Hey Mom, watch me!” Face split in a huge grin, my six-year-old pounded toward the edge, tucking up his skinny legs tightly as he hit the water with a splash. Another kid followed right behind, and they both bobbed up laughing, sloshing water over the sides of the pool.
The tight band around my heart eased a little, as I gave him a double thumbs up. “Great job, buddy!”
We had agonized over whether we were doing the right thing, making a second international move in two years. We had spent the past 18 months in my husband’s country, New Zealand, so our daughter could undergo the first rigorous phases of the protocol for childhood leukemia. Now she had transitioned into the less intense maintenance phase of her treatment, but we couldn’t move back to Central Asia—where we had been living and working—until after she completely finished chemo and her immune system had fully recovered, another year or more away.
So we had chosen instead to move up to Chiang Mai, Thailand, for the year. Chiang Mai was just a 6-hour flight from my husband’s business in Central Asia (instead of two full days of travel from New Zealand), and there was an international school all three kids could attend. But the stress of another transition on the heels of a traumatic year was taking a toll.
I smiled, watching my kids enjoy the water. Pushing my frizzing hair off my sticky forehead, I took a deep breath and glanced at my watch. 5 PM, dinnertime, and our rental house was still full of suitcases. I didn’t even know where a grocery store was. The beginning of a headache pinched the base of my neck. I watched the other moms talk easily to each other, and a wave of fatigue swept over me.
Just then, one mom with chin-length blonde hair separated from the group, walked over to me, and held out her hand.
“Hi,” she said with a friendly smile, “I’m Sarah. Did you guys just move here?”
“Yes,” I said, chagrined to feel tears sting my eyelids. Was I that desperate for a kind face? “Today, actually.”
“Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Well no…” I forced a small laugh. “I’m not even sure where to get groceries.” I’m as helpless as a newborn. And so, so tired. Why did we come? This is never going to work.
“Why don’t you come over for pizza tonight?” Sarah said, and gestured to several kids climbing out and grabbing towels. “Those are mine, we have four. We’d love to have you for dinner.”
“Oh, but…“ I feebly protested, not wanting to inconvenience anyone, knowing how I’d feel if my husband brought a family of five home for dinner with no warning.
“It’s no problem at all,” Sarah smiled again, meeting my eyes. “I mean it, we’ll just order in, it’s easy. Mitch won’t mind; we have people over all the time.”
Turns out, their family lived right around the corner, just a three-minute walk up the street. An hour later, we were sitting in Sarah’s living room eating pepperoni pizza and getting to know one another. Her husband taught math at the school our kids were attending, their youngest would be in kindergarten with our daughter, and one of their girls was in our son’s fourth grade class. They’d been in Chiang Mai several years and could introduce us to various people we needed to connect with, and they invited us to come with them to visit their church the next day. I felt the tears prick again as I leaned back into the couch, watching our kids chatter around the table with their new friends.
That was the summer of 2017. Though we only spent that one year as neighbors, I still pray with Sarah over the phone almost every week, seven years later. We have cared for each other through multiple international moves and weathered all sorts of seasons long-distance, surprised at how often we seem to be grappling with similar hard things at the same time.
That simple, spontaneous invitation by the pool was the beginning of one of the sweetest friendships in my life.
I often remember that evening at the pool, how the warmth of being seen and welcomed washed over me. What a gift, to not have to think about dinner or try to cook in an unfamiliar kitchen in a new place, where I didn’t even know how to grocery shop. At a deeper level, what a gift it was to have someone say they wanted to know me. I was feeling uncharacteristically shy, exhausted, and overwhelmed. Sarah intuited my unspoken need and offered not just dinner, but an open door of friendship. She didn’t stand on ceremony, didn’t make it complicated. She just made a simple plan and opened her space to us, just as it was.
As the year unfolded, our kids often went over to their house to play games or just hang out after school. After the previous debilitating 18 months, we often didn’t have the energy to figure out family fun; they showed us their favorite things to do in the area and invited us to go with them. Our families spent spring break together and had a great time caving and swimming in a hot spring. That year in Thailand was inestimably enriched because of their family, and it all began with Sarah’s kind invitation. Her open door and open heart made me feel immeasurably loved—not just by her, but by God, too.
The featured image, “Winter Deer,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.
A writer, songwriter, and amateur music producer, Carolyn holds a Bachelor of Music from Wheaton College, where she pursued her twin passions for music and spiritual formation. Living overseas for the past twenty years has given her a keen interest in the connections between the inner life, the craft of making, and the art of sojourning, especially how tending her own soul affects her ability to tend the souls of others. Carolyn has contributed to an anthology of pandemic art, Beauty from Brokenness, and to Yet We Still Hope, a collection of honest, vulnerable essays by women serving overseas. You can connect with Carolyn and find her music and resources for the sojourning life at www.carolynbroughton.com.
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This elegant and simple telling of what was birthed from your friend’s simple kindness is beautiful, Carolyn. Thank you.