Back in 1978, my dad heard that a few coworkers were going on a short-term mission trip to Guatemala, and he felt like God was telling him to join them. After a few mishaps, he ended up making the journey alone, and this was his first time flying in a plane. Before this, the furthest he had ever been from North Carolina was Florida. In the late 1970s, travel was not like it is today; he boarded a dirty, nameless pink plane. It was full of party animals, turbulence, and seats facing different directions. He landed in Guatemala City and made his way to a small village to help rebuild adobe houses that had been destroyed in an earthquake. He enjoyed using his electrical skills to help this remote village, as they only received electricity after the earthquake. He had a deep satisfaction from this mission trip; he felt like God was able to use him in a particular way, and he wanted to do it all over again.
The next year, he went on a trip to Honduras. He flew into San Pedro Sula and ended up working with a team of electricians to wire a new addition to the First Baptist Church. Every night at the church, the youth and college group had events. The young and single men jumped at the chance to have some fun and mingle after long days in the sun. One of the ladies there could speak some English; her name was Alba, and they became fast friends. Daddy and Alba maintained contact through the years, letting each other know of different trips they were going on, and asking for prayer.
In 1983, Daddy told her that he was going on a mission trip to Costa Rica. Alba wrote back that she had family in the same capital city where he would be working. She orchestrated a plan for him to be able to eat lunch at her Tia Susanna’s house one day during his trip. On this momentous day, a beautiful Tica, met this Gringo at the First Baptist Church of San Jose. She was sent to help guide him back to her parents’ house, as the streets in the city are almost impossible to navigate.
The family enjoyed their lunch with this Gringo, who shared an appreciation for their cousins in Honduras. Daddy was always quite the photographer, and the gardens of this home were immaculate. It only made sense that he took lots of pictures of the exotic plants that he had never seen before. When it was time for him to return to the church, he asked for their mailing address, so he could send back a few pictures once they were developed. Thus began a friendship with the beautiful Tica via letter writing.
For a time, this was strictly platonic, but a shift took place, as it always does, and the notes became love letters. They were writing their own love story, one piece of mail at a time. Eventually, they started talking on the phone on Saturdays. Once it became evident that their futures would include each other, my dad sent her a plane ticket to come visit him in North Carolina. My mom’s visa from the US Embassy was sadly declined.
The following Valentine’s Day, my dad visited her in Costa Rica and they went in person to the Embassy, to try and get some answers as to why she was denied. Eventually, they found someone to help them understand what was happening. A man named Peter Cousins explained that since she was a single lady, with no job, the embassy feared that if she entered the States, she would stay there illegally, for she had no reason to return to Costa Rica. This was culturally appropriate for my mother to live at home and not work because, even as a young adult, she was still under her father’s care.
In talking with Peter, they learned that he was from Chicago. They promised him that they were not trying to run off and get married; they just wanted my mom to experience Western North Carolina in the winter. My dad asked Peter, “Would it be fair to expect a Costa Rican person to suddenly move to Chicago, having never experienced cold weather or snow in their life?” This helped Peter reconsider the visa, and he granted my mom a one-week chance to feel cold for the first time in her life. My mom finally made it to North Carolina that winter, seeing snow for the first time in her life. She spent the week at her future in-laws’ house, learning about the mountain and their way of life; they had a magical time. She returned to Costa Rica as promised.
My parents were engaged in May of 1985 and married in San Jose in August of the same year. Their marriage was quite a complicated process; they even had to get married twice! First, on Monday, August 12th, they were married in a lawyer’s office. Costa Rica holds Catholicism as the state religion; any non-Catholic couple who desires to be married in a church must be married in a civil ceremony first for it to be legally binding. Next, they took their paperwork to have their marriage inscribed into public records. Then, all of this being the same day, they went back to the US Embassy to start the process for my mom to apply for residency.
This procedure is rigorous and can take up to six months to complete, and they were prepared to do so. My dad had the bright idea to ask to speak to Peter Cousins again. As a civil wedding-day gift from God, he had climbed the ranks within the Embassy, being second from the top, right under the Ambassador. Peter was thrilled to see my parents and was impressed that they stood by their word, that my mom returned to Costa Rica when many people would have just stayed. My parents proved to have integrity, and this greatly pleased Peter. He asked them when their Christian wedding would take place, and they told him it was the following Saturday, August 17th. Mind you, this was Monday. Peter simply said, “Come back on Friday, all of your paperwork will be ready.”
Because of my parents’ pure hearts, a six-month process was condensed into less than a week! They always remember this occurrence as God guiding their life together, a touchstone to confirm His faithfulness. They had their second and final wedding at the same church where my grandparents were married many years before. On Monday, August 19th, my Mom moved to North Carolina to begin her life in the United States. She left behind everything she had ever known, her family, language, and culture, to be with my dad. This was the ultimate sacrifice. Her life would not be easy in our small town, with both overt and covert prejudice being a part of her daily life. Mama swallowed the bitter pill of not being accepted and never complained about anything to anyone. She did make a few acquaintances along the way, but essentially used all of her energy to be wholeheartedly devoted to my father, my brothers, and me. She made us the center of her world, and we are all better because of it. My parents never take their love for granted; it was kismet that they came together. So many tiny turns in each of their lives brought them to each other. The idea that two people who grew up 3,555 miles apart could meet, fall in love, and have a beautiful life together is its own miracle. My brothers and I, and any friends we made along the way, can all point to our parents’ love as a guiding light for what a marriage can be.
