Can anyone imagine my face as we leave the police station? I can’t hold back the smile, the laughter and the joy. The reporters are teasing because they know I’m no longer the cranky, sad Taoati they once knew. At the church, we sit in a circle and celebrate the good news, and share in a small feast with Anna and the catechist. There are photos taken of me with this big grin on my face. I read again the fax from the San Nanumea, the New Zealand fishing vessel that rescued them, and realise it won’t be long before I’m reunited with my son.
I can’t wait to spread the news. I stop at shops where I shared my sad story, and tell them the good news about Ben. They join with me in happiness, saying how lucky he is. I know I have to come back to earth sometime. I praise God over and over for giving me back my son safely.
Celebrations, feasts and a special service for my baptism as a Catholic are on the way. It’s like getting married for the fourth time, with me wearing my patterned white dress, necklaces, earrings and a white, floral garland. It’s a great celebration. I’m admired for my faith, for not giving up hope, for continuously praising until Ben was found. At the conclusion of the baptism, a queue of folks, old and young, are brought to me to bless; it all seems unbelievable. I’m an average person who suffered for six weeks, believing I was the unhappiest mother in the world. Now it’s over, I can return to being a normal person again.
I collect many different kinds of fish on my way to Betio, ready for the day when the patrol boat arrives. My family members at Banraeaba will bring breadfruit soup, along with the expert soup makers. My sisters are busy cooking.
I feel light, as if a burden of sadness has been lifted. There’s much singing – melodious songs, accompanied by the keyboard. We prepare food and drink, and there’s more celebration.
Students, friends and teachers I worked with in various schools in Tarawa come to share their feelings, and express how they felt at seeing I was just as lost as my son. Now there’s a happy smile back on their faces.
I thank God for leading me to Anna, a good friend who was always prepared to share and pray for me in a time of need.
I won’t forget the Solomon pastor of the Seventh Day Adventists. I visited them on the day of Ben’s deliverance, but they weren’t home. I met their two daughters instead, hugged and kissed them, and asked them to pass on my thanks for their faith and prayers.
I’m invited to their service. I give a talk about my feelings from the time Ben was lost until he was found. I face the congregation with tears of joy, and begin the sad story with a happy ending. I express my thanks to the Seventh Day Adventist pastor and the congregation. I tell them I will never forget them, and thank God for them all, ask Him to bless them and their families now, and in the years to come.
I need some rest. My mind tells my body to relax. A lot of crazy, and not so crazy, thinking happens when someone goes missing. They have dropped from your world, and entered into another sphere. All thinking is totally fixed on the lost one. The dream is to be able to wind back time, until the lost one stands before you again. Any thought to enjoy a nice day, be moved by the beauty in a flower, or to admire a young man as he assists an old lady across the street, everything fades into background. Your obsession grows into a thing of giant proportions, driven by a single source of energy. You think to yourself, “Why isn’t the world out looking for my son? Why am I the only lonely person, cursing the indifferent world?” We shouldn’t think like that. People from all over, from all walks of life, have placed their shoulders to the wheel, and each is willing a merciful outcome. Some never lift a finger without recompense. There are public officials who will never wake from their slumber, unless there’s a calamity, or a good photo opportunity. On the whole, though, people are pretty wonderful.