Airplane Conversations. . .

I was on my way home from Grand Rapids. It had been a great 5-day marathon journey, beginning in Chicago with a college graduation (yeah, Michael!), ending with a poignant celebration of Grandpa Ippel's life. The time between these celebrations was filled with visiting friends, reconnecting with family, rubbing shoulders with folks that I hadn't seen in a while.

One special exchange was with my aunt, Barb Newman. She is a special education inclusion guru, author of a variety of resources for folks beginning inclusion programs at schools and churches--pretty amazing, considering that is exactly what we are doing at Nicaragua Christian Academy right now. Not only did Barb give me some wise words, but she handed me a pile of her books for me to take back to Nicaragua as we continue to develop the SOAAR program at NCA.

As I boarded the airplane to Managua, I wasn't in the mood for conversation. This was my last three hours without my kids, which meant this time had to be either productive or spent taking a nap. When I realized that my window seat was surrounded by a loud, boisterous church mission team (extremely typical on flights to and from Nicaragua!), rocking their matching T-shirts, I figured I'd be safe from conversation but probably wouldn't get a nap! They could have their own pre-Nicaraguan mission trip chatter, and I could rotate between eavesdropping and browsing through the inclusion resources my aunt had given me.

After about an hour, the girl next to me passed out asleep, and the guy on the aisle decided to strike up conversation OVER her. Looking up from his Bible that he'd been studying, he asked me if I was excited to visit Nicaragua. He explained that he was so excited to share the love of God and Jesus with the people in Nicaragua. I explained that I  actually lived in Nicaragua, leading to an overview of our lives as "missionaries." Eventually, I told him about our plans at NCA to expand our special education program next year. A strange look came over his face, and he leaned a little closer. "I don't usually tell people this, but I have autism. I'm really high functioning, so you might not have guessed. I just want you to know that this will be really appreciated in Nicaragua."

His openness led to a long conversation. With his permission, I asked him to describe how school had "worked" for him, now a university computer science student . He gave me a long list of things that might help kids on the autism spectrum at NCA, recognizing that each kid with that label is different. He was pretty honest with his personal struggles growing up--limited friendships, bullying that resulted in home schooling, maddening sensory overload that took years to figure out. He was quick to describe some benefits of autism, too, like his ability to "hyper-focus" on a task, and his loyalty to friends and people that he could trust. I asked him about his church, too, and how he felt included or excluded at his church home. He said that his faith in God and Jesus helped him throughout his struggles growing up. I asked him, "Is faith stuff, like believing in God, tough for someone with autism? When it is abstract and not very concrete?" He smiled. "I've never really thought of that before. For me, God was always something that made sense."

I reached into my backpack and handed my new acquaintance one of the books that my aunt had just published, "Accessible Gospel, Inclusive Worship," which I hadn't read yet. He was really excited about it. "I am definitely going to check this out when I get home." He wrote down the title and the author in his journal, skimmed the chapter titles,and read the introduction (which, I later learned, just so happened to begin with a sad anecdote of a woman challenging the notion that folks with autism could understand an "abstract" God!)

As we drew closer to Managua, and began to see the city lights, my neighbor asked again about the name of my school. He wrote it down in his journal. "We have a pretty good website," I said, figuring he was just information gathering or asking to be polite. "Oh, I just want to pray for you and your school as you begin your program next year. You need to know, it really will be a blessing to people like me."

I looked back out the window, hiding the fact that my eyes were tearing up with joy and emotion and awe in a God that had placed such specific people in my life at just the right time: a prolific, wise aunt bursting with resources regarding beautiful inclusive education programs. . . and a brave young man with autism in my row of seats on Delta 369, heading to Nicaragua to serve a God he loved so much--a concrete God he couldn't WAIT to talk about, a young man committing to pray for me and for the SOAAR program.

Our God is so good!