Summer of 2007 will never escape my mind. Boarding the plane from Hawaii to Tonga was not the only adventure I was in for as my family and me soared over endless blue seas to the islands of my heritage. As the miniscule plane came to a turbulent stop on a dirt runway, the humble circumstances of the Tongan islands became evident instantly. No matter how much Dad tried to prepare us kids for the cultural experiences we would have, he would never be able to foreshadow the unforgettable memory waiting for me.
Her name is Naemila. She told me to call her Mila in her broken English. Riding in the bed of a rusty pickup truck to my uncle’s tiny worn-down home, I met Mila at the doorstep as she took our bags. The next morning, I woke up to Mila motioning me to come with her to somewhere I did not know, and my parents were surprisingly excited for me to leave with someone practically a stranger. Mila and I walked for miles to beautiful beaches unknown to earth. We picked up breakfast from a cousin of hers who was climbing trees and gathering coconuts as a part of his daily routine. We walked to a beach with a colossal cave that looked out to the vast ocean and horizon. As we gazed at the skyline I realized how small I was compared to the world. Mila expressed to me how thankful she was to have a friend like me, a friend who could barely understand her English, yet know her intentions to be a daughter of God. Mila was very religious, and knew how fortunate she was to have what she did, which was very little. She and I spent everyday together as she showed me the paradise in which she lived. I learned that paradise for her was food, clothing, and a place to sleep, and obtaining happiness only took a glance at the horizon.
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