Ever met an angel? I
have. Her name is Marsha Hug-fan.
In 2001 we´d been so
excited about our dramatically life changing move to Rochester, New York. I was
still green on all things aviation, but knew who I wanted to spend time in the
air with, Singapore Airlines - Wrong direction? Yes! "Darn it," I
thought to myself "we'll just have
to fly around the World..."
If you´ve never flown
with Singapore Airlines, you´ve never truly flown. I tell you the truth, they
had to summons Airport Police in Changi, on account of my refusal to leave the
aircraft – hundreds of television channels, internet access, snack bars,
comfortable décor, flight attendants who would do just about anything for you - from fluffing
your pillow to massaging your weary feet. I could have been mistaken for
thinking I'd died and gone to Heaven.
Fran had snuggled into
her "seat", head-set adorning her petite little mug, not wasting a
word or moving a muscle from Melbourne to Singapore. Lorenzy slumbered in her
wall-mounted-cot for the entire journey, completely oblivious to Mummy´s
desperate pleas for a light refreshment from Mummy's very own built in snack
bar (nursing), hence making Mummy's aviation trip that little bit less comfortable.
We had planned to fly
with our best friends Guy and Jen, though I had booked our flights via Sydney
(my favourite city) and they had booked their flights via Melbourne (their
favourite city). Upon discussion with Guy (who also loves aviation) we'd learnt
of this wee little blunder.
Did we coordinate our
attempts to rectify the situation? No sir-ee! Without any further discussion we
both, independently, switched our flights so that they ended up flying via Sydney
and we ended up flying via Melbourne.
Guy and Jen's flight
had been hell (the Lord works in mysterious ways). They offloaded in Singapore and
slumped into a heap of tears. Hannah, their vivacious daughter, had experienced
ear troubles throughout the flight, resulting in many flight attendant
summonsing moments, aboard the glistening white machine.
Subsequently, we all
sighed relief. They, thrilled to be back on God´s green Earth and we, glad not
to have shared their treacherous Singapore experience.
The island city and country
of Singapore is a mini Asian America, having everything one could ever want and
more. It's clean, modern, efficient, culturally vibrant and historically alive.
Guy and Jen worked a rather
busy schedule in Singapore, spending time with friends, engaging in a little
business and experiencing the many sights.
I, on the other hand,
am not a tourist. Love to travel, hate to look. Would rather spend my day in
gay Paris sipping lattes in a coffee shop and watching the Parisian day crawl
by. In Seoul, take me to a Korean BBQ anytime, where I'll eat with chop sticks
and try to make sense of foreign conversation. New York City is a favourite, I
want to stroll around the Park and visit the Village of an eve, for the
trendiest, tastiest, most tantalising dish.
And so our little
attaché spent days in our Singapore hotel´s café - chatting with our Balinese
waitress; swimming atop the hotel in their decadent pool – working on our
Canberra-based-winter-tan; visiting the nighttime zoo – I don´t like zoos in the
daytime, let alone at night; and relaxing on Sentosa Island - enjoying the
water park which was so dangerous seven people had been killed, that year alone,
on one of their rides.
It was a difficult
thing for us to do, parting company with our terrific friends, Guy and Jen. Horrendous,
to leave behind the intricacies of salient Singapore, only to be heading for historic
Europe, to visit with Liz´s family. However, because we were flying with
Singapore Airlines, we hugged and kissed in Changi, and ran so fast to the
boarding gate that Lorenzy´s nappy became a bodice.
The comfort, the
luxury, the queues at London´s Heathrow immigration hall! I held Lorenzy, just
6 months old, upon my shoulder and wouldn´t allow Fran to sit on account of her
falling asleep every time her botty touched the floor. It was inevitable. Fran
began to cry.
Now I must let short
haul and non-fliers in on a secret. Fourteen hour flights can turn seemingly
delectable daddies into bristly bears. I was groggy and about to lose it, when a
Heathrow immigration official pushed our weary contingent to the head of queue
- the British, kings and queens of courteousness.
More hugs, and a very
quick ride past Windsor Castle to Bristol. Due to jetlag (If it can be helped I
try NEVER to sleep on a Singapore Airlines flight. Why, I may miss the humidly hot
towels, or a glass of glimmering house red, a classic television comedy, etc.),
I always believe my father in-law is trying to kill me, and subconsciously - I
really think he is!
Europeans are the
fastest drivers in the World. My father in-law, who has also lived in Germany, is
no exception. The motorway from London to Bristol (near Wales) is like a
dragway. The Police only stop cars to give tickets for dangerous driving (too
slow). My desire for humidly hot towels is put at bay when I feel my own body
creating a humidly hot towel out of the tracksuit pants I'm wearing.
England represents a
beautiful part of my life. It is everything Lizzie. Orderliness, efficiency,
truthfulness, hospitality, etc. It never ceases to be a wonderful experience,
though thoroughly exhausting from all the catching up we have to do, with
people I've either never met, or only met once or twice.
After a couple of blissful
weeks with Liz's family, we board another plane from Birmingham (on an
around-the-world itinerary you can't fly through the same airport twice, except
to transit). This time we´re bound for Germany to visit my uncle´s new
girlfriend, Ute (ew-tah), and her family.
Lufthansa, Germany's
pride and joy, injects us into what feels like a rubber band. It´s quick,
punctual, plain looking and completely rubber. The seats are rubber, the floor
is rubber, even the flight attendant´s shoes look rubbery (some croc-like
design. That´s Germans for you - I laughed at them back then, now I own 2 pairs
of the blinkin things! Just on Germaneness, did you know Lufthansa dreamed up the
¨Star Alliance¨ and had the first ever frequent flyer program? In my mind,
Germans will forever be the most innovative people on Earth).
We disembarked in
Stuttgart and were slapped across the face with a volcanically thick cloud of
smoke. We nearly past out on account of the fumes, completely unable to
navigate the so-simple-a-child-could-do-it terminal building. We arrived in the
loving arms of Ute, my beautiful German Aunt, who grew up in the southwest of
Germany, but who had lived her adult life in Berlin.
In Germany we enjoyed
visiting a Black Forrest winery where we dined on sauerkraut and pork sausages,
sitting at long, festive, communal tables. No reservations were necessary,
neither was there a seating plan. Patrons simply arrived with hearty attitudes
and laughed from-the-gut all night long.
In fact, we had such a
good time that by the end of the evening I knew several Germanic tunes and had
hugged and kissed just about everyone in the establishment, from dish pig to
heiress.
We were blessed with
the opportunity to drink mulled wine in a quaint, vintage castle, whilst listening
to a Church´s outdoor carols service, under the dark sky, which was sprinkling
us with small, dry, Yuletide, snowflake souvenirs from Heaven.
We sat with one of my
aunt´s beautiful, overly educated, doctor friends, whom Lizzie had to interrupt
on account of war like external bell clanging, so as to enquire ¨why the delightful
sounds of Church bells ringing in the middle of the day?¨ (thinking wedding,
funeral, Church service, etc.) The faces of our hosts turned deathly solemn as
a quietness floated oppressively into the room. The response through pursed
lips, ¨it´s in memory of all the people who died when England bombed our small
village.¨ I watched as Elizabeth tried to swallow, unfortunately saliva became
lodged in her throat. She picked up my steaming cup of hot coffee, Lizzie hates
coffee, and finished the entire cup in one great gulp, scolding her throat in
the process. Ah yes, Germany – a gorgeous country, rich with history and
culture.
Back to England on
British Midland. A very short flight, but this time with all the trimmings.
The head flight attendant,
clearly from London's east end, hollered over the inflight PA system,
"Welcun toooooh Lon-un's Heafrow hairport. Currently twalve past the
ow-er, please keep ya seats til cap-ain's turned owf the sea-belt soin."
Splendid. Shall do. Thank you.
We spent Christmas in
England and oh what joy. Lizzie was beautiful as she rolled with the events of
each day and night. I resisted. I fought. Not a present from Jeddy was bought!
Australian Christmases
to me, in comparison with Northern Hemisphere Christmases, are far less
commercial. Our Christmas period usually constitutes a few days or possibly a
week for holidays (vacations). Christmas day usually means a pool of water (the
Pacific, the Indian, the Great Southern, a backyard pool, the Cotter dam, a
river somewhere, an inflatable wading pool, we're not fussy - just need somewhere
to get wet. It´s our tradition!
We do buy presents, but
our ceremony of unwrapping, with hugs and kisses, takes less than 3 minutes,
and the hour this activity occurs depends on the quantity and age of children
in the house. Then it´s simply breakfast, swimming, lunch, swimming, dinner,
swimming and a video, board game, political conversation, or what-have-you.
Well, I thought I´d
died. We´d (Liz's Mum, Luke and I) gone to midnight mass on Christmas Eve and
were in bed by 2am. Of course who should be up at 3? Ho no, I know what you´re
thinking – Lorenzy, just six months old, needed her nappy changed? Incorrect!
Francesca, 3 years old, had a nightmare and needed comforting? Nope! Lizzie,
desperately excited to be home with the fam, had to cause a raucous and wake
the entire house? BINGO!
Now as a mature,
Australian Christian man, I just couldn´t agree to it. For my immediate family
had stopped even celebrating Christmas at all, on account of our new found
freedom in celebrating only pagan-commercially-gluten-free-holidays, which, in
fact, don't actually exist.
So as the story goes, everyone
knows that Santa doesn´t bother to come down your chimney if you're up and
about. Therefore, it was my duty to self-righteously pull Liz´s pillow firmly
over my head and refuse to be moved (I know, I was an idiot. The stupid
arguments you have in your first few years of marriage – far more tantalising that
the stupid arguments you have in the latter years of marriage…).
When I did finally
awake, at 6am, I moseyed on into the lounge room and was completely bamboozled
by what I saw. A sea of paper… unwrapped, wrapping paper… It had not been
folded up for use next year, like I´d been trained to do in my childhood. It
was a swirling, whirling, gurgling mess.
Heads and limbs poked
out of it everywhere. The mish-mashed paper also made a noise: laughter. There
were currents of tree fodder, moving along seemingly in streams, for deep
beneath lurked an impenetrable force, kids! Our little Francesca swam, under
the surface, fishing for stray bits of food (LOLLIES! CANDY!) and useless toy
fun (cheap Chinese craft – perfect for entertaining kids on a cold winter´s
day). She hadn't even BRUSHED HER TEETH!!!
We packed up our fun
and spent the rest of the day eating, drinking, unwrapping and playing. Yes, I
felt like the grinch, dutifully grumbling at each new festive tradition. At the
time I was disgusted by all of this foolish selfishness and joy, now, when in
the Northern Hemisphere, I embrace it (not totally, but nearly).
And so it was, without
wife or kids and with a very pained heart, I boarded America's United Airlines
flight, bound for Washington DC. I was to scout out the land, organising our
new life, with family to follow just three weeks later.
My heart was sad to be
leaving Liz, but even sadder to be flying with United Airlines. "Welcome
aboard" said the eighty year old flight attendant, who had clearly undergone
cosmetic surgery on her nose, eyes, lips, cheeks, neck, chest, stomach,
buttocks and thighs. The moment she stopped smiling, which was every 5 seconds,
her face fell in a heap - poor darling.
It actually wasn't too
bad and I'm ashamed to say it, I was rather impressed. We were on a new 777 jet,
with some of the snazzy gadgets sporting snazzy Singapore Airlines aircraft. I sat
next to a twenty-something, professional lady from Boston, and we laughed and
chatted for the duration of the flight.
My transit in DC wasn't
too bad either. I was lucky enough to ride aboard some sideways moving bus and was
blessed to be seated next to a returning Greek exchange student. He gleefully
told me all about Rochester and how much fun lay before me. He was correct.
My student exchange
coordinator, Pat, was a love. I liked
her the very second I laid eyes on her. She's a dove - completely harmless and
gentle. She probably wanted to show me the door on many an occasion, but I'd
just sit on a swivel chair in her office, ignoring her subtle cues, and chatting
for hours-on-end. I shared everything with Pat, I think she's still
shell-shocked to this day about my honesty. Even now we communicate regularly
and I am blessed to call her a friend (more in a later post).
When I asked her about
a Church to attend, she shared with me about CCC (Christ Community Church). On
Sunday morning I trotted along from Buck's bed & breakfast accommodation to
CCC.
Well, my trot actually turned
into a gallop. I'd accidently left my new jacket at Heathrow by mistake. A
young African American woman chased me along the street. Being new to New York,
I thought she wanted to mug me and ran as fast as I could until I eventually ended
up flat on my back on account of a frozen puddle.
My "mugger"
stood over me. "Do you need a jacket?" she asked warmly. "You
mean you're not going to kill me and steal all my money?" I implored. She
tried to smile, I know she did, but the joy would never arrive on her face, due
to the subzero chill factor.
It was the middle of
winter and Americans living near the Great Lakes receive what is known as "lake
effect snow" - storms blow in from the north pole and whip up humidity
from Lake Ontario, just north of the city, dumping it on the folks of Rochester
(and other cities), making physical life of all forms gorgeous, yet causing
chaos for the punctual, orderly, New Yorkers).
I was late and the
sermon was already underway. Pastor John, the lead pastor, was talking about
the 25 year history of the Church and the vision he had for the future. There
would be new leadership and he would be sent out as an Apostle of the Church,
to Latin America and beyond.
We sang a song and
then... Tap, tap, tap, tapped my toes. I glanced about the 70s plaid auditorium
- nothing fashionable about the place except for the youth. It seemed like the
building had been transported through time, replacing another modern building.
However, the people didn't seem to notice and so I cared less.
Everyone was smiling
and milling around, chatting and giggling, "oh is that so, blah, blah,
blah... Well you should have seen rah, rah, rah..." I hadn't a friend in
the entire northeast of America, let alone in Rochester. "Sit still,
moron!" I commanded myself. "Do not be hasty!" I self-rebuked.
The truth was, I didn't have enough money for another night's accommodation and
desperately needed somebody in the congregation to let me kip on their couch. A
lot was riding on this moment and for some reason it took all of my strength
just to say put in the pew.
I hung my head and began
to pray. I know, very spiritual - BUT, I was in Church. I had only gotten up to
the "even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death" part,
when my angel, Marsha Hug-fan, tapped me irritatingly on the shoulder.
"WHO DOETH DARETH INTRUDE UPON the PRAYERS OF THIS SAINT?" I wondered.
Looking up, I became completely overcome with love.
"Hello", she spoke
with authority. "How are you?" She warmly demanded. "Oh, well -
very goo..." no time for dilly-dallying, "Who are you?" She
asked. "Well (getting a little nervous now), my name is Jed Brien and I am
an exchange student from Australia."
Marsha's face simultaneously
became brighter and curious, "AUSTRALIA!?! Have you heard of Hillsong?"
she begged. "Oh, yes, I attended for2 years du..." She interrupted
again, "we sing those songs here! What a coincidence..." My mind raced. "Who is this psychotic
little Christian?" I speculated.
The jerk was immense.
Marsha had me by the elbow with an inescapable grip. I winced at the pain. She
called out, "Chad, I've got somebody to introduce you to!" Confused I
tried to respond, "Oh actually my name's not..." Confronted by this
man monster I nearly lost my voice. I introduced myself as Jed, which neither
of them seemed to notice, and nearly curtsied on account of pain induced brain
malfunction from both elbow gripping and strongman-contest-hand-shaking.
"How do you do?" I enquired.
"Oh Pastor Mark,
let me introduce you to Chad, he's from the Hillsong choir." Marsha was
working the Church folk like nothing I've ever seen. She was better a better
host than I'd ever come across! "Ummm... I'm not from Hi..." Pastor
Mark approached, "Well pleased to meet you Chad. What are you here
for?" My friends of CCC didn't quite believe my history, I don't think. He
listened to my tale and took charge, "Okay, I'll ask the boys if you can
stay with them..."
(Embarrassing side-moment:
Was dozing on the couch watching Oprah at the lads' pad, when for no good
reason I began to cry. Not just cry,
I bawled like a baby. Not just a baby, a toddler with tooth ache and fever...
Who should walk in upon me? Jerry, friend of chad, who is also a man-monster...
I have never lived that moment down...)
Thinking my elbow was
free I began to slowly turn around - however, Marsha hadn't released her grip,
she'd just loosened it. Sensing the end of my conversation she turned from her
chat with another party, mid-sentence, and hauled me off to greeting number 3.
"Donni" she
exclaimed, "let me introduce you to Darlene Zschech's brother!" Okay,
I'm exaggerating now, but Marsha certainly had a way with instantly cementing
my position in the Church - believe me when I say, EVERY CHURCH NEEDS a MARSHA!
By the end of my time
with Marsha, I had met every single person at CCC. Unfortunately, she'd misheard
my name and had incorrectly introduced me as "Chad" to all we'd come
across.
The following week it
was "ARE YOU SERIOUS? We had another Australian visitor just last week. He
looked just like you! But his name was Chad, not Jed. WHAT A COINCDENCE!"
No, that's not true either, but as my father always says "never spoil a
story on account of the truth!" My father never said that...
Marsha Hug-fan IS an
angel. Just a couple of years prior to meeting Marsha, she lost the love of her
life, Dan. It was one of those painful moments in Marsha's community's lives,
when everyone sits around saying "why him?"
I never knew Dan. But
from every account he was a hard worker, an excellent husband and father, a
devoted Christian, the leader of a community. Hard to comprehend. There were no
explanations, God had called him home.
But did the physical confinements
of this Earth stop Marsha from hearing her eternal call? No flippin' way! I've
known Marsha now for nearly twelve years and it never ceases to amaze me how
much she pours into the lives of others, irrespective of her own needs. From
the moment I met Marsha she has given everything to me.
Upon my first visit to
her house, I felt loved. Dinner time mirrored the feeding of the five thousand.
I tried to lend a hand, but that wasn't my place. "Jed, why don't you sit
down at the table?" she requested, not questioned. I was always one of her
kids.
Since that day I've
always considered Marsha to be my American mother. I'd always try to talk to
her as a peer, but she just has that knowing parental way. In my life, she's
given of herself not only to me, but to my wife, kids, and extended family.
Literally, given. Lodging, car loans, groceries, furniture for our apartment,
baby-sitting and the green stuff too.
On our trip to the USA
in July and August, Marsha hosted a time for us kids to "play." It
was yet again the feeding of the five thousand, with all of Marsha's kids
there, and their spouses, her grandkids, friends, etc.
I walked in on my Mother
Marsha Hug-fan (America's answer to Mother Theresa) sitting on the couch with
Liz. She was explaining to her that she'd just sold the very house we were chatting
in. She explained that the Lord had told her very specifically to give us a
VERY large sum of money. "Oh boy..." I thought. I grabbed the woman
and shook her, violently slapping her across the face to bring some sense to
the crazy ol' bag (no, not true, though we did verbally too-and-fro a wee-bit),
but realised in this moment that my stance was hopeless.
This woman, my American
mother, a true discipler, was taking care of business. Not her business, not
our business, not her deceased husband's business... She was taking care of the
business of her father - who art in Heaven. Hallowed be HIS name. Special thanks
to you, my American Mum, for always believing in me and for having my back.
I
love you so much!
Jeddoxo
