Louisiana Clan
It happens about once a year when visiting my family in Louisiana. My sister Jo has lived there for over 45 years. Her boys are now grown men with families and directions of their own.
The Food
There is a love for this part of the country — the scent of the gulf, the air that carries its own personality, and the slur in the tongue of its natives.
When you visit, it is required to have a Po-Boy of either shrimp or roast beef — and don’t forget to say “dressed,” or else the sandwich will not be oozing with mayo, and the lettuce and tomatoes will not fall out with every bite. We ate at Parkway in New Orleans (voted the best in town), and the Po-Boy had endless fried shrimp with the crustiest bread. An inconsiderate appetite left not one morsel for the birds.
The Road Not Taken
A visit to Baton Rouge was on the wish list, but Jo would not hear of it. Coffee and beignets at Café Du Monde in the French Quarter was also out of the question. Being denied a photograph with the Mississippi as a backdrop, however, was simply not an option. Some coaxing was required, but eventually Jo and her son Nick drove to the Harvey Locks. Stepping down the deep levee, the scenery opened up — a crane appeared to be wading at the water’s edge, a tugboat helped a larger vessel navigate its way through the narrow passage, and the city watched silently from a distance.
The Photo That Almost Wasn’t
At first, the photo session was a disaster. Whether it was the white clothing casting an unflattering light or simply fate, every picture came out displeasing. Nick stepped in as photographer, but the more he tried, the worse things became. Then came what seemed like a brilliant idea — moving closer to the water’s edge. Nick warned that the rocks were unsteady. The warning was ignored. The unsteady rock won. The fall was not terrible, but the angle was awkward enough that getting up required assistance. Nick laughed so hard his arms went limp — like overcooked spaghetti — and he had to collect himself before any help was possible. The dramatic announcement of the fall did not go unnoticed by those enjoying the view from the park benches above.
Around the Table
Dinner was shared with Jo’s son Torie and his family — his wife Stacie, their children Julia and the twins Tyson and Jake, and Stacie’s mother Myra. After dinner, a Bible study unfolded that, despite all the delightful distractions, turned out to be wonderful. Jo’s oldest son Frank and his wife Lindy were occupied with their boys, so that visit was short and sweet. The following evening, Nick and Michele and their daughter Sophie joined for dinner, followed by another lively Bible study.
Lost in the Beauty
The next day brought an adventure — dinner at The Mint, a trendy restaurant in the Uptown District. New Orleans’ infrastructure is still bearing the wounds of Katrina, and nearly every street is under construction. Even with navigation, finding the restaurant was its own journey of wrong turns. Rocky, Jo’s youngest son, had already arrived and kept calling to ask where everyone was. It was easy to get lost — not just on the streets, but in the beauty of the stately mansions lining them, each with its own charm and character, some of which were once plantations. Across the broad avenues, the old oak trees seemed to reach toward one another in a friendly embrace, their branches so intertwined it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began.
Before and After
Everyone still speaks of Katrina as a dividing line — pre-Katrina and post-Katrina. The Category 5 hurricane swept the city clean, then drowned it in salt water and brought its citizens to their knees. But it also bound them together. No storm will ever destroy the hearts of its people, and New Orleans stands as living proof.
Jo
As Jo sweeps the floors of her shop, she listens to the French singer Édith Piaf perform “Non, je ne regrette rien” — the only phrase she understands of the lyrics is “no regrets.” It suits her. Jo is on the edge of a significant transition — downsizing from her empty nest to a smaller, more intimate home. The move is exhausting, and there is much to organize before this new phase of life begins. From childhood on, she was always the one doing the chores, running the errands, holding things together for the family. The only difference now is that she does it for her own. She visits her late husband’s grave regularly, reminding him how much he is missed — and what he has missed. Her spirit remains bright, and within the family she is known simply as the woman who can do whatever she sets her mind to. To those who know her best, she is simply fascinating.
Don’t Sit Next To Me On A Plane
Worth revisiting — this story first took place in May 2004.
Fourteen Hours and a Divine Appointment
The Best-Laid Plans
Fourteen hours is a long time to be on a plane. The plan was to ask for an aisle seat at check-in, but the luggage was too heavy — at least on the way there. In a frantic rush to shift some things into a team member’s suitcase, the request slipped away entirely. As usual, the middle seat it was.
Neighbors by Design
To the left was Quinn, a young man traveling to Ukraine. To the right was a friendly man from Latvia whose name was never quite caught. Both strangers. Neither a coincidence.
A Missionary in the Middle Seat
After introducing myself as a missionary, Quinn introduced himself as an agnostic. The response came naturally: “Oh, you should not sit next to me.” Witnessing is second nature, and that day was no different. Quinn was gracious and polite as stories and photos from past missionary trips were shared. He was on his way to visit an orphanage and teach the children to play the ukulele — which led to only one honest response: “You are already doing God’s work — you just don’t realize it yet.” What a wonderful young man with a beautiful heart.
Dream Water and Tired Eyes
Eventually, fatigue won out. Quinn purchased something called Dream Water — described simply as the opposite of Red Bull — and drifted off to sleep.
Placebos, Greyhound Disasters, and a Green Shirt in Istanbul
Dream Water and a Gracious Skeptic
It fell to me to gently break the news that Dream Water was perhaps a placebo — Quinn agreed, but drank it anyway. Some battles are worth conceding. Quinn and I are now Facebook friends, and he continues to be used by God in a loving outreach to those young orphans.
The Greyhound Disaster
The gentleman to the right was doing his best, in broken English, to describe what can only be called a catastrophe. His dream vacation across America on a Greyhound bus had gone so badly that he was forced to rent a car halfway through the trip. The bus, he explained, was dirty, old, and not fit for any traveler. It was news to me that Greyhound even offered excursion packages to international visitors — let alone those coming all the way from Latvia.
Grand Canyons and Good Sense
He was deeply disappointed, and for a brief moment, the thought came to write a letter of complaint to Greyhound felt like the right move — before coming to good senses. A gentle suggestion was offered instead: most people drive to see the Grand Canyon. He received that quietly, with the look of a man who had already learned that lesson the hard way.
A Green Shirt in Istanbul
On the return trip, a short layover in Istanbul offered one more unexpected moment. Among millions of people passing through one of the world’s busiest crossroads, one young man stood out — wearing a green shirt, and without arms.
The Row That Was Never Mine
A Smirky Smile and a Settled Heart
This time, the aisle seat request was granted. The doors to the Boeing 777 were locked, and a smirky smile was exchanged with a friend named Jane. The whole row — empty. For one brief, glorious moment, it seemed like the flight home would be peaceful.
They Will Sit Here
Just as comfort set in, the young man in the green shirt arrived — the same one spotted among millions in the Istanbul terminal — accompanied by a companion. “We will sit here,” they said. The only honest response was a smile and the truth: “Okay, but you just ruined my trip home.” They laughed, sat down, and what followed was one of the best conversations of the journey.
A Refugee, a Reunion, and a Hug With the Eyes
The young man without arms is a refugee from Afghanistan, being escorted by a United Nations representative to Oregon. The moment he sat down, something passed between us that needed no words — a hug with the eyes. He was warm, friendly, and full of light.
Born That Way
Curiosity led to a gentle question: had he lost his arms in the war? He smiled and said he was born that way. Even his UN companion had not known — and was quietly surprised to find out.
The Aisle Seat, the Big Toe, and a Prodigal Son
A Reasonable Hesitation
When the food cart began making its way down the aisle, the UN representative kindly asked if the window seat could be taken instead. The hesitation was real — no, no, staying put felt right — but then he mentioned there was an aisle seat just a few rows back. A glance revealed a very handsome man sitting next to his equally beautiful girlfriend. The first instinct? “That guy is too big — that is not going to work for me.”
The Big Toe That Changed Everything
Then it hit like a ton of bricks. This young man eats with his feet. The concern was not elbows — it was knees. One glance confirmed it: his big toe was already navigating the monitor with ease. The decision was immediate. “I will move back.” Everyone was happy.
Joe, His Girlfriend, and an Old Wound
The next seat brought Joe and his girlfriend. After settling in and explaining the situation, the conversation opened naturally — and the witnessing began. The story of an encounter with a demon-possessed girl came up, and that got their attention immediately.
Daily Mass Parents and a Prodigal Heart
Joe shared that his parents were devout Catholics who attended daily Mass. He, however, was angry at the Church and stated plainly that he would never return. The response was equally plain: his parents are praying for him, and God answers the prayers of faithful parents. He and his girlfriend were gracious throughout — though there is a fair chance the conversation eventually put them both to sleep.
Every Seed Has a Season
The Harvest Belongs to God
Every person encountered on that journey received a seed. That much is certain. The planting was the assignment — the harvest belongs to God.
The Seeds Sown
To Quinn — a seed of servanthood for God.
To the young man without arms — a seed of welcome to America.
To his UN companion — a seed of love.
To Joe and his girlfriend — a seed that was already planted and simply needed watering.