A journey to reconnect with friends across boundaries of space and time.
If I was a creator of a world, I’d construct a vast network of teleporting tunnels. Some would be filled with Persian scripts of poetry and fragrances of Turkish coffee. Ancient battles and heroic acts of love would color the walls. Other tunnels would be made of glass where explorers could travel the depths of the Coral Reef or skim the mountain peaks of the Himalayas. Travelers could instantly arrive on the buzzing streets of Cambodia or land in war-torn Sudan. When bombs become too severe, you could escape to Singaporean railways with dangling vines and blooming hibiscus.
If I was a traveler in this created world, I’d write a travel log.
Tunnel One:
Vibrant reds, oranges, blues, greens, pinks, and purples splash the tunnel through India and Bhutan. I breathe in curry, turmeric, and saffron. Murals of maroon and orange-robed monks invite me into the generosity of Asia.
I exit the tunnel at 3,500 ft above sea level to join a massive crowd climbing towards the Golden Rock in Myanmar. Sacredness rests in the air. Kindness dwells among the pilgrims beside me.
It’s been close to a decade since my bare feet touched the cool brick walkway up this holy Buddhist site. After Myanmar’s 2021 military coup, I thought I would never return.
“The Golden Rock is held in air by one strand of Buddha’s hair.” Aung Zaw explained to my husband and I when we were here in 2015.
Awng Zaw’s brown, compassionate eyes invited us into his world with gentle kindness. We asked him questions about God, monks, and Suu Kyi—Burma’s (Mynamar) prime minister who had bravely led the nation from a military junta into a democracy in 2010. Awng Zaw answered our questions with a grace that held our hearts and opened our horizons.
“You are family now.” He told us when we said goodbye.
A decade later, I search among the crowd for Aung Zaw. Monks, pilgrims, women, men, and children surround me. I scan the crowd looking for his dark, wavy hair, light-brown skin, and checkered white and blue longyi. Did he survive the recent coup? I do not see him, but it’s time to go. His kindness and generosity rest with me, and I carry them along on my journey.
Tunnel Two
Cuneiform symbols and depictions of pharaohs layer the walls of the next tunnel. Crossing over the Middle East and Northern Africa, mosaics illustrate clashing civilizations and rising empires—Roman, Byzantine, Islamic, Ottoman, Persian, Assyrian. Swords, spears, bullets, and bombs showcase warring religions and powers.
Out of the tunnel, I land on Sudan soil.
Black clouds of smoke and roaring war planes wreak havoc.
“Hide here,” says a familiar voice.
His dark-skinned arms and calloused hands pull me to a nearby ditch. Together, we seek cover from pounding bombs. Shrapnel ricochets with a lingering stench of fear. War planes drop death on humanity. Will we die today?
I feel the heartbeat of this black man beside me. His skin blends into the smoke like a dark midnight sky with no stars. Slowly the dark smoke dissipates.
“Gabe?” I respond like I’ve seen a ghost.
“We’re alive.” He smiles. His voice warms my shivering body.
Am I alive? This sure doesn’t feel like heaven.
I have tried for over a decade to contact Gabe but slowly grieved his loss when I could not find him. Thirteen years ago, he and I served together south of Baghdad in Babil Province, Iraq. I was an Air Force lieutenant on my first deployment. Gabe was an Arabic linguist, originally from Sudan, who helped our team translate documents and media while we prepared to pull US forces out of Iraq. We spent our days translating documents, smashing hard drives, and setting fire to important documents. At night, we gathered in a small chapel with other US soldiers, Iraqi translators, and Ugandan contractors.
“Do you remember that time God blocked the bombs in Iraq?” Gabe asks me under the dark Sudan sky.
I lean back in the ditch, trying to mouth words. Nothing comes out. Dirt covers the insides of my cheeks, and smoke fills my lungs. I remember that time vividly. Our small forward operating base in Iraq was pounded weekly with mortars before Gabe and I arrived. Soldiers slept in bunkers.
“Yes, it was like God reached up his arm to shelter us from the rockets.”
Gabe laughs like a deep soulful hymn. Reaching his arms up to the sky, “Our God has saved us again.”
“Why did you come back to Sudan?” I ask him. Gabe had fled war-torn Sudan to Syria, Turkey, Greece, and finally Tennessee before he took a job as a US contractor to Iraq.
He smiles but doesn’t answer. I reach for his hand, but it’s an illusion. Gabe fades like the black smoke. Humming from the bombs remains. Is Gabe really here? Have I made him up?
Tunnel Three
It’s pitch black. The majestic Indian ocean roars above me, but at 5,000ft below the surface, it’s quiet. Melodic moaning of whales lulls me into a sense of peace. I want to stay in this tunnel, deep in its darkness.
Even in this created world, things don’t make sense. I long to return to places of the past. The steady rattling of the train carries me in this present moment. Where am I?
The future? The past? The present?
Perhaps this has always been my reality. Maybe I’ve always been in this world of tunnels.
God, are you here? Are you with me?
Moments pass. Darkness surrounds me like an empty canvas.
"Do you remember when Ted came to your wedding?” God asks.
I haven’t seen Ted since I was last with Gabe in Iraq in 2011. Born in Baghdad, Ted moved with his family to Chicago when he was in his twenties. Among US soldiers and translators in Iraq, he was like the uncle who always brought the family together. Through care packages from home and bargaining with local vendors, Ted and I somehow managed to hold grand parties among T-Walls and the open Iraqi sky.
Tunnel Four
Bright chandeliers and tapping glasses of sparkling cider burst light through this tunnel. Brick walls and a crackling fire draw me into enchantment. The tunnel leads me through the back rooms of my husband’s childhood home into the dining hall. Here in Williamsburg, Virginia my California friends and family have gathered with my husband’s. It’s the night before my wedding at the dress rehearsal. Wearing a green-laced dress and long black leggings, I stand in the middle of the house when I hear a knock at the door.
With his shiny bald head and slick Chicago suit, Ted walks in like he’s part of the Chicago mafia. His thick Assyrian accent and mustache cause the whole room to stand at attention. Light floods my heart, and blood rushes through my veins. My whole family is now present. My worlds are connected.
Ted jumps right into the party with his storytelling that opens my family to the hospitality of the Middle East. Watching him laugh with my grandma and share stories with my mother-in-law is like sitting at a cocktail hour in heaven.
Tunnel Log Conclusions
Traveling in my own created world has turned out much differently than I imagined. Creating tunnels seems more like discovering the roots of an old oak tree with its winding branches of mysterious connections. Perhaps I’m not the creator at all. In Iraq, Gabe used to tell me, “Time and space have no limits with God.” His story taught me that God’s miraculous work sometimes breaks the limits placed by humanity. Perhaps in my own life, I’m the excavator of my own memories, a traveler desperate to find meaning from relationships of the past. I’m a refugee desperate for God to reunite me with my family of the nations. I may not have the power to teleport through space, but I do hold the power of my own memories that have shaped me through time. Awng Zaw, Gabe, Ted and other men and women of the world will always be a part of me.