Stuck In the In-Between

The Stalter House

We're currently living in Ohio, at MMS Aviation's guest house. MMS Aviation is where I did my aviation maintenance apprenticeship before we left for Papua New Guinea. A house was donated to MMS back in the day and it's been used as short term housing ever since. It's affectionately known as the "Stalter" house, named after the man who donated it. There have been many occupants through the years and, with not much effort, evidence of them can still be found. Nails in the wall, rugs on floor, furniture stuffed into the corners, desk lamps, impressions on the couch cushions, and a sliding board in the basement all come from someone else's story and now have been introduced into ours. We even found some of our stuff that we gave away before we moved to Papua New Guinea. This means we have a fully furnished house to live in, and we're grateful for that. It also means we strategically re-arranged some of the wall hangings to hide the now unused nails and nail holes. We're not bothered that the house isn't perfect; in fact we prefer it that way. Because if it was perfect, it would require an unreasonable amount of effort to keep it that way. And I try not to be unreasonable, as much as possible anyway. The house is pretty small and the walls seem to bulge outwards whenever all four kids scream in unison, which happens more than you'd expect. Even so, we're grateful for the Stalter house and the flexible rental agreement MMS is providing us. It's just that somedays we don't know where to put all our children, and all the equipment that goes with them.

We did sell a lot of that equipment when we left for Papua New Guinea. What was leftover we put on a container with an airplane and shipped to PNG, or packed into totes and distributed to friend's and relative's houses across three different states.

This has caused us several problems.

The First Problem

First, we've come back to the States and realized that we have no stuff. This is fine, except when we go to cook food, fix cars, or perform almost any other task that requires more than our hands and feet to accomplish.

For example, I needed to fix my laptop. No problem, I'll just get my electronic screwdriver kit, except... oh wait, that's in Papua New Guinea. Do I buy another one, and then store it in a relative's basement for a million years? Janice says no and asks "Why do you hate borrowing tools?" Silly woman. That's like asking "Why don't you like borrowing underwear?"

Also, whenever our van goes faster than 70 mph, the steering wheel shakes like a geriatric counting change. We drive faster than that a lot because we have a screaming baby strapped into a carseat and we're trying to bend the rules of physics so we can get to our destination faster. But I have mechanical experience with old vans so I'll just fix it myself, except... oh wait, I don't have any tools at all. I could buy some but then I'd have to store them in a relative's basement for the next million years.

"Just think of it as a hand massage," I tell Janice as my forearms boogie down the highway.

"WHAT?" Janice asks loudly because the baby has rudely interrupted us from the backseat.

"JUST THINK OF IT AS A..." I stop. "Just forget it," I think to myself. "I CAN'T FIX THE CAR WITHOUT TOOLS!" I respond.

"JUST FIX IT AT SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE!"

It's impossible to have a civil conversation when a baby is screaming. But if we put in the effort, we can manage to have an uncivil one.

I guess I could borrow someone's garage. Then again, experience tells me that whenever I start taking old vans apart, everything goes worse than planned and it takes several days to wrap up the disaster.

One time we drove into Pennsylvania for Christmas. I thought I would be smart and change our van's oil in my dad's shop, not in the frozen snowbank where I typically do it. So we drove to Pennsylvania where I stripped out the oil plug, then several other bolts, and then ended up disassembling the bottom half of the van just so I could put oil back into it and drive it back to Ohio. It took days.

Problems

This happens to me all the time when I work on airplanes. Or when I take my kids to the dentist. One problem turns into many. Problems multiply the closer you look at them. That's why I try to keep problems in my peripherals, and never look at them directly.

Patterns

I've also noticed that the older I get, the more I notice patterns. My sixth sense has become a highly honed pattern detector.

"Hey," my brother-in-law Art will say, "I have a great business idea for you."

Suddenly my pattern detector goes off. DING! DING! "Wait a minute," I think, "Last time I listened to his business idea I built a website and sold chickens online and I had to take a lot of phone calls about dead chickens and I didn't like it. Proceed with caution."

I'm also getting faster at realizing when I'm in the middle of a pattern that is still forming. And I'm better at predicting patterns that haven't even happened yet. I can look at wagon ruts in the dirt, track them over the horizon, and realize that they probably just shoot straight off a cliff. The problem is that the pattern detector only works for situations I've been in before. Still, it's better than nothing.

And so, when Janice suggested using someone else's garage, my gut reaction (which is similar reaction to putting Mentos in a Coke bottle) was to dig my heels into the ground and bray like a donkey. I recognize these wagon ruts! Here's what would happen: I would park my van in the middle of this nice person's garage, only to botch the surgery and leave the body covered with a cloth for two weeks while I wait for the wrong parts to show up in the mail.

But maybe I'm being stubborn. "Dunno. That might work," I say to Janice. "It probably won't take long to fix."

Suddenly Janice's pattern detector rings an alarm. She gets a little nervous. "Uh oh. I've heard that before. Maybe we should just save some time and money and scrap the van now."

I think I'll just wait until Christmas and fix the van in my dad's shop.

Anyway, on to the second problem.

The Second Problem

Of course, we didn't get rid of everything. We did keep some things. But the second problem is that we can't remember what specific items we left with which specific relatives in what exact state.

"Janice, where's our coffee maker?"

She thinks a bit and replies. "Michigan, I think. In mom's basement."

Later she'll ask something like, "Josh, where are all the birth certificates?"

"Uh.. Pennsylvania, I think. At my parent's house."

She disagrees. "I thought they were in Ohio? Not?"

And so on.

The other day a family friend had stopped by. We had a good time hanging out. As it does in rural Ohio, our conversation turned to hunting and shooting guns. I mentioned we should go to the range someday but first I have to find my guns.

"Oh," she said, "Do you want your pistol back?"

"What pistol?" I asked, bewildered.

"Your .22 Walther. The semi-automatic."

"Oh yea!" I forgot I even owned a Walther semi-automatic handgun. I'm glad we both didn't forget it was mine. Only loan guns to people who aren't as forgetful as you.

Delayed

So while we're in stuck in the middle of two worlds, trying to exist without buying anything, trying to be involved in community without putting down too many roots, trying to go through winter without buying too many coats, we're encouraged because this uncomfortable state of limbo is only for a few months, then we'll go back to the hot, sweaty island of Papua New Guinea.

But then we got the news that our return will be delayed.

When we left PNG, we gave our house to someone else. That sounds really generous but really we never owned the house, so it wasn't much of a sacrifice on our part. Besides, there is new base under construction in Papua New Guinea and we were reasonably sure that the new houses would be done by our return.

Cue a series of misfortunes and delays and here we are with no house to return to. Now I'm faced with the great irony that when I left PNG I didn't feel like going back, and now I'm frustrated because I can't.

But that's life. It's ironic. It's unpredictable. It's funny. It's tragic. Sometimes something is tragic and yet funny at the same time. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry" is a common phrase. And you can't always tell which tracks will lead where, despite all the wisdom your pattern detector can muster. Somedays I accept it with graceful submission, other days you'll find me outside screaming at the stars. God understands my frustration, the neighbors are a little concerned by it. But looking back I can see that, through it all, God has had a pattern of working it out for our good.

Everyone involved is doing their best but it looks like our return to PNG will be delayed until end of February (optimism) or April (pessimism).

In the meantime I will get more involved with projects at MMS Aviation. I will be testing for additional authorizations on my FAA mechanic's license. We may enroll our children in the local school. And, if my understanding of patterns is correct, I'll be growing more white hair.