Continuation of 1973 journal entry – the trip from Congo to Cameroun becomes more eventful yet!
“We will get to Douala in about 30 minutes or less – already I can feel my ears popping as we lose altitude. It seems incredible how fast and far we get to travel now. Our worlds, which we get so tied up and involved in – are so trivial, so inconsequent – compared to what God must be. And we limit Him in our lives so much, thereby missing out on peace and joy. God is so huge and beautiful – I guess we can’t even imagine Him and that’s why it’s so hard to believe in Him for me. I feel like I can never be really SURE of something I can’t see or feel; touch, I mean. Yet, if I COULD, then He wouldn’t be God anymore.
About 3:15 p.m. Douala, Cameroun airport.
Well. Here we sit, the three of us, waiting, waiting, waiting. For 8 p.m. to arrive. I HATE this sitting. If there was just something to do, it wouldn’t be half as bad! There is nothing, so, I am writing this even though I don’t especially feel like it right now.
We went to find the Williams family, in downtown Douala, as our parents had suggested we do, to help while away the time of our waiting for our connecting flight tonight to Yaounde. But the Williams were not home so we just came back to the airport. We have been taking taxis.
Just now after a drop of sweat literally FELL off my forehead on to the notebook paper on which I’m writing this, puddling the ink from my pen, I glanced up and over to the next chipped and faded formica-topped restaurant table where the boys are sitting with cokes in front of them, and saw that J.’s face is fluorescent RED and streaming with far more sweat than mine is. Uh Oh. What’s wrong?
His eyes catch mine.
I say, “What’s wrong, J.?”
Mumbling softly, and lowering his tow-headed long locks with that strong cow-lick in the middle-top of his forehead to table level, he closes his eyes and moans, “I’m SICK! I’m going to DIE!” His heavy black glasses with the thick lenses tumble sideways on his face, then off, onto the faded and greasy dark red formica of the table.
Feeling a hard knot of fear start to clench in my stomach, I rise from my chair and walk a few steps over to him. I hesitantly place my hand on his forehead -it feels as hot as an oven pre-heated to 400 degrees for the past 60 minutes! I look over to G., the eleventh grader. “What do you think we should do? He’s burning up with fever!”