled as, in turn, we took Eva Butler’s hand – sister to the snowy-haired, twinkly-eyed Elim President. Carlton Spencer.

In a few days I would visit one of those remote regions Eva called home. And have a taste of raw fear.