The Tale of the Passe-partout

Passe-partout: something that passes everywhere or provides universal passage, OR a simple picture frame. 

We had hoped, after our troubles from the middle of our trip in Denver when we discovered Shirley’s passport missing, that we could get things solved in California. The red tape in Arkansas tangled us up in that case and we had to have our marriage certificate sent to New York. We had been able to make the last appointment available on the day before we were to fly back to Belgium. We had no idea if we would be able to get a new passport for Shirley in one day or not, but the adventure had begun and we had to carry on. 

As we said goodbye to Scott’s mom, we looked forward to our last day together with Sean and Jill in New York. We had an appointment at the passport agency, but had no idea how long it would take. Pictures of the DMV rose in our minds, especially since they specifically warn those with an appointment to come “at least” 30 minutes prior to the appointment to make sure that you get in on time. 

Arriving at the address we saw a line already posted outside the building, snaking its way to the entrance where guards helped the line to enter in an orderly manner. When we approached, they asked if we had an appointment and then waved us in in front of those who were standing in line. We passed through security (remove belt and all metal, place everything in a basket, walk through the metal detector) and went on to the elevator which took us to the 10th floor. 

Upstairs we joined a room full of people sitting patiently and a line of people crawling around the room until they came to the windows at the front behind which someone was telling them something. We got in line and crawled. When it was our turn we were given a paper to fill in (even though I had filled this paper in online) and told to return with the paper filled in completey and correctly. 

The form said it could only be filled in in black ink. My pen was blue. I didn’t know if I should wait in line again in order to ask if I could use blue or not. I skipped in line and asked quickly at the window and was informed that blue was fine. When we finally returned to the window with our filled-in form, we were given a number for another room and told that it might be a few hours. 

We did not want to leave and run the chance of not getting back in, so we found a place to sit and wait. This was easier said than done. Both rooms were filled to the brim, as was the hall and all the available wall space to lean onself against. Thankfully, a younger woman and her mother saw us and squinched together to create space for one to sit. Later, someone was called up, leaving space for me to sit as well. 

These rooms were filled with all sorts of people and I longed to know some of the stories. Some were there with their children, others with what must be a new spouse. Some spoke foreign languages to one another. Most simply stared ahead and waited to hear their name called off. The mother and daughter next to us were Spanish-speaking. A later group of ladies spoke Creole and I recognized the bit of French in it. There was an Asian couple with their young son. A young anglo man waited. Perhaps a student or getting a passport for the first time. Everyone had a story. 

As the people exited the room to our right, the room we waited to enter when they would call our name, they mostly left with smiles on their faces. They each had a blue piece of paper and most were clutching their new, dark blue passport. Some were met by those who were waiting for them in the hall or adjoining room. Some were simply in a hurry and left quickly with concern and stress grimacing their features. And then we heard Shirley’s name. 

This meant that we could now join the line crawling to the front of the second room where people behind glass were talking to those approaching and handing out a blue piece of paper and a passport. As we got closer to the window, a man approached with his daughter. He simply walked up to the window and stated that he had to catch a flight in 90 minutes – could he skip the line? The person behind the window informed him that many people were waiting and also had urgent appointments. Several in the line informed him of the same. Still, he was able to get someone to allow him in front. I wonder if he made his flight. The passport was for his daughter. 

We arrived at the window and received the blue paper (it held our important papers, including our marriage certificate) and the passport for Shirley. It was done! We had made it. We understood completely the looks on the faces of all those who had preceded us out of the room. An involuntary smile was the least that would happen, simply because the stress was over. We smiled at those we passed as we went to the elevator and exited the building. 

The sun was shining outside, we were joining Sean and Jill for dinner and we were finally, formally at peace with the world of administration and bureaucracy – for now, in this country. We enjoyed the New York City sunset in a picture-perfect evening, thankful for how we had been blessed, not only with the outcome of this adventure, but with the experience of being carried along the whole time.

The Tale of the Passed Port

A “port” can be a “port of call”, a place where you arrive and depart. We have had many of these already on our travels during this journey, as well as all the many times we have traveled in the past. Each port brings its own special moments, memories and adventures to enter into. 

In Dutch a port is a gate, very much the same idea as a sea port. A gate allows entry into your yard, a barn or even a city wall. It is at the same time a barrier (think of a gate to keep the baby away from dangerous areas in the house) and an entrance. Each time we move to a different location on our travels, we pass through some of these ports, but what do you do when the port threatens to stay closed?

As we readied ourselves to leave Colorado and move on to Texas, we were thankful for Scott’s brother accompanying us to the airport in Denver. He not only works here, but he is calm and business-like when it is needed – and it was needed. Our flight was to leave just before 11am, so we had to leave the house at 7am in order to return the rental car and be at check-in in time to get through all the gates of check-in, baggage and customs before reaching our gate in our terminal. 

To start all of this process requires scanning your tickets at a ‘kiosk’ (some of you can picture this, having done it before), paying for our baggage (that’s another tale for another time) and then getting our boarding passes. At this point the kiosk asks to scan your passports. And it was at this point that we realized, frantically, that Shirley did not have her passport. 

Somewhere (we are still not sure where) her little blue book with stamps from friendly customs officials around the world had gone missing. Andsuddenly we did not know if we would be able to pass through this port to get to their gate. To make things even more complicated, Shirley only has identification from Belgium. Not a problem, really. It is a formal identity card – except that it is according to Belgian standards, which means that it is in her maiden name. 

“Do you have any other forms of identification?” my brother asks. “Credit card, driver’s licence?” No – and if she does, it is in her maiden name. You see, the Belgians want their women to be able to keep their name and inherit. So Shirley, in Belgium, has always been known by and must sign her maiden name. But our tickets to fly are in her married name, because that is what is on her US passport: her married name. 

By now we have called Scott’s other brother and asked him to ransack his house, looking everywhere for the passport. Scott’s older brother suggests simply asking the ticketing agent if she can change the ticket, using the Belgian ID card. With trepidation, we stand in the line waiting for the agent, wondering how this will be resolved. We figured that, if need be, we could purchase another ticket, but wondered how our other flights would go. And we hadn’t yet gotten to either of our boys. When we finally approached Loretta (that was her name) Shirley was thoroughly miserable and Scott tried to explain what we needed. 

Loretta calmly took the creditcard-sized ID card and examined it in silence. She glanced at Shirley, looked again at the card and announced, “Well, the date of birth fits. So, okay, we’ll change that ticket for you to Walker-Raab. That should work.” And relief flooded through our limbs as we started breathing again. But we were not yet there. 

Scott’s brother walked with us (he works for TSA) and explained that they would probably flag her ID as alternate and that she would need to go through a pat-down. We went to a different security check where he was sure that they would have a female agent. Otherwise we would need to wait until they found one. But at this checkpoint, the TSA official simply looked at her ticket, glanced at her card and passed her through. We had passed this port and were on our way to the gate.

We said our farewells to Scott’s brother at the gate, thanking him profusely for his calm and his suggestion to just try what we could. We should have known. The Dutch have a saying: “You already have ‘no’. You can only get ‘yes’ if you ask.” We had passed all the way through this gauntlet and took our flight to Texas where we would need to set in motion the wheels needed to get a new passport in time to make our international travels. But we will still need to repeat this process of passing these gates three more times before we see our boys and head back to Belgium. 

Knowing that you are welcome, that you belong, is essential to our life and our life in Christ. We are so thankful that Jesus the Christ not only knew what we needed in order to pass through the gate of death but to enter into the gate of eternal life, but also took care of it. Have you considered this? What is keeping you back if you haven’t made a choice to join Him? You already have “no”. God is waiting with “YES”!