I crave the thrilling, adventurous feeling of traveling. I look forward to jumping out of the hum-drum routine and entering somebody else’s world for a few days. I love an open schedule in a different place with friends and family to catch up with. But my body hates leaving the comfortable ambience of home. Whenever I step foot in an airport with itinerary in hand, my stomach reaches up and grabs me by the throat. I feel the shakiness of needless anxiety and dread based on past experiences on planes. By the time I am sitting in row 21A, nausea and dizziness has crept over my body and I swallow it away, one second at a time. I cautiously feel around the seatback pocket for that stupid barf bag, just to avoid a sheer sense of panic. I hate how I feel. I pump my body full of medicine that temporarily relieves the anxiety, but I still feel like I am locked in a prison, claustrophobia wrapping its slimy arms around me and squeezing. I used to love to take off in the plane, listening to the beastly roar of the engines catapulting us into a sky reserved for us alone for a few hours. But instead I distract myself the best I can, all while counting down the minutes until I can appreciate survival when we finally touch down.
My brother Dan and his wife Caroline live in New Hampshire with their three kids- Three-year-old twins Caleb and Lyla and chunky monkey Hudson, 5 months old. I ache to see them, and our text-versations proved hopeful. We decided maybe on the weekend of September 17 we could intersect our individual trips to Michigan. Tickets bought. Plans made. Then came a disappointing message from Dan that something came up and they couldn’t make it to Michigan until October. A twinge of sadness, a missed opportunity, but I appreciated the thoughtful effort anyway. We were all hoping to visit the newest Carrel babies together- birthed in July by Emily, my brother Joe’s wife. Selah and Maddox were now eight weeks old and drawing the attention of everyone. We all desperately longed to meet these precious twins.
Kevin and I waltzed down the hall in the Grand Rapids airport into the embrace of familiar faces. Hugs and kisses at 1am. We chatted and soaked up the first few moments with long-distance family, where every word shared is a gleaming gem and every sight seen is a Welcome Home. The next day my bearded, wounded little brother Basura passed out hugs like candy and made plans for the day while limping around on one good knee. He didn’t start his new job at Starbucks until Thursday morning so we had an empty canvas Wednesday stretched before us. We crammed in the blue S-10 pickup that is somehow still running, and journeyed through country roads with the windows down.
Emily opened the door and her Mama arms hugged me tight. Joe peeked in unexpectedly and we tiptoed into the house, not sure what to expect. Then I saw them. Two tiny bundled up creatures dressed in pajamas. Their eyes hid behind soft lids, lost in dreamy sleep. Their fingers pointed in different directions and legs scrunched up to their bellies. How impossibly small these adorable human beings are! I stared in utter amazement, gently caressing two skinny fingers with my giant adult hands. I was speechless. I had never before seen anything like this. Joe and Em smiled knowingly, reading my thoughts.
Selah Ann and Maddox Douglas- 8 weeks old yet just barely over 6 lbs each. We sat around a relaxing living room with Pandora playing softly in the background and a cloudy Michigan day brimming outside. We talked about the NICU, the 32 week dilation and surprise labor, the shots of medicine that breathed double duty protection and development into their lungs. The scale that read 3 lbs and change, and the tubes and masks that clothed their innocent newborn faces. Kevin and I held bottles and patted their backs as their milk-drunk faces sunk lazily into the burp cloth. Emily taught me to swaddle and then I entered into the most peaceful and serene hours I have ever spent on this earth. Selah slept in my arms, nestled in her swaddle blanket and I stroked her earlobes the size and texture of a miniscule scrap of velvet fabric. I stared at her, counting the blonde hairs around her face and patting her cuddled-up butt with my free hand. She was never fazed. I moved her to the middle of my chest and rested my head on hers, wrapping my arms around her as if she was long lost and now found. I couldn’t imagine anything better and Em looked on in pure joy. “I don’t mind the exhaustion.” She said matter-of-factly. “We have waited so long to hold these babies, and we know they are miracles. I don’t take any second for granted.” I glanced at my brother, relaxing on the couch. Not one peep of complaining, not one shot of anger. 8 years of marriage. One beautiful adopted daughter. And a long awaited pregnancy that brought a tiny little girl and boy into the world. Joe and Emily were stretched and strained for years, yielding to God’s timing and not theirs. Their marriage, like a swimmer learning to hold his breath longer and longer underwater, was tested and proved strong. Their reliance on God intensified and blessings came in time. Kevin sat in the reclining chair wearing an oversized FHN sweatshirt from the Carrel closet, holding Maddox with a little help from a pillow. They had both mastered the art of relaxing. That night as I lay in bed, chilled by the breeze slipping in from the window, I had phantom feelings in my arms as if the babe still lay cuddled up and dreaming.
Dinner on Thursday night was a triple date with Joe and Em, Jeff and Elizabeth, and Kevin and I. We had the upstairs room at Grill One Eleven to ourselves, and we laughed and teased and talked about Netflix while devouring fancy burgers and sweet potato chips.
The next day, Kevin and Joe mowed the lawn at the house and ventured into the basement for woodworking and sanding lessons. Joe and Em’s little girl Lillie colored on a massive white poster board- sky brilliant with five different shades of blue. I smiled at the creativity in this house, all while cradling a zombie baby who couldn’t have been woken up with a tornado. Saturday stumbled upon us and we watched college football in the living room, soaking up the final moments with Selah and Maddox. We had taken pictures, heard their cries, listened to hiccups and watched curious eyes goggle around the room for hours. We had counted toes and held fingers, brushed cheeks and kissed foreheads.
The wonder never left me. I was awestruck.
My lips pressed their tiny selves one more time and we were out the door. Two heartbreaking hours later, I greet my grandmother in her big house; the only one I had ever known to take care of her and my beloved grandpa, gone and missed immensely. Each step I take in that special house evokes a terrible emotion that slams into my chest without warning. I hug her sweet frame and escape quickly, regretting that I didn’t spend more time with her, but knowing it was too late. My eyes waterfall in the car as we make our way to Round 2- Grandpa Carrel and his sweet wife. I am amazed at his sharpness and happy countenance. But it is all over for us. We have to leave, facing the fact that Michigan holds my family but I can’t. Kevin and I travel back to family-less Florida and he gives me the strength to realize that it’s going to be okay. He holds my hand and talks to me, listening to my hurts and my thoughts, no matter how pain-filled. I know he will take care of me.
We boarded our Detroit to Orlando flight and my curiosity peaked when I walked past the cockpit. I figured my somber composure could use a pick-me-up. I asked to meet the pilot and was ushered into a tiny room that housed two relaxed pilots. I boldly introduced myself with a curious smile on my face. The pilot offered me his seat and captain hat and asked for my camera to take pictures. His giant hat nearly slid down my forehead and I grabbed the steering wheel for the picture. “What do you want to know?” The pilot inquired. My eyes floated around, seeing buttons and numbers and mass confusion. “How do you land when you can’t see?” They both talked pilot gibberish and flipped down a night-vision visor, displaying neon green numbers and lines. We talked about the movie, “Sully” and its associating books. I told them that I would leave them to their job, and thanked them as I scrambled out of the tiny house.
Even with that pre-flight excitement, I knew we had 2 ½ hours of flight time and I was worried about making it through the whole flight without feeling miserable. With an hour to go, it hit me. The nausea and dizziness started slowly and crippled me once again. The row behind me was empty so I scrambled past my seat mate to lay down, a thin blanket wrapped around my shivering body. As I lay there, breathing methodically and determining to relax enough to make it through the end of the flight, I thought of the trip. The babies. My family. The tears in goodbye. Too many goodbyes. The months and years of separation that has become our normal. I cursed my frail body for making traveling so difficult and wondered when we would come back. The twins had no idea the spiritual impact they had on their young aunt, but I felt refreshed in a strange way that I didn’t expect. It was a slice of heaven, a surprising feeling and even amidst the uncomfortable drama of traveling- so worth it.
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