Willy Wagtails (a bird nicknamed for its unique dance) broke the morning stillness with his familiar songs. Thursday morning dawned bright and clear as rays of sunshine streamed across mountain peaks. “Today is Thanksgiving,” I thought. “Our families back home will be getting together and cooking delicious food. “But here in PNG, it is business as usual. There will be no turkeys, no football games, no pilgrim costumes, no pumpkin pie.” But wait! Today we would get to have a little taste of America.

While in Port Moresby getting supplies, we had received an invitation to the U.S. ambassador’s house for an American Thanksgiving dinner. We didn’t know who else would be there, but we thought it would be a good chance to meet the ambassador.

After our morning devotions, Laurie and I prayed together. In her prayer, Laurie asked God to use us as witnesses for Him to the people we would meet at the ambassador’s house that evening.
A steep road with hairpin turns led to the ambassador’s house on the side of Touguba Hill. At 6 p.m., we drove into the posh neighborhood with grand views of the harbor and Port Moresby skyline. As the sun began to set over distant mountains, the twinkle of city lights competed with the emerging canopy of stars. “This is going to be a memorable Thanksgiving Day,” I thought to myself. And it was.

Inside the house, we were warmly greeted by Ambassador Leslie Rowe and her husband.
Before dinner we had time to mingle a bit with the other guests. We met Bill, the I.T. technician for the embassy. Laurie once worked as a nurse for the U.S. embassy in Helsinki, Finland, and our conversation flowed easily. Bill was fascinated to learn that we were missionaries, and he wanted to know more about our work. He asked why we had chosen to come to PNG as missionaries, so we told him the story of God’s special calling. Later, he told us, “If there is anything you need help with, just let me know. I would love to help.”

While in line for food, I had a nice conversation about PNG academics with two Australian gentlemen who were top administrators at the University of Papua New Guinea.

Delicious stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans and an assortment of pies and cakes all fueled our nostalgia as we thought of home.

Plates of food in one hand and glasses of cranberry juice in the other, we scanned the large patio filled with tables and chairs hoping to find a place with four seats together. Bill motioned for us to come and sit at his table. We pulled up a couple of extra chairs so we could all squeeze in.

At the table, Bill introduced me to Peter, the man sitting to my right, a quiet but personable Australian man. I learned that he was married to an American who was currently in Sydney, Australia. Before I could ask him what he did for a living, he asked me what I was doing in Papua New Guinea. I explained that I was a missionary trying to establish churches in Western Province among the Gogodala people. “Do you have a post office where you are working?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “but . . .” I couldn’t resist venting my pent-up frustrations with the postal service in Balimo. I recounted to Peter the woes of my foiled attempts to retrieve mail from the post office. I told him about the time I had made the hour-and-a-half trip downriver to Balimo to check for mail after going months without receiving letters or packages. Upon arriving there, I learned that the mail had gotten stuck up in Daru. Evidently Balimo mail wasn’t a priority in Daru, so the mailbags sat on the docks for weeks waiting for someone to put them on the plane to Balimo.

Several weeks later, I got word that mail had finally come. Anxious to receive it, I made immediate plans to go to Balimo. The next day, Danny and I paddled the dinghy through the swamp grass out to the river and motored our way to Balimo. At the post office, I found the service window closed and the door padlocked. Someone standing nearby said, “You have mail in there. I saw it earlier. But the postal worker is sick today. You will have to come back another day to get it.”

“Doesn’t anyone else have a key for the post office?” I asked.

“Nope,” he replied. “She is the only one with a key.” Just then, a friend who works at the government office came by and saw me standing there. I told him of my plight. He offered to go to the postal worker’s house and get the key himself. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him. While he went to get the key, I imagined the joys our family would have that evening opening cards, letters and packages of goodies and leafing through the latest issues of Adventist Frontiers. But, alas, my friend came back empty handed. The postal worker would not relinquish her key. So, even though my mail was just on the other side of that door, I would have to return to Kotale without it.

As I finished my story, I noticed that Peter looked a bit somber and was not at all amused. Then I happened to glance down and noticed the little emblem on his shirt pocket—Post PNG. “Oh no!” I thought. I had really put my foot in my mouth.

Breaking the awkward silence, Peter said, “I’m the managing director for all the post offices across the country, but I’ve never been to Balimo before. Truth has a way of making itself known. After hearing your story, I have decided that I must visit Balimo. This kind of operation is unacceptable. I will do my best to improve the service there.” He handed me his business card. “Please, keep in touch,” he said.

If I had known Peter’s occupation before our conversation, I might not have told him my negative story. However, I believe God’s hand was in the meeting.

After returning to Western Province, we got word that changes were afoot at the Balimo post office. Four pallets of mail from Port Moresby had suddenly been expedited to their destination at Balimo. A high-ranking postal worker from Port Moresby had called Balimo to talk to officials about improving the postal service. Then I received an email from a postal employee in Port Moresby asking to dialogue with me about the post office at Balimo and what they could do to improve services. Peter had sent him my address. Praise the Lord for His divine appointments.

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