Paradise

Our visas were near expiring, and due to a world climate of COVID, an island in the Indian Ocean was one of the rare places with open doors. 

So, our family packed our untouched swimsuits and made way for the airport in a neighboring state. We swallowed motion sickness pills for the mountains we would spiral in our area, and muffins and toilet paper for the next state, which lacked any inviting restaurant or toilet. 

Surviving the sickening curves without vomiting, we felt ready to dream of what island life might entail. We talked of sea animals and salty water, while nibbling on chips, biscuits, and a newspaper wrapped bundle of fried pakora for lunch. When Micah returned to the car with the piping hot parcel, we clapped over his success at finding the fresh stuff. The kids looked for the potato pieces and passed the unwanted eggplant and onion to me. We listened to audio books and played Would You Rather until our bodies resembled the stale air inside the van. Leaning foreheads on hot windows, we watched the world in silence. 

Wheat fields and rice paddies were nearing harvest and farmers were scattered about the landscape like the dots spotting a ladybug’s back. The ground boiled and the air was silent, no breeze to rustle what grew from the ground. Women in craftily spun layers of cloth held bundles of alfalfa on their heads so large that their eyes were hidden from sight. Men sprawled out on wide wooden benches, arms thrown over their faces for shade. Other men talked with their hands and drank from clay cups. Children swatted each other in play. Babies sat with their bare bottoms on the earth and drew pictures in the cracked dirt. I inhaled this sun-drenched slice of God’s world and willed myself to remember every detail for my later grey-haired days when I would likely be stuck to a polyester chair in front of a glass bird cage. I would remember the leathery men sitting behind pyramids of limes waiting for customers, the roadside cafes with their metal pots and coke bottles, the sugar cane, primitive tractors, half-finished hotels, and temples housing gods with chipping paint. However, even now, I can’t pinpoint the exact shade of those rice paddies. 

We arrived at the airport with our active circle of children squirming about our legs. In a country where having one to two kids is trendy, people have a habit of counting our children in Hindi. Then the follow-up comments, that after hearing a hundred times, start to grate my nerves. Often I beat them to the punch and say coolly, with my chin high in the air, we have five children. Nothing makes one more ready for a vacation than travelling in crowded places, looking like a circus act. We had two flights, an overnight, and a boat ride to go, but the thought of waves splashing our legs gave us the necessary pep in our step. 

It was like Gilligan’s Island in the flesh. The color version, of course. I had to remind myself that the myriad of blues and greens weren’t imaginary, but strokes of God’s paintbrush. This magical world was created and natural, in a way far different than Disney World’s charms, manufactured by talented engineers. The natural beauty was enough to start us singing. How could we not praise the Maker of hermit crabs and silky stingrays? We dug our toes deeply into the sand and watched our kids exploring paradise with the wild freedom and glee reserved for the young. 

As usual, my eyes moved easily from the sparkling waters to the people around me. There were the honeymooners, the free spirits, a couple other workers needing a fresh visa, and a handful of parents wanting to give their children exotic memories. I noticed some people’s bodies were magnificently bronzed and carved, as though they lived their entire lives laying out and walking along tropical shorelines, while others’ were indulgent and round, sunscreen covering up burned backs and necks. 

One man we enjoyed talking to was Russia’s #1 champion in wrestling. He was often walking with his son hand-in-hand, the boy a perfect miniature of his father. Their normal bottom halves blossomed into broad shoulders that bubbled with muscle, as if they might tip over from their top-heavy stature. Nevertheless, they remained upright and with marvelous accents. We kept pointing out this champion to our kids, until they had to finally say, “We know Mom and Dad, you have told us lots of times.” Well, they aren’t Rocky fans yet. 

While reading in a lawn chair, I kept getting distracted by a lady shamelessly getting her photo taken every which way. For a solid hour. She started out in deeper waters, wetting her hair up and down in slow motion. She glided forward and raised her arms and chin to the sky, likely inviting the sun to worship her. Then she swirled, shimmied, and spun. She lay in the sand on her back, her stomach, and her side. She blew kisses, looked into the distance, back over her shoulder, until every possible contortion was memorialized. She snatched the camera from her enduring boyfriend and looked pleased at all the pictures. I laughed to myself over her infatuation in an ugly way. At the same time, I couldn’t help but admire her confidence. 

I was swimming in the shallow water with Swede, when I started to chat with a woman from Russia. She had two toddlers with hair the color of snow. Before talking with her, I had felt intimidated by her neon thong swimsuit and enviable body, but it wasn’t long before I found I liked her immensely. She was refreshingly honest. We agreed about how much work parenting is. Her squinting eyes showed clear confusion at why we would choose to have so many kids and live in such a “dirty” place. Her words, not mine. I agreed that children required sacrifice, but that they were also gifts from God that brought us far more joy. Her expression suggested that I had started speaking in Mandarin, so I smiled, and asked her how her time on the island was going so far. She shrugged her thin shoulders and said they were actually really bored. They didn’t know what to do all day. I let out a quick laugh thinking that it was a joke, but her grim little face said otherwise. Now she was the one speaking Mandarin. Bored with an ocean of sea creatures and coral reefs? How could the blues get any bluer? I scoffed. Yet, I wondered why her words tasted as familiar to me as my Mom’s ham balls.

I looked away from her and met my baby’s piercing blue eyes. How often I label everything blah in seasons actually ripe with blessing. The blue of Swede’s eyes held mine. Wasn’t the soul peeping out of those ocean-tinted eyeballs more wondrous than this paradise of a place? And yet, I am easily bored by the look of them, discontent with what’s in my hands. My new friend hurriedly waved goodbye and headed towards her bungalow, two babies in tow and whining in Russian, which was surprisingly endearing. I prayed to God that she would find what she was looking for. 

All vacations must end. We shook the sand from our belongings and packed them in our suitcases. We boarded the boat and yelled goodbye to the snorkeling and hammock swings and jellyfish. We got to the airport and heard people already kid counting. Two days later, we packed into our van like sardines and blasted the AC to erase the humidity. We re-entered the colorful land we call home for now. The kids ran into their rooms and hugged their beds. We all sighed in relief that their pet bunny wouldn’t require a burial and was surprisingly chipper. 

After mountains of laundry and wiping down moldy surfaces, I made homemade tomato soup for dinner. Adding the dairy too quickly, the milk broke and my carefully roasted tomatoes and garlic resembled cottage cheese. I started to cry into the pot of soup, dreading all the real-life things facing me. And then the joyless expression of my Russian friend in the middle of paradise came to mind. The one given a gorgeous body, two adorable sons, and an island vacation, yet miserable.  I let my tears fall freely and borrowed a prayer from David. Barely audible, I whispered to the Lord, offering Him my speckled soup, “You are my portion and cup; you make my lot secure.” (Ps. 16:5)