Solo Parenting

(From our December 2024 Issue)

A Christmas Miracle

By Scoti Springfield Domeij

On December 22, I found myself—broke, alone, and stranded over 8000 miles from home.

After four fabulous, once-in-a-lifetime weeks in Thailand, I was grounded at Bangkok International Airport (BKK). My plane was scheduled to take off in two hours, and I lacked 500 Baht ($15) to clear immigration to board the aircraft.

Helpless as a beggar, I worried. How will I make it home?

Thailand is a land of beauty—and beggars. These vulnerable individuals disappear into the urban landscape—as if invisible.

Seven days ago, I noticed a beggar who perched in his battered wheelchair resembled a stone Buddha. His eyes locked straight ahead. His lips cemented into a stern line. Two stumps stuck out a few inches past the wheelchair’s seat. Healed balls of skin capped his amputated stubs like bubbles on the end of twisted balloons. I saved all my change to give him.

On my last day in Bangkok, all the coins plinked in his metal cup. Not one muscle on his stony countenance budged.

After spontaneous purchases, I received more change. A paraplegic man teetered on the filthy curb’s edge between the busy street and crowded sidewalk. Alive only from the waist up, his shriveled legs appeared as wooden as his worn crutches. I dropped coins into his cup.

I have more. My fingers burrowed into my purse, scraping together additional change.

Our eyes locked—two people from different worlds.

His radiant smile and joyful eyes conveyed—thanks.

I returned to the hotel and bargained hard with the taxi driver to avoid being overcharged for the ride to BKK. As we sped along the freeway, he said, “I miss my daughter. She live five hours away. To make money, I buy taxi and work in Bangkok. The cost of gas hurt my business.”

I understood—insufficient finances or time with your children. Too often, I worried: Will I have money to fill my car with gas to drive to work?

After reciting my entire Thai vocabulary, he said, “You speak Thai good. How much you pay?”

“Three hundred Baht, like we agreed.”

His eyes registered disappointment. Polite to a fault, he blinked, 'saved face', and regained his upbeat composure.

“You single woman. I take good care of you.”

At BKK, his slight frame unloaded and stacked my slippery plastic suitcases onto a baggage cart. I pressed all my currency into his hand—500 Baht, plus eight American dollars.

I passed through security, checked into China Airlines, and received my boarding pass. At the exit immigration window, I declared, “To pay the 500 Baht exit tax, I need my 1400 Baht VAT (tourist value-added tax) refund.”

She replied, “The VAT Refund Office is in the departure lounge. “You cannot pass through immigration without paying.”

Tension stressed my brain like an overstretched rubber band threatening to snap.

God, please don’t let me miss my plane. It’s Christmas.

Salty fear cascaded down my face. I returned to China Airlines to ask for help. The airline employee was checking in a passenger with distinct Thai features—large round eyes, rounded nose, full lips, and sculpted cheekbones. Most Thais stand five foot four. She towered over six feet tall.

“Traveling is stressful. Here…take this.” The Thai traveler thrust 1000 Baht into my hand.

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back on the other side of immigration.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Angela.”

I slid 500 Baht under the immigration window. Waves of joy washed over my body. Thank you, God. I’m headed home to celebrate your Son’s birth with my boys!

The immigration officer inspected my passport. “You overstayed your visa. That’ll cost an extra 200 Baht per day.” She allowed me to collect my refund from the VAT Refund Office, which paid the remaining overstay fees.

I entered the departure area, and stress drained away, leaving behind hunger pangs. My remaining Thai coins purchased a sandwich, chips, and an icy watermelon drink. As I ate, I scanned the area for Angela.

No Angela.

I searched each departure lounge.

No Angela.

Is she on my plane? I headed to my departure gate. After liftoff, I walked down each aisle, scanning every seat.

No Angela.

I didn’t foresee the consequences of sharing more than I could spare with three precious individuals. “There’s no one like El Jeshurun! He rides through the heavens to help you,” Deuteronomy 33:26

I glided home on the wings of prayer and heavenly intervention—accompanied by the Most High God over all the earth.

Propelled into single parenthood with a four-year-old son and a nine-month-old son, Scoti helps solo parents face their fears with courage and embrace new life. Christmas Miracles (St. Martin’s Press) and The Mommy Diaries: Finding Yourself in the Daily Adventure (Revell) include Scoti’s essays. She’s been published in The New York Times, Southwest Art, Family Life Today, and other parenting magazines. She writes for HavokJournal.com, an online military magazine. © 2024 Scoti Springfield Domeij. All rights reserved.