December 18, 2010

Dear Joshua,

Tonight, I am writing from home. Home. It is a sweet word, spoken or signed. I wonder if you grasp its meaning. Tonight, you are sleeping in your bed. The bottom bunk, under ge ge Jacob, in the room that you share. You're the only one of us who has fallen asleep. I think you've adjusted to Iowa's time zone faster than the natives!

We made it here last night – or rather, this morning. But it wasn't an entirely uneventful trip. Early turbulence calmed by bedtime, and the plane rocked each of us to sleep for a good three – five hour nap. The flight went well, landing us in Chicago half an hour before we left Beijing – twelve full hours swallowed up by some trick of time travel.

On China's side, I felt the tug of your birthplace and unexplored lands and tears welled as I said goodbye. I would have endured hotel rooms for another month for the chance to uncover more of China. In Chicago, new tears formed as our plane gently touched down under clear blue sky and you became a citizen of the United States. But we felt no ties to O'Hare and we sort of dreaded prolonging our trip home with another hotel stop. We had rooms reserved, but we felt well-rested and eager to skip another unloading and reloading of seven suitcases (one per person) and our carry-ons. The hotel honored our late cancellation, and we lined up for the shuttle that would take us to the swagger wagon. Coffee and Coke promised to keep us awake for our one o'clock am arrival.

But first the shuttle didn't come on schedule, and James had to take a taxi. Add one hour. Then the swagger waggon took a scenic jaunt into Wisconsin. Add two. One rest stop for Coffee; one for Coke. Another thirty minutes. Suddenly, we're sliding into home at 3:30 am.

You kids slept soundly until well after midnight, when Daddy made a stop for gas. We were in pretty bad shape, fishing for shoes again and coming up with chicken nuggets instead. Anna finally gave up and wore my flip flops into the restroom.

After our pit stop, we stayed entertained by a light show that beat the dickens out of anything we saw on our river cruise. We wondered if God and Grandpa were welcoming us home.

Enter tornado sirens, and we decided probably not. We considered turning back to China. At 3:30 am, we found ourselves tucked under a bridge just shy of the Merle Hay exit off I-80, hazards on like the handful of other vehicles crazy enough to be out of their garages. The radio buzzed with warnings. Severe Thunderstorm. Flash Flood. Tornado. The van tipped and swayed. Branches broke. Water rose. Jacob sobbed. Anna rocked him. I started praying. Andrew started preaching. You watched the entire scene in stunned silence. Where are these crazy people taking me?

We had traveled across the world and back, braving everything from turbulence to disease. We climbed the Pearl Tower in World Expo crowds and crossed the Great Wall in midsummer heat. We survived Shanghai traffic and qing ping scorpions. We escaped the typhoon in the South China Seas, only to discover five minutes from home that there are typhoons in Iowa.

A couple of vehicles crept into the flooded waters ahead, hazards flashing. When they made it safely to the other side, James followed. Somehow, he wrestled our minivan, luggage teetering on the top, off the interstate and onto 86th Street.

Why now, I wondered out loud. The radar hadn't looked that bad at our last stop. “Well,” Daddy answered. “I was wide awake.”

Indeed.

Daddy parked the van, walked into the kitchen, and sank to the floor. “Were you as scared as I was?” I asked. “No,” he answered. “Not scared. But that was intense.” Sure was. He's a good daddy, who knew he was carrying precious cargo, and he'd just crossed the finish line of a marathon that had begun thirty hours and 6600 miles earlier.

We were way too wound up to sleep, so we took you on a tour of your new home. There were goodies stashed everywhere . . . a refrigerator stocked with groceries, a new teddy bear and blanket from Grandma and Grandpa, and a fourth of July basket brimming with fun. You bounced with energy, pointed and giggled, and finally picked your favorite toy – just like we predicted – the stairs. Up to the top. Turn around. Down to the bottom. Turn around. Back up again. Turn around . . .

Oh, but eventually the fun had to end. We were trip grimy and gross, and we needed to think about our new time zone eventually. So, we ran through fast showers and settled into our beds at five o'clock am. You cried a little bit from your bottom bunk, what with typhoon trauma and the joy of those stairs. But we took turns patting your back, Daddy, Andrew, Anna, and I. And in less than ten minutes, you were sound asleep. I wonder if your bed felt as good to you as ours did to the rest of us. I like to think it did, because you were still sleeping peacefully at 10:30 this morning when I decided I better make the rounds to wake everyone up.

With our late wake-up, the day passed quickly, and we didn't make much of a dent in unpacking our bags. But we loved watching you explore your new home, inside and out, sampling swings and sidewalk chalk, Thomas trains and Legos. You met your first cousins and neighbors. And you tasted a new kind of noodle: spaghetti!

Your day ended on a precious note. With teeth brushed and fresh pajamas on, your play with the jumbo checkers slowed just enough for your thumb to find your mouth – and you fell asleep in the middle of our family room floor. As I type these last sentences, I understand exactly how you felt. I wonder if I'll make it to the end of this sentence before I fall asleep on the keyboard – and if I do, will Daddy carry me up to bed?

Tomorrow begins a normal week for us, but a very new normal for you. It's back to work and down to business. There's a dog to meet, appointments to keep, and lots of laundry and unpacking to do. We will swing and bike and swim, and each push and pedal and splash – each folding of socks, even – will be an act of worship, of giving thanks to God who gave us life and led us down the red thread path to each other.