Through deepening trials, or what's in a name?

As soon as we heard Steve's application was approved, we started looking at flights. Of course, we couldn't make any final travel plans until he had his passport in hand. So, Steve got in touch with the courier, who told him they had picked up the passport package in Dakar, but that there might be a small delay in getting it back to Cameroon because of Eid. "And oh, this is kind of funny," the courier said (paraphrasing here), "But your name is spelled wrong on the envelope."

When Steve told me this, my heart sank. We had known all along that his second last name was misspelled within the immigration "system" and tried mightily to get them to fix it. Likely, the error occurred at the data entry point when someone moved the information from our paper application into the digital records.

To be fair, the error was really just a typo.

A single extra letter.

To be clear, someone put a D where it didn't belong. (Don't even get me started. I have countless tasteless jokes I could make about this.)

Anyhow, I made my first call about it over a year ago after I was approved as a sponsor and saw his name in the first set of documents they sent to me. "No big deal, it will get fixed" was what I was basically told at the time. But it still wasn't sitting right with me so in February I sent an email detailing the mistake, and even said: "we would hate to see this error carry through to any documents required to enter the country."

(Some might call that foreshadowing.)

A full month after that email, in late March, I received a response telling me that the error was "irrelevant" and that it would be corrected at the time the Visa was issued if his application was approved (spoiler alert: nope). So I had stuffed down the anxiety and never mentioned the name error again. (Just kidding. I definitely flagged it in every subsequent communication with immigration/Dakar).

Until the documents actually arrived back in Cameroon all we could do was hope that the error was on the envelope, but not on the actual documents. I mean, they'd had his passport (with proper spelling) in their very hands to affix the visa, for goodness sake!

But sure enough, when Steve received his confirmation of permanent residence and visa, his name was misspelled.

It was about 5 a.m. my time when he called to deliver the disappointing news. By then it was early June and the medical would expire in two weeks. Now that they had issued the visa, it was too late to redo the medical to buy extra time. And, given their track record with the timing of responses, we were sure we wouldn't even hear back from them in time to fix the problem. If he tried to travel anyway, Steve stood more than a chance of being turned away upon arrival, but if he didn't travel before his medical expired, we would have to start the process all over again. Talk about being stuck between a rock and immigration.

Suddenly, I was no longer anxious. I was mad. Enraged, even. Knowing that if it had been our fault, it could have impacted their treatment and even approval of our file was enough to make my blood boil. But, the fact that it was their fault and it was potentially going to knock us back to square one... let's just say I have never felt more ready to knock skulls.

I had to take a personal day to figure out our next steps. Steve sent an email to Dakar and I started off by calling the immigration client service line, which I should have known would be pretty useless based on my previous conversation with them. Next, I sent an email through the general immigration webform outlining the various attempts we'd made to correct the error, and started trying all the numbers I could find for the high commissions and embassies in Cameroon and Senegal, reaching nothing but endless pre-recorded messages. Honestly, I'm dreading seeing my next phone bill.

Coming up against dead ends and not knowing what else to possibly do, I called my MP's office. The manager there connected me to the office of another MP who oversees immigration matters and the office manager was kind enough to make time in her morning to see me if I could make it in by 11 a.m. It was already a little after 9:30 and I had to pull together a slew of documents, but I wasn't going to miss the opportunity.

So I dispatched Steve to scan and send copies of the documents he had just received from immigration and I busted my butt to Staples to print off reams of correspondence showing our multiple attempts to rectify the spelling error. By 3 p.m. we had filled out all the required paperwork to let the MP's office act and receive information on our behalf, and I went to find my first meal of the day.

That night as I went to bed, I barely dared to be hopeful. But by the time I woke up the next morning, Steve had already received a call from the visa office in Dakar telling him that if he would return to the capital city (five hours away) by 8 a.m. the next day, they would authorize someone at the Canadian High Commission in Cameroon to issue replacement documents. (Inspired immigration proverb: An inquiry from above is worth at least half a dozen nudges from below). Obviously, we liked that option better than paying another $450 to send the documents back and forth to Senegal again. Plus, it was quicker, too.

It probably didn't feel much faster to Steve when he then spent five hours waiting inside the High Commission (where phones are prohibited) while the local staff waffled back and forth on whether they needed to issue new documents or just write him a letter or something. Nevertheless, Steve left that afternoon with both a new CoPR and visa in hand.

Praise Jesus, hallelujah!!

But we weren't done jumping through hoops just yet...

Immigration's "final stage", or thank goodness for credit cards

In mid-April, Steve almost had a heart attack when he opened an email from Immigration Canada beginning with the words, "We are pleased to inform you..."

Turns out, they were just telling him he qualified for pre-arrival services.

But after the more than nine months of radio silence since they had acknowledged receipt of his medical exam, it was a bright beacon of hope to hear anything at all, let alone something branded as "pre-arrival". I quickly began looking for information in online forums and saw a lot of people saying that they received the passport request within about 10 days of receiving this email. Now, I was ecstatic.

Sure enough, on April 26, Steve got a message saying that his application was in the final stage. Just one little catch: along with his passport and a half dozen other documents (which had mostly already been provided), Steve would need to obtain a police clearance for the Democratic Republic of Congo, as he had lived there as a missionary for two years. Oh, and he had just 30 days to do it.

For reference, even in Canada it routinely takes four to six weeks to get a police check done if you cannot visit the office in person.

Immediately, Steve visited the DRC embassy in Cameroon, where you would expect to find some kind of help or direction. But DRC doesn't always play well with others. So, we sent an email to Dakar asking them about any alternative options as we desperately tried to think of other ideas, knowing that Steve's medical would expire in June. See, when the visa is issued, it has the same expiry date as the medical, so PR applicants have to travel to Canada before their medical expires. It is possible to redo, but we weren't super keen on coughing up close to $400 to do it again.

Knowing that Dakar's response wouldn't be quick, we decided to bite the bullet and send Steve to DRC to get the document himself (and thank goodness, because when Dakar's response came it was literally no help at all). This meant a travel visa, a flight, hotel accommodations, meals out and the unexpectedly costly piece of getting the actual document in short order. Plus, there's a fee you have to pay when you leave the country that we didn't know about. This was particularly problematic as Steve had run out of money and the Western Union wasn't open yet. So, Steve was basically kept hostage in the airport until we could coax a man into lending him cash by promising to send a money transfer with double the amount. Thank goodness he still made his flight! All said and done, it amounted to a lot of stress and nearly $2,500 in unexpected expenses.

Upon Steve's arrival back in Cameroon, we then had to shell out another $450 to courier the documents back and forth to the embassy in Senegal (the regional processing office). Finally, we were down to the end. The light at the end of the tunnel was becoming brilliant dawn!

On May 31 — one year to the day after I was approved as a sponsor — I awoke, more than a little annoyed, to the sound of my kitten, who decided 4:30 a.m. was the ideal time to play. Since I couldn't get back to sleep, I was bumming around on my phone and found myself navigating to the immigration tool to check on Steve's application status for oh, say the bajillionth time.

To my great surprise, the seemingly indeterminable "in progress" now read "decision made" but there was no further information. Heart pounding, I flipped to my gmail and hit refresh again and again, but there were no emails. I called Steve, out of breath and unable to believe that it might actually mean what I wanted it so badly to mean. He hadn't received any emails either. Soaring happiness mingled with crushing anxiety.

But 20 minutes later, Steve called back and right away, I could hear the grin he was wearing. I listened as he read the opening line of the email. Finally, finally, finally! He had been approved!

But if you think that was the end of that... well, you're probably new here.

January reading roundup

At the beginning of January, I issued a challenge to my book-loving friends: an extreme reading challenge for 2019. This consists of 52 core prompts (one for each week of the year) and 15 advanced/alternative prompts. In the interest of personal accountability and being able to make solid reading recommendations, I'm doing a monthly reading roundup where I'll chat about all the books I read and/or listened to each month. Like these ones, for January:

Buuuut first, a few stats.

• Books written by women: 59%
• Books written by POC: 41%
• Books written by other diverse peoples (LGBTQIA, differently abled, Religions, etc.): 0%
• Books not originally published in English: 12%
• Books by Canadian authors: 12%
• Books by authors outside the "Western world": 0%
• Prompts completed: 19%

Now, without further ado, here is what I read/listened to in January.

Title: The Home for Unwanted Girls

Author: Joanna Goodman

Year of Publication: 2018

Genre: Historical Fiction

Prompt: Novel based on a true story

My rating: 4.3/5

One sentence synopsis: Teen mom's parents take her baby and give it to a nun-run orphanage (because family honor), which is converted into a mental institution under Quebec's Duplessis government (because money) and former teen mom spends decades trying to find her daughter.

Review: Be prepared for the feels! Especially anger, disgust and devastation. In large part because this depicts a shameful time in Canadian history that you may very well be unaware of or have heard about only passingly. This is not an easy read (because of the source of inspiration) but worth picking up. Read if you are a fan of historical fiction and, like me, think you might appreciate the difficult subject matter being integrated into a story that otherwise has some qualities of the very best of Sparks (read: lusty romance) plus some solid Canadian content (oh the eternal tensions between Anglos and Francos). A little longer than it needed to be.

Title: The Bridges of Madison County

Author: Robert James Waller

Year of Publication: 1992

Genre: Romance novella

Prompt: Book you purchased for less than $5

My rating: 2/5

One sentence synopsis: Rugged and adventurous National Geographic photographer (later played by Clint Eastwood in the film adaptation) goes on assignment to take pictures of covered bridges in middle America, meets lonely, married Italian-American woman and they have a weeklong love affair they both remember for the rest of their lives. 

Review: More boring, less satisfying though arguably more realistic than the average Nicholas Sparks. Now, I love a good gut punch of an ending. The kind that so closely resembles the frequent chaos or injustice, occasional ugliness and ample missed opportunities of real life. The epic kind that is oddly satisfying in its devastation. The kind of ending that sticks with you. This book did not have one of those endings. I just felt a little bitter and deflated when it was over and oh-so-glad I had not invested more than a novella's amount of time in the story.

Title: I Was Anastasia

Author: Ariel Lawhon

Year of Publication: 2018

Genre: Historical Fiction

Prompt: Novel based on a true story

My rating: 4.2/5

One sentence synopsis: A frigtened young woman bearing horrific scars and an uncanny resemblance to the Russian Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov is pulled from a canal in Berlin two years after her whole family was murdered, and then spends decades fighting the legal system and other threats to claim her true identity.

Review: This is to books as Making a Murderer is to documentary series. Follow me here. You know how the whole time you're watching Making a Murderer you're getting frustrated, thinking "poor Steven Avery. He's innocent. The cops are totally setting him up. The justice system is letting him down." You really want him to be innocent. Meanwhile, in the back of your mind, you're still kind of thinking "But keeping it 100, he like totally did it, right?" Yeah, it's like that. The book has it's slow moments but overall employs a neat setup: chapters detailing the last days of the ousted Russian tsar's family, including young Anastasia are told chronologically and interspersed with reverse chronological chapters of the older Anna and her decades-long fight to be legally recognized as the Grand Duchess. The "Is she? Isn't she?" tension builds all the way to the last, where the two timelines meet and we get our answers.

Title: Becoming

Author: Michelle Obama

Year of Publication: 2018

Genre: Memoir

Prompt: A biography or autobiography

My rating: 4.6/5

One sentence synopsis: Daughter of Chicago's southside ploughs an unlikely path to the Ivy League and marries a man who ploughs an even less likely path to the White House while she goes from being stereotyped as an "angry black woman" to arguably the most-loved FLOTUS of all time.

Review: Engrossing, blessedly apolitical* and oddly relatable (given that we have precious little really in common). While she definitely glossed over many aspects of the White House years, the things she does focus on from that time are so human and feel so much more essential now that things seem increasingly divided and dark. Plus, as the title suggests, that was never the focus of the story she wanted to tell. Do yourself a favor and get the audiobook and let her tell you her story in her own voice. 

*She is still a Democrat and her views reflect that. As a memoir, the book is going to be subjective. I just mean she ain't about the politics, so that's not the kind of book you're walking in to.

Title: How Not to Get Shot (And Other Advice From White People)

Author: D.L. Hughley

Year of Publication: 2018

Genre: Humour

Prompt: Book with a mostly black cover

My rating: 3.8/5

One sentence synopsis: Comedian Hughley makes you cry with laughter while painting a deeply disturbing picture of the state of racial injustice in America.

Review: First of all, this book is capital H "Hilarious". Also, capital H "Heartbreaking". It's that dark, satirical humour that you can't help but be grateful for because, stripped of the laughs, there would be nothing but pain and unspeakable rage. And that's just speaking as an ally, not as someone who is on the receiving end of systemic racism on a daily basis. A lot of it is stuff the average semi-woke person already knows, but he's got some fresh factoids in there, too.Wish there were citations, though. Honestly, part of my comparatively lackluster rating might come from how I feel about some of the other polarizing comments the author has made with respect to the #MeToo movement and women's role in the culture of sexual assault.

Title: Seven Fallen Feathers

Author: Tanya Talaga

Year of Publication: 2017

Genre: Non-fiction

Prompt: Book by or about Indigenous people

My rating: 4/5

One sentence synopsis: Investigative journalist probes the history and current reality of racism and oppression of Indigenous people in Canada while casting a narrative spotlight on the mysterious deaths of seven Indigenous teens in Thunder Bay, Ontario.

Review: This book is crushing and so, so important. It is very hard to read, but not because of how it is written (in that sense, it's good, very accessible). It is just massively uncomfortable. It cuts deep into the narrative of Canada as a peaceful, benevolent and accepting nation and forces readers (read: white, settler Canadians) to confront their own biases. It offers a filter-free image of how we as a nation truly treat our First Peoples and the conditions, descrimination and abuses they continue to endure. Be prepared to be shocked and infuriated by all of it — even if it's not entirely new to you — especially how these teens' disappearances and deaths were handled by authorities. Essential read for all Canadians.

Title: Us Against You (sequel to Beartown)

Author: Fredrik Backman

Year of Publication: 2017 (in Swedish)

Genre: Fiction

Prompt: 2018 Goodreads Choice

My rating: 4.9/5

One sentence synopsis: Still reeling from the aftermath of a scandal that rocked their small forest community and tore apart their beloved hockey team, the residents' loyalties remain divided, fueling a bitter rivalry and bringing new heartbreak to Beartown.

Review: Backman spins a good story, but it's his characters that truly stick with you, for better or for worse. The schmarmy business man cum local politican and tough as nails brought in to resurrect the hockey team are fantastic additions (though in the case of the first, he's a character you love to hate. He is infuriating and slimy). This book plucks a very different emotional string than the first, but it still had me going for an emotional ride. Some interesting narrative choices (holy breaking the fourth wall Batman!) and perhaps the most charged, effective and sustained use fo onomatopoeia throughout a book that I have ever seen. On the whole, probably preferred Beartown by a smidge, but the quotable quotes in this book are off the hook. The author and/or his translator are incredibly skilled at turning a phrase. To be totally transparent, my connection with this book is likely bolstered by the way it speaks to me as someone who grew up in a tiny northern town and whose life revolved a great deal around the sport of hockey. Nevertheless, highly recommend. You will definitely want to read Beartown first, though.

Title: The Inconvenient Indian

Author: Thomas King

Year of Publication: 2012

Genre: Non-fiction

Prompt: Book by or about Indigenous people

My rating: 3.9/5

One sentence synopsis: A sprawling historical journey through centuries of injustices perpetrated against Ingenious people in North America suffused with King's own experience of being a "living Indian" when White North Americans, he argues, would prefer them to be extinct.

Review: You will learn a lot. Even if you feel like you know a good bit. King packs a lot into comparatively few pages. He also brings humour and poignancy to some of the most despicable aspects of North American history — and our present — with a simmering resentment couched in a light, easy tone and lots of self-deprecation. He is bold and opinionated and I could see how that might turn off many of the very people who most need to hear what King has to say. As for me, I feel like I need to read this at least two more times to really mine it for all that it's worth.

Title: The Wife Between Us

Author: Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen

Year of Publication: 2018

Genre: Mystery/Thriller

Prompt: Book with "wife" or "daughter" in the title

My rating: 3.4/5

One sentence synopsis: Jealous ex-wife begins stalking her former husband's new fiancée, but things are not what they seem, and it just gets more twisty from there.

Review: Fairly compelling read overall. It starts strong, sucking you into Vanessa's obsession. Then it does some interesting plot pirouettes and ends on a kind of lackluster note. I can't say I was totally surprised by the first big twist. I had already started to suspect.... and then other big reveal didn't feel as epic as I think the authors intended it to be. Good read but not remarkable.

Title: P.S. I Still Love You

Author: Jenny Han

Year of Publication: 2015

Genre: YA Romance

Prompt: Bonus

My rating: 4.2/5

One sentence synopsis: 16-year old good girl Lara Jean goes through a scandal with a boy she was pretend-dating-but-then-really-fell-for and now they're dating for reals but he keeps hanging out with his ex and he can't tell Lara Jean why, and now a handsome figure from her own past has resurfaced.

Review: Bearing in mind this is pure YA and you've gotta appreciate it for what it is (read: not the pinnacle of literary genius), I really love this series and the movie(s) it spawned. it is fun, easy reading with plenty of feels. Makes me feel really old sometimes because the world of teens (and technology) has changed so much since I was in high school. Even so, it's nice to have a story where a) the family dynamic is good, b) diversity is normalized, not the point of the story and c) the main character is interested in doing right and doing well. Admittedly, little sister Kitty is my favourite supporting character because she is the more interesting, independant and precocious foil to our conservative protagonist. If you come to the books from the movie To All the Guys I've Loved Before, note that the movie carries over into the beginning of this book. 

Title: Always and Forever, Lara Jean

Author: Jenny Han

Year of Publication: 2017 

Genre: YA Romance

Prompt: Last book in a series

My rating: 4.1/5

One sentence synopsis: Lara Jean is now almost 18 and trying to enjoy her senior year with boyfriend Peter while facing down the uncertainty of life after high school, including starting college further away from home than originally anticipated and having to make grown-up decisions about the future of her relationship.

Review: Again, this book is going to require a willing suspension of critical reading. If you don't, the teen tropes WILL bother you if you are not in fact a teen yourself (and perhaps even if you are still one). Still, it is cute and saccharine and maybe even a little nostalgia-inducing. Not a lot happening plot-wise, but reminds me of the turmoil and terror of preparing for that first biiiiiig life transition, even if you've really been looking forward to it. 

Title: A Spark of Light

Author: Jodi Picoult

Year of Publication: 2018

Genre: Fiction

Prompt: Book by an author with multiple titles on your "to-read" list

My rating: 3.9/5

One sentence synopsis: Religious dad snaps when he finds out his teenage daughter has had an abortion and violently attacks a women's health centre (where abortions are among the services provided), trapping many, including an undercover protestor and the hostage negotiator's own teenage daughter.

Review: A timely read given that while I read, my feed was full of thoughts on New York's recent legislative changes (from both sides of the debate). Generally I think Picoult is undervalued — often pegged with the almost derogatory label of "chick lit" when in reality she has a talent for taking on contentious issues and showing many perspectives while ultimately advocating for a particular view point. She definitely does that here, but this one falls a touch flat. Still good, but for the passion I feel for the topic of women's reproductive rights, it didn't fire me up quie enough, didn't get me as much in the feels as Picoult is wont to do. I did, however, enjoy some of the artistic decisions, like telling the story largely in reverse.

Title: The Paris Wife

Author: Paula McLain

Year of PublicatioN: 2011

Genre: Historical Fiction

Prompt: Book with "wife" or "daughter" in the title

My rating: 3.8/5

One sentence synopsis: Told from the perspective of the first wife of notorious writer Earnest Hemingway, this book recounts their beginning — and premature end — through their fast-living exploits in Paris with other members of the "Lost Generation". 

Review: While there is something truly poignant about her marriage's demise, as a 21st-century woman it is difficult not to find Hadley less and less likable as the book goes on. I found my sympathy turning to contemptuous pity though not really because of anything she does. In fact, it's mostly because as Earnest behaves more and more despicably, she rolls over, she lets it happen. She doesn't stand up for himself or call him to task. Not that she lived in a time where that would have been expected and not that it would have saved their marriage. Earnest was too caught up in his quest to earn his place in history. To Hadley's credit, she does eventually leave him. There is a mingled sense of karmic justice and almost-tragedy in the fact that Hadley went on to live a very happy life with her second husband while Hemingway would divorce a total of four times before taking his own life. Overall, a kind of read insofar as it feels a bit like a "peek behind the curtains" for fans of writers like Hemingway, the Fitzgeraldses and Gertrude Stein.

Title: Every Breath

Author: Nicholas Sparks

Year of PublicatioN: 2018

Genre: Romance (sorry Sparks, that's what you are)

Prompt: Book with a two-word title

My rating: 3/5

One sentence synopsis: Rugged and adventurous Zimbabwean safari guide travels to America to meet his biological father for the first time, but also ends up meeting a lonely, otherwise attached young woman on a North Carolina beach and having a weeklong love affair they both remember for the rest of their lives... wait... this sounds awfully familiar...

Review: Why is this plot almost interchangeable with The Bridges of Madison County? Oh right, because this genre is formulaic af and we who consume it rely on that kind of predictability. Ultimately, Sparks scores higher because the ending is a touch happier, a tinge more satisfying and frankly, why the hell else are we reading romance novels? And yes, while I am regularly underwhelmed by Sparks' storytelling prowess and feel the need to (lovingly) disparage most anything he writes, I won't give up on him. I have another Sparks on my list this year even. Stay tuned.

Title: Dreams From My Father

Author: Barack Obama

Year of PublicatioN: 1995

Genre: Memoir

Prompt: Book that makes you nostalgic (read: for a pre-Trump as President world)

My rating: 4/5

One sentence synopsis: Pre-public office, law-school era Barack Obama uncovers his own past and explores the forces that formed him, including the father he hardly knew, his time as a community organizer and finally discovering his ancestral home in Kenya.

Review: One of the most fascinating things about this book was the new forward written 10 years after the book was first published, when Barack was a Senator but not yet on the fast track to the Presidency. By his own admission, there are some stories he would have omitted or told differently by that point, some thoughts and feelings he could no longer identify with. I can only imagine how much truer that would have been another 10 years later when he was in the White House or even today, now that his time as President is behind him. But that's also what makes this book so interesting as a memoir. It's a rare introspective to Barack, the man, before he the most auspicous title. Barack could not and would not write the same book today even if he recounted all the same material. That kind of vivid, in-the-moment perspective — the way you think and what you know and hold to be true at any given point in your life — is lost over time as a person changes, matures and accumulates experiences. This book has its weaknesses and quite honestly, had Barack not become President Obama, it wouldn't half so interesting. But as things turned out, there's a certain poignancy to hearing directly from the young man he was and identifying with the sometimes confused and sometimes angry reflections of a young man coming to grips with his identity and upbringing, the societal contexts that surrounded him and his place within it all.

Title: Good and Mad

Author: Rebecca Traister

Year of PublicatioN: 2018

Genre: Non-fiction (because I refuse to call it "self-help" as it is pegged on Wiki)

Prompt: Book about feminism

My rating: 4.5/5

One sentence synopsis: Traister blends personal narrative, history, journalism and feminist critique to deconstruct society's condemnation of female emotion (especially anger) and highlight the power of the collective fury of the "subjugated majority" (i.e. women) as a transformative political fuel in the past as well as the present.

Review: Whether you understand precisely why women are angry or can't quite imagine what they have to be so pissed off about, you should read this book! Women's anger has too long been caricatured and delegitimized. While the predominating message in media and society is that anger (especially female anger) is destructive or unhealthy, Traister argues that it is this precisely this rage that can be harnessed to change history. It's probably a tad light for those who are particularly politically aware and voracious consumers of the news, as a lot of of it is recap of the swell of women's voices and anger over the past couple years following Trump's election (protests, #MeToo, etc.) But that's also what makes it a fantastic primer and there is still plenty of snark and skewering to keep the well-initiated interested. Fair warning: Be prepared to feel the rage, too!

Title: Britt-Marie Was Here

Author: Fredrik Backman

Year of PublicatioN: 2014 (in Swedish)

Genre: Fiction

Prompt: Book with someone's name in the title

My rating: 4/5

One sentence synopsis: Quirky (to put it lightly) and "socially incompetent" older lady leaves her cheating husband and takes a temporary job in a middle-of-nowhere town where Somebody and a pack of kids open her up to really live her life for herself for the very first time.

Review: Like Ove (A Man Called Ove) Britt-Marie should be entirely unlikeable. She's difficult, frustrating, judgemental, compulsive, insensitive, rude and annoying. But man does Backman have a knack for making these kinds of characters nuanced and charming. You really care for Britt-Marie by the end of this. Plus, she has some first-rate zingers. World class shade, if you will. The ending was a little drawn out for me, but the overall effect is very warm.

Ordinary blessings, or learning not to take the simple things for granted

I was stooped over my kitchen sink a couple months ago, scrubbing dishes with a growing ache radiating out from the base of my spine. I paused and pressed my knuckles into the small of my back, trying to ground out some knots, and a memory sprang to mind.

I was washing dishes in the tiny kitchen of our rented apartment during my last visit to Cameroon. I was bent low over the sink, leaning on my forearms and scouring half-heartedly while doing a sort of bent over cat-cow stretch to coax the pain out of my lower back. I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced over my shoulder to see Steve — who had been observing me from the kitchen doorway — turn and walk away.

I had just enough time to think an uncharitable thought or two about my (admittedly sick) husband before I heard him beckon to me. I shook the dingy bubbles off my hands, stood up slowly and made my way to the bedroom. As I wiped my hands on my thighs, Steve asked me softly to take off my shirt. Without another word, he laid me face down on the bed, warmed some baby oil between his palms and went to town on my sore back.

I remember I felt pretty grateful to have such a perceptive and caring husband, even when he himself was not feeling well. I also distinctly remember thinking "I could get used to this."

Alone in my kitchen, half a world away, I felt the sudden sting of loneliness and longing. I felt robbed of the company and attention of my spouse. The kind of profound ache and sense of injustice that have a tendency to spiral into a hard-done-by mood.

But before I could settle into my woe, the Spirit saw fit to comfort me with a crucial thought: The things you desire and miss the most right now are the very things that you may take for granted in the near future. This experience will teach you to always feel gratitude and find joy in the simple daily blessings... if you let it.

I quickly found myself ruminating on how familiarity lends itself to declining appreciation of the people and things and little moments that give so much meaning to our lives.

I thought back to some of the hardest moments and feelings of the past several months: spending our birthdays and other holidays apart; living hypothetically — sharing dreams and making plans together, but having no ability to act on them; the feeling of being in limbo while watching others reach life milestones together.

Truthfully, I doubt whether the joy and gratitude I might have felt to celebrate my birthday with Steve would have been equal in proportion to the gut-wrenching ache of another birthday without him. Can you honestly say you woke up on your last birthday feeling giddy just because your spouse was there to share the day with you? Especially if you've been married for more than a nanosecond? It's not necessarily that you don't appreciate it. You're just used to it. You expect it. It's the norm.

In fact, all the things that I miss or crave with the force of a sucker punch to the gut are the ordinary blessings that I could easily overlook if they were the rule, rather than the exception:

• A hug on a difficult day
• A kiss goodnight
• A conversation that doesn't sound like a Verizon commercial in 2002 ("Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?")
• His arm around me at church
• His hand in mine while walking the dog
• His spontaneous bursts of song and dance
• Shared context
• Shared friends
• Shared meals
• Praying and studying scriptures and attending the temple together
• Adventuring out to discover a new restaurant or museum
• Movie nights cuddled up on the couch

The list could go on and on.

I've started keeping track of precise moments and experiences that cause the "sting" (as I call it) because I desperately don't want to take any of those simple blessings for granted. I'd like to think the memory of this painful time will change our hearts and galvanize us to be grateful always... but I know that's pretty unlikely. We'll get used to being together. Our life together will get hectic with jobs and kids and callings. Sweet quirks will become infuriating pet peeves (I mean, the Bible does say familiarity breeds contempt, right?!) 

So when it's routine how do we recognize the daily blessings for what they really are?

How do we continue to acknowledge the supernal blessing of waking up with our partner at our side rather than being quick to grumble about their snoring or blanket thievery?

How do we tap into the immense joy of being able to share the responsibilities of the day with our eternal companion rather than getting bogged down by the crush of everything we have to do?

Since I've been thinking about these things, I've been paying more and more attention to what the general authorities have to say on the topic of gratitude. I was especially touched by something President James E. Faust once said: 

The thankful heart opens our eyes to a multitude of blessings that continually surround us.

Though this isn't exactly a new concept, I was chastened to realize that I don't practice gratitude enough in my life right now. It's not enough just to identify the things that I don't want to take for granted in the future (the anticipated blessings). I need to be better about expressing gratitude in my present circumstances so that I can more clearly see the abundant blessings in my life today. 

Right now. 

Whether or not my husband is here with me. 

Maybe I'm just slow, but when I read Elaine S. Marshall's promise that gratitude is the gateway to joy a realization hit me upside the head: I would be a lot happier during this waiting period if I focused more on cultivating gratitude for the blessings I currently have in my life. 

As my beloved President Thomas S. Monson said:

Regardless of our circumstance, each of us has much for which to be grateful, if we will but pause and contemplate our blessings.

But wait. At first, the circular nature of Pres. Faust and Pres. Monson's statements seem to present a bit of a chicken and egg challenge. Being grateful helps you see the blessings around you. But recognizing the blessings around you is what helps you to feel grateful. So where to begin?

But the more I thought about this, the more I realized that it doesn't really matter where you start. Just start. Find one thing in your day that you learned or that went your way and thank God for it. But for real. Tell him how it made you feel, why it was significant to you. Soon you'll find three or seven or 25 things to thank God for.  

Then find one opportunity in your day to thank someone else. That person who held the door for you or the friend who texted out of the blue or the co-worker who picked up the pen that you dropped. Watch as the positive energy you start to radiate grows and begins to be reflected back to you. 

This positive feedback loop is one of God's most wonderful — if subtle — gifts, I realized. Take these three statements together and you literally have the recipe for a home ever increasing in gratitude, joy and love.

No joke, as I started to cultivate more gratitude the residual darkness of a summer of excruciating depression gave way to a brilliant, colourful dawn. The Lord blessed me with more opportunities to serve and deepen friendships. And almost immediately Steve and I were blessed with more peace and harmony in our relationship. The amount of joy I felt on a daily basis increased exponentially.

Of course, nothing is foolproof, and I'm far from perfect. I still felt the prick of jealousy when other young couples announced their pregnancies. My eyes still welled up with tears the first time I saw a fellow ward member sitting at church with his family member after a months-long separation while he searched for work. But the negative feelings are more quickly supplanted. The envy quickly transforms into vicarious joy, increased appreciation for the blessings I now enjoy and precious hope for the daily blessings that will soon be mine and Steve's.

Our time will come. And when it does, I pray that we never become complacent, but that we always cultivate gratitude for the ordinary, everyday blessings. It is my fondest wish that we always recognize how lucky we are to be together.

I really hope we never get used to it. 

His story, or the beginning of us according to Steve

Note: Any big fan of Pride and Prejudice has read at least one spin-off or fanfic-turned-book, whether it's the parallel story of the Bennett family's servants or a separate recounting of what happens to Darcy's little sister. One of my favourites has always been a retelling of the events through Darcy's point of view. With that in mind, I give you Steve's abbreviated version of our love story. 

I've never believed in love at first sight. Or being struck by lightning, as the expression goes in French. So it shouldn't be surprising that the fireworks weren't immediate when I met my wife. 

To be fair, I didn't actually see much of anything the night Brooke and I met. The power was out, it was quite dark and I wasn't paying much attention. I'm used to my parents hosting visitors, so I came out to greet her out of politeness, then went right back to relaxing in the comfort of my bedroom.

And we all know that "love at second sight" isn't a thing. Other than thinking she seemed nice, my first impression of Brooke boils down to a single word: intimidating.

The first few days we were around each other, Brooke's eyes trained on me like the laser dot of a sharpshooter's rifle. Even when I would catch her eye, it was usually me who would look away first, too embarrassed to maintain eye contact. At first, I had figured she was just another girl appreciating the view. For some reason, I've had more than my fair share of gawking girls staring at me with hearts in their eyes. Some guys probably like that kind of thing. Me? I mostly find it uncomfortable and well, boring.

But I quickly realized this discomfort was different. Brooke's gaze was different. She wasn't just looking at me, she was looking in me. Other girls looked at me like they were hungry for a snack. Brooke looked at me like she was starving for answers. Her stare carried a challenge I'd never faced before. 

Maybe that's why I tried to impress her by speaking English when I picked her up for her second weekend with my family. I couldn't really tell you why I wanted to impress her, but I can tell you that I crashed and burned. She didn't seem to understand what I was trying to say and didn't have much to say in response. We both kept it zipped for the rest of the taxi ride to my house.

Actually, we avoided talking to each other for the next 24 hours. On my end, now that I was aware of her background, I was worried about saying the wrong thing and not being able to express myself well. What could I possibly say to such an intelligent and accomplished woman? 

The fear melted away completely when we did finally start to speak to each other. Everything just started to click into place for me over a few hours at my dining room table on that sunny Sunday afternoon. It's funny to me that this single conversation would change so much for both of us. Somewhere between sharing music and stories about our lives and past relationships, Brooke had her "unicorn moment" and I was having a defining moment of my own. 

I'd been on a bit of a quest to settle down since getting home from my mission, but despite dating a few different girls, I was feeling like things weren't really going anywhere. I just couldn't seem to find the right woman. A bizarre sense of familiarity grew in me that afternoon as conversation flowed free and easy between us. A promise from my patriarchal blessing began running laps in my mind: "When you meet your wife, you will recognize her." 

I'm not saying I was instantly convinced, but it definitely caught my notice and opened the door of possibility. 

I'd felt the flicker of connection that had passed between us in the little road in front of my house earlier that afternoon. As we walked with the little girl betwen us, it didn't escape my notice that we looked like parents with their child. I was reminded of a dream I'd had as a child, of being married to a white woman, and it brought a smile to my lips. I didn't outright deny it when neighbours asked "is that your wife?" after Brooke had gone inside.

Though it didn't have the same mind-numbing effect on me as it had on her, I also felt something akin to a static shock when I placed my hand on Brooke's back to guide her across the street to the cybercafe the following day. The gesture had come naturally from an inexplicable urge and desire to protect her. Inside, I got quite the kick out of watching her panic over her login screen. When she finally remembered her password, I jokingly asked if she'd give it to me and was stunned when she seemed ready to hand it over, with nothing more than a request not to read her Facebook messages. I was baffled and touched that she seemed — again, inexplicably — so ready to place her trust in me.

When Brooke left Cameroon that night, I didn't have any expectations. Both of us were technically dating other people. Still, the warmth and familiarity of her parting hug played on my mind, along with that line from my patriarchal blessing. I had to at least send a message!

Soon, we were talking nearly every day. The more I got to know her, the more I felt like she might just be the right woman for me. I was comfortable and captivated, never bored, never wanting to leave our conversations. If there's one thing you should know about me, it's that I'm not particularly talkative. In fact, I really like my solitude and my own company more than just about anyone else's. But with Brooke, it was just so simple. The exchange of knowledge and feelings that we shared was unlike anything I'd experienced in previous relationships. 

As much as Brooke says she chased me, I was the first to write. The first to call. The first to initiate a video chat. Even the first to say "I love you". Honestly, I don't remember the specifics. I certainly hadn't explicitly planned on saying it. I just know all of a sudden I felt it, and once I did, I had to say it.

Brooke has alluded to our dark period and truthfully, it was a very difficult time. When we are hurt, sometimes the feeling of protection pushes us to want to overlook what we might know to be true. For a moment I doubted our relationship, but I knew Brooke was meant to be my wife. From the moment I had discovered the beauty and goodness of her heart, I knew she held my happiness. I knew I could trust the confirmation I'd gotten through my patriarchal blessing.

As for the proposal, I didn't really plan it. It had crossed my mind to do it at several points, but it made me so nervous. It's not like I'd ever proposed before. Even though we had talked at length about marriage and had big plans together, I couldn't consider it a given until I had asked outright. It wasn't until Brooke said yes that I really allowed myself to imagine the rest of our lives together.

I would have loved to have been able to ask for her dad's blessing before proposing; that was important to me. But that kind of question also feels like something too important to do over the phone or email. I didn't feel like that showed enough respect for the magnitude of my request. In my culture, a dowry is also customary and it felt odd not to go through that process. A dowry has become seen as a bit of a commercial transation and even condemned as objectification in the West, but to me the original intent represents something beautiful: a statement to the bride of how much you value her and a symbol of gratitude to her parents for the love and time they invested in raising her to be the woman that she is.

As it turns out, I asked for my inlaw's blessing in a hotel room just a couple of days before the wedding, shortly after meeting them face to face for the first time. You may think it was little more than a formality at that point, but no matter how I felt about Brooke, I couldn't have gone through with the wedding if I didn't have her parents' blessing. Let's just say I'm pretty grateful they were on board!

I know our wedding day was a paradox for Brooke — happiness and sorrow wound together. The most stressful thing for me was getting reports from the family friends who were checking in on her throughout the morning, hearing that she was struggling and knowing that I couldn't do anything in the meantime to comfort her. 

The stress was certainly having an impact on my bladder. I had to leave several times during the hours we spent waiting in separate vehicles in front of city hall. When the moment finally came to go inside, I had to go again. So while my bride proceeded inside, I ran off with my uncle to look for a place to relieve myself. The funny thing is, I don't think Brooke ever realized what was happening but several other people assumed I was making a run for it. 

When I finally got inside and got to see her, I was absolutely dazzled; blown away by the image of her in her dress and headpiece. She was truly magnificent. The glow in her eyes and the smile she wore showed me how truly happy she was in that moment, and it perfectly reflected the joy I felt knowing she was almost my wife. I was on the verge of tears through our whole ceremony.

I now appreciate what it must have been like for Brooke to completely lose her train of thought in the cybercafe that time because I had a moment like that at our wedding reception. I was excited to sing for Brooke, a song I know inside out. But that night, when she took my hand and looked deep into my eyes, the lyrics vanished in a puff. I couldn't remember a single word. But it didn't phase me. I didn't care about my performance. My only concern was to be entirely in the moment. Nothing had ever felt as good as the love and happiness reflected in my wife's glittering eyes and I knew I always wanted to be the one to put that look on her face.

It's these precious memories, along with the ones from our sealing, that help me get through these terrible, long months of waiting. It's now been almost seven months since I've had the occasion to hold my wife in my arms, and patience has taken on new meaning in our lives. Every day it hurts to be apart, and the ache never diminishes, but I think for the most part we're bearing it well. Every special occasion and season that passes, we think hopefully "this will be our last blank apart" and pray mightily that it's true. 

I have heard it said that nothing worth having comes easy and if that's the case, I suppose we should take comfort in the fact that this is easily one of the hardest things either of us has or will ever have to do. I know we're worth the wait.

Uncertainty, or waiting on immigration

Sometimes I feel like I've been Kanye'd by the universe.

After years of personal development and hopeful waiting, I finally won the Outstanding Life Partner award. Like T-Swizzle at the MTV awards, I strode down the aisle to collect my trophy but before I could revel in my victory, Kanye Universe bum-rushed the stage and took the mic, going "Imma let you finish, but..."

A year and a half later, I'm still just kind of standing awkwardly to the side, waiting for the universe to say its piece so that I can just thank the people who have supported me along the way and take my trophy home.

Only now the universe is Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada (CIC). They aren't saying anything, but they are holding the mic aloft, eyeing me and my trophy judgmentally to make sure we legitimately go together. When they finally speak, the trophy will still be mine, but there's no 100% guarantee I will actually get to take it home with me.

Ok, I'm losing control of this metaphor.

The point is: Waiting stinks.

And I've done my fair share of it. Both before meeting Steve and since then.

I can say, without a hint of hyperbole, that Steve and I have been waiting to be together for 90% of our relationship. So far this year, we have been able to spend about a week face-to-face. I traveled back to Cameroon in early April and we celebrated Easter together. Steve was sick the whole time, so we didn't leave the four walls of our rented apartment except to get necessities from the market... but we were together.

7.5 days out of 243.

I don't know how well you math, but I'll save you the trouble. That's 3% of the year to date. Don't worry guys, if I manage to get back there for Christmas, we may be able to bump that up a bit. Heck, if I can make it a week, we could be pushing 4%!

Despite work, time zone complications and unreliable internet, we managed to log 148 hours on the phone from the beginning of January to the end of August, including many middle of the night conversations, and video chats roughly one day out of four. (Note: I don't actually keep a log. What's App does. I was just crazy enough to go through the logs to add it all up.)

Objectively, 148 hours sounds pretty good. I mean that's, like, six complete rotations of the earth. But if you keep mathing, you realize that actually means we get an average of 37 minutes a day.

If you round up.

Of course, the reality is much more variable. Some days we get to talk for an hour, 90 minutes, or — on exceedingly rare occasions — two hours. On other days, we can't connect at all. Like on my birthday. This year and last year (but let's not be bitter here). Often, the call drops after just a few minutes, leaving ache and frustration in the place of the unstated "good night" and "I love you".

Most days the crappy internet connection is basically a third party in our conversation, butting in incessantly like a chatty toddler who needs attention NOW! We're the tired adults, left scatterbrained by the repeated interruptions, unable to recall the thread of our conversation, or simply giving up on a point after repeating it four or five times and still not being heard.

It's a little shocking to realize that for the past eight months, my entire marriage — everything from casual chatter and joking around to joint scripture study and prayer; setting goals and discussing challenges to seeking and giving comfort, encouragement and advice — has been carried out in less time than I spend driving to and from work each day.

Less time than I spend doing most things, really: getting ready, doing chores, walking the dog, reading or prowling YouTube.

No wonder it often feels as though we're not even really married!

Sure, there are many parents and exceptionally busy couples who would relish having 37 minutes a day to just talk with their spouse. (Cue the real, living and breathing chatty toddlers). But most of those people also share a bed and at least the occasional meal. They can kiss goodnight and hug goodbye in the morning, plan a night out together every once in a while, text their spouse to say "sorry babe, forgot to put out the garbage bins, can you please do it?"

And if not, it's only for a few days or, at most, a few weeks at a time.

Usually, even the busiest of people get to celebrate special days like birthdays and oh, say, their first wedding anniversary, together. The reality is, Steve and I likely won't. I'm currently on contract without paid vacation and still recovering financially from my student years (not to mention four trips to Africa within the past 18 months) so I can really only afford to take off a few days around Christmas. Unless Steve's permanent residency is miraculously approved sooner, by the time we next see each other, it will have been eight months.

To be clear, I'm not trying to have a pity party. For one thing, I know we are far from the only ones who are separated by circumstance. My own parents lived apart for a whole year in the early 90's when my dad was training as a police officer. Meanwhile, my mom was living in her parents' basement, pregnant and alone in managing three other children under the age of four. Yikes! Unable to afford the astronomical long distance fees for frequent calls and without the technological advantages that Steve and I have today, like internet access and video calling (as unreliable as it often is), my parents resorted to snail mail, penning letters to one another and recording messages on cassettes just to hear each other's voices.

I am also aware that our situation could be much worse. I have friends who are, or who have, military spouses and must live apart for months at a time while their partner is in a literal war zone. I have acquaintances who have fled their home countries with their children and taken refuge in Canada, burdened with daily worry for the spouse they had to leave behind, and no guarantee that they will be reunited in this life. I know young parents who have lost their spouse to accident and disease.

My point is, on the spectrum of challenge/heartache, Steve and I are pretty blessed.

And I know that many more blessings await us. I take a lot of comfort in the Doctrine and Covenants scripture that says For after much tribulation come the blessings... the hour is not yet, but is nigh at hand (D&C 58:4). We may not know exactly when this trial of faith will come to an end, but we can rest assured that our future is in the hands of a loving Heavenly Father who knows us perfectly and has great plans for us; even greater than we can really fathom.

Importantly, the blessings aren't limited to AFTER. I honestly don't know if there are words strong enough to describe how much I'm looking forward to putting this phase behind us (CIC, if you are listening, I'll take that mic back any day now!) but as emotionally and financially draining as this whole process is, I know that through this we are learning a lot. We're constantly unearthing new discoveries about ourselves and our individual strengths and weaknesses as well as about our relationship.

What we're not learning a lot about is the timeline.

This is the number one question I get asked. Have you heard about Steve's application yet? When will Steve be able to come? It's lovely insofar as it's wonderful to know people care. I appreciate the people who inquire because I know a lot of them are praying for us and eagerly wait for the day we can live under the same roof. In some cases, almost as much as we do :)

It's just also a bit annoying because 1) I haven't the foggiest; 2) You can bet your first child on the fact that if I had news to share I'd be broadcasting it readily. It would be the first thing out of my mouth upon seeing you. I will tell you, your dog, your pizza delivery driver and any other stranger who happens to engage me in conversation (and probably even some who don't... have you met me?)

Most of the time, I'm just doing my best not to think about the uncertainty, to ignore the aching pangs of loneliness and longing, to look for all the reasons I have to be positive and grateful. Having someone else bring up immigration is a pretty reliable way to bring me down a notch, even if it is to be expected. I mean, who really enjoys having their bruises poked?

In any case, we submitted our application mid-April. It was a beast to assemble! In late May I received an email saying I'd officially been approved as a sponsor and that Steve's application had been forwarded to his regional embassy (in Senegal) for processing. Meanwhile, Steve got a letter requesting him to go get the required medical exam. On June 13 we got word that they had begun processing his application. By the end of the month, they acknowledged receipt of the results of his medical exam. So far, so good!

There has been no new information or updates since then. In some respects, no news is good news. The only communication that would happen between now and the issue of their decision would be a request for more information or otherwise highlighting a problem that could delay the process. Of course, it could also mean that they just haven't gotten around to actually going through our application piece by piece, yet. We're signed up to get email notifications for any changes whatsoever, so my heart leaps in a combination of dread (that there is a problem) and anticipation (that the decision is made) every time I get an email notification on my phone. Even when there aren't any emails, I log in to the web portal several times a week, just to see.

In any case, the CIC says family reunification is a priority and the average wait time for a spouse-sponsored permanent residence visa is one year. (Really, they say the goal is to have 80% of new applications processed within 12 months, so let's just cross our fingers that we're not part of the other 20%). I have spoken to people who have waited much less time and others who have waited significantly longer. Most people I have talked with who have gone through the process themselves say they got their decision within 3-6 months of submitting their medical exam (which I find hopeful because that would put Steve's arrival any time before the end of the year) but it doesn't actually mean that will be the case for us.

Yes, the uncertainty of when is a big part of the stress. Probably the biggest source of it, actually. We would certainly be more comfortable from day to day if we had a date to count down to; if we could see the time ticking away from what's left of this involuntary separation. But the unknown and the fact that the only certainty we have is that which is found through our trust in Heavenly Father and His timing, is exactly what defines this as a trial of faith.

That being said, we can have reasonable confidence that Steve should be here by mid-April 2019. (Ok, maybe moderate confidence, given our track record with things going the way we hope.) That's only seven more months. Only?! Ahhh! Calm down, thiiiiiink positive!

226 days.

140 hours of phone conversations, give or take. (Hopefully, take.)

But who's counting?

Honeymoon, or a couple hours on a bus in Joburg

As it turned out, the romantic atmosphere of our room (or lack thereof) was the least of our concerns when we finally got back to our hotel the night of our sealing. Steve's sleep deprivation headache had progressed into a full-blown migraine as we took photos outside the temple and then visited a nearby mall with his parents. Nauseated and aching, he picked his way through the bland, lukewarm dinner the temple cafeteria had sent home with us, paired with a couple doliprane tablets dissolved in a glass of water. Then he laid down, hoping to sleep it off "for an hour or two".

Alas, the only action my specifically-purchased "wedding" lingerie saw that night was what was going on between the pages of the book I read for almost five hours before slipping into my pajamas. (I feel compelled to clarify that it was not even a remotely sexy book, but an infuriatingly sad novel about an oppressed child bride and former bacha posh in Afghanistan).

I woke up the next morning with high hopes that Steve would be feeling better. Being in South Africa for the first time, with no idea if or when we would have another opportunity to come back, I was pretty keen on making the most of our one free day in Johannesburg. Moreover, I was determined to wring out some semblance of a mini-honeymoon from our brief trip.

The thing is, everyone from the desk clerk at our hotel to the temple volunteers had tossed out liberal safety warnings from the time we had arrived and advised against most of the sights and activities I had researched before our arrival. I was used to the precautionary measures advised in Cameroon, namely not going out unnecessarily at night, and certainly never alone. But the idea of it being so dangerous to walk around, together, in broad daylight in a country not currently at war was baffling, to say the least.

After dropping off my in-laws for another day at the temple, Steve and I had the driver take us to Nando's for an early lunch and to figure out our next steps. The driver's suggestion? A sightseeing tour on the red double-decker hop-on, hop-off busses. Tacky tourist cliché, maybe, but a safe bet, he said.

I studied the route map online, charting a course that would take us to Constitution Hill, the apartheid museum, the suburb of Soweter (the former outer-city township to which all black residents of the Joburg area were exiled under apartheid) and the city's cultural hub neighbourhood of Barmfontein. If all went well, we would get to see more of the city than I could have hoped.

Of course, if you have been paying attention to how things tend to go for Steve and me, you need not be told that all did not exactly go according to plan.

It started off very promising. We enjoyed a scenic ride through Rosebank and the city's other most affluent neighbourhoods, winding our way up hilly sections past gated mansions to impressive vantage points overlooking the cities. I marveled as we hurtled down stunning tree-lined streets where 150-year old Jacarandas, once imported from Argentina, branched out in a canopy across the roadway, creating a breathtaking tunnel of light purple blossoms.

We hopped off at Constitution Hill, the former prison and military fort where world-famous people like Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi were once incarcerated. We explored the site (now a living museum and location of South Africa's Constitutional Court) and enjoyed its unique 360 degree view of the city, including a direct line of sight to the temple.

The trouble was, it was summer in South Africa. Not particularly hot, and definitely not humid, but very, very sunny. And my dumb, pale a$$ was not wearing sunscreen.

By the time we boarded the next bus, and I insisted once again on sitting on the coverless upper deck, I was sporting a nasty sunburn that was rapidly shifting from tolerably pink to violently red. Too stubborn to move, despite my husband's repeated suggestions, I unfolded the sightseeing map and tried to cover my painfully prickling arms, ever insisting that I was fine.

My annoying and bossy (or, sweet and protective, depending on who you ask) husband attempted to put his foot down: No more stops! We would ride the bus straight to the end of the line and take a taxi back to our hotel immediately. I needed to be indoors and resting, he said. Obviously, I was not down with this plan.

In need of a bathroom anyhow, I managed to talk him into a stop at the Gold Reef Casino. There we cooled down a little with A/C, water and ice cream, and I tried to bargain my way into staying out by saying we could travel in the enclosed lower section of the bus, but he would not be swayed. I glowered at him as we passed the apartheid museum stop, briefly entertaining the thought that I would never forgive him for ruining what little bit of a "honeymoon" we were getting.

Back at the hotel, with limited entertainment option (read: none), I was still indignant and peeved. We are in South Africa and we are going to spend our time watching bad TV?! So what if I'm sunburnt? What's done is done. it's not like it's going to get any worse!

Now, I must admit that soon after returning to the hotel, in the throes of mild heat exhaustion, I was secretly relieved that my husband had insisted, though I certainly wasn't going to tell him that. There's a good chance he saved me from full-fledged heat stroke. As it was, my second-degree sunburns bubbled and blistered before night fell and my skin remained an angry red hue for nearly six weeks.

Despite both of us being in moderately sore states, we did manage to find another "activity" to keep us occupied that evening, and enjoyed a lazy delivery pizza dinner from the "comfort" of our vinyl mattress. You know, super and classy and shiz, like honeymooning pros.

On our last morning in Johannesburg, we got a tiny glimpse into the city's notorious taxi violence and turf wars when we were headed for one last session at the temple. The Uber we ordered didn't drive right into the hotel's gated parking lot. Taxi drivers waiting on the street for fares came over and bodily prevented us from getting into the vehicle, then began throwing rocks at our driver's vehicle to get him to take off. They then had the gall to think we'd choose to get in a vehicle with them. No dice!

Eventually, we made it to the temple and enjoyed a good dose of serenity and peace before a whole lot of confusion at the airport.

Long story abbreviated, I was on a much later flight out than Steve and my in-laws, though I would catch up with them in Rwanda for the final leg back to Cameroon. They were on a complex cross-listed flight and the ticket agents could not find the appropriate confirmation information in their airline's system. I have a delightful picture of my tired, very bored-looking mother-in-law sitting on the floor in the middle of the airport, slouched deeply against a pillar, legs splayed in front of her, waiting for everything to get sorted out. It took about an hour of "advocating" and three or four different individuals to finally get everything sorted out so that they could get checked in and sent off through security.

Meanwhile, I had gotten a couple confusing emails about my own flight. I knew I was supposed to leave some 12 hours after Steve and my in-laws (which I would get to spend mostly in the seating-challenged check-in hall, waiting to be able to go through security) but I had gotten emails saying my flight was currently boarding. Of course, none of the ticket agents were able to shed any light on the situation, so I anxiously scoured the departure boards again and again to make sure I wasn't somehow mistaken about my takeoff time.

I moved to the secure area as soon as possible and found a padded row of seats to try to nap on, getting fitful bouts of roughly 10 minutes at a time as my flight got delayed again and again. My two hour turn around in Kigali was shrinking fast and I was getting more and more anxious I was going to get stuck in Rwanda by myself.

We landed in Kigali the next morning, just 11 minutes before my next flight was due to take off. My jaw clenched painfully as I waited in the security line to get through to my connecting flight, while announcements over the loudspeaker heralded the final boarding call. Fortunately, it seems there were several passengers from the Johannesburg flight that needed to make the transfer, so they held the plane for us.

I boarded the plane, spotted Stee and made my way towards him. I could see my stress and relief echoed in his expression. Even more than nearly missing the flight, I was feeling the weight of our imminent separation and the frustration at having lost two precious hours together. We would have just a couple more hours on the ground in Douala before my flight home to Canada, and I still had to repack all my bags and get organized. It was not our first such goodbye, and we could be almost certain it wouldn't be our last, what with the prospect of the immigration process still looming ahead of us, but as newlyweds of just two weeks, it was certain to be a most bitter goodbye.

We both took our seats and exhaled heavily. If we were drinkers, I think we'd have been asking for doubles right about then, 9 a.m. or not.