Cruisin'

Sometimes you're the truck; sometimes you're the tired cyclist.

We had a long weekend for Easter and a break of a few weeks from church activities, and it couldn't have come at a better time.  I'm not in a Deep, Dark Well of Despair (as Second Mom tremulously asked once soon after I'd moved into her home and decided to sleep in on a Saturday morning – to be fair, she'd raised four bright, outgoing children and suddenly found herself with a dark cuckoo in her empty nest).  I just... need some time to sort out my emotions.  Alone, even though I know I have many kind shoulders around me.  Sometimes I lean on the Avengers.  Especially Captain America and Iron Man. 

...Alright, so maybe I'm in a Shallow, Sepia Puddle of Irritation. I think the suddenness of being surrounded by my Indian and mission families did a bit of a number on my solitary self.  And then I was just as suddenly set adrift – as Grandma, Grandpa, Carrottop, and BFG are all travelling – into my year-old life.  It's not that I see other workers from our organization (other than Butters and Timbit) too often, but their vague presence in the city apparently makes a difference.  On top of this, I'd used my vacation to pull a Machiavellian separation from my Congolese family (Pastor et al.), because I'd felt he was tired and could probably use some time alone with his wife, toddler, and new baby. 

This idea had entered my mind months before (not because of anything they'd said; I regularly hamstring myself like this), but it's harder than it seems!  Singles need family, even when we're dark and brooding.  I mean, it was pure ecstasy to peel off a sticky toddler who specifically wanted me to change his diaper – his mother cracks up at this and I spend the next few minutes failing at life until she comes to the rescue with a second new diaper to replace the one I've ruined (I assume all couples are trained in how to hogtie a buttered squid before they are allowed to become parents) – and go home, but it was also nice to spend that time with them.

Since Timbit has also made herself scarce - though I rarely know when she's home in any case - I have had to make do with Butters and the housemaids on the ground floor who call me pretty (this is less flattering when you know they see me as a walking, talking biscuit; the treats I brought from India only whetted their appetites).  And thus I was forced to give thanks for this fourth-floor apartment, our water pump/tank/bucket system, the new solar-powered lights, uniform ceiling designs, and Butter's consistent success in keeping the lid of the toilet down.  Say what you will about the – frequently absent-minded – man, he does try to be considerate despite working from the base assumption that I'm nuttier than squirrel poo.  This is faithful to the Mennonite ethos and very commendable. 

Not by me, of course.

I believe our relationship works best when we mainly ignore each other.  Though I will also add that his sense of his humour is improving, as is his taste in music (despite some instrumental classical sitar which he insists on calling 'The Beatles' – I don't know whether to feel irritated that he's found something as bad as hipster beats or gift him with information about the centuries-old plinkplinking tradition of an entire subcontinent not named George Harrison).  I will consider his sparkly, Pokemon-esque evolution complete when he throws his radio in the rubbish bin and starts taking antihistamines.

Despite my thankfulness for all of the above and laughter to tie it together, my lack of 'family time,' coupled with some disappointments at work, a few unexpected admirers, and cultural differences left me struggling to re-adjust. 

Once, during a get together with my Bible study group, I'd asked a friend what his favourite song was.  He was as flustered as if I'd dragged him out of the closet.  He tried desperately to come up with a hymn before letting slip that he loved Celine Dion.  He refused point-blank, however, to give the title of such 'unholy' music in a church.  I bit my lip to smother a mad giggle and resolved to casually mention my love of rap soon.

I mean, Celine Dion.

Another young man was concerned that I'd made the sign of the cross – wasn't that only for Freemasons? 

We had a Freemason who came to our Anglican church when I was in high school - chipper fellow.  I think he made beer or wine in his basement, which was a nice hobby for everyone.  I believe I won a scholarship from the local chapter when I graduated.  I was at a loss as to why this man and his friends had a monopoly on the cross. 

The cross on which Jesus died for my sins?  The cross which is the basis of my faith?  That cross? 

I explained as best I could, but told him to feel free to speak to Pastor about it if he was worried.  On one hand, my faith certainly doesn't depend upon making the sign of the cross after taking communion, and I didn't want to turn people off (appearances are very important here).  However, I also wondered at the rationale of making everyone do the same things and look the same during worship – to show that you belonged in this church and not any other church.  My mental jury is still out, but in the meantime I was glad he felt like he could openly ask me about it and listen to my answer – I have to use my short-lived white privilege for good, right?

I always thought I had strict ideas of what Christians could and couldn't do (like, er, listen to music with bad words in), but the expectations of Christians here and in Asia are something else.  Which, I imagine, makes the stakes higher to hide double lives.

Palm branches were in full force on the streets on the weekend of N2O's wedding - even tied onto motorcycles and buses to add to the general confusion caused by broken windshields, mirrors, and doors – and I assume no unholy ballads were played in case God was watching (everyone knows He gets tetchy around Easter and Christmas - which, incidentally, are also the only times He escapes the confines of churches to stalk us).  Last weekend, I approached our Good Friday service with confidence that it would be a continuation of the non-stop party.  

And, because my life is a study in the unexpected, we spent an hour of quiet worship, prayer in small groups, and a sermon reminding us to be grateful.  Pastor was careful to say that the day was not about crying or fear, but about recognition of the sacrifice made for us and the subsequent transformation of our lives; this was exactly the reflection and peace that I'd sought from the church.  The main focus was Titus 2: 11-14, but we also read the crucifixion according to Mark, and a chapter from Isaiah that spoke about the Suffering Servant.

Even Butters thought it was a lovely service; our being in agreement was the second most miraculous thing this Easter. 

The third was that citizens saw me in a miniskirt when I was wearing a dress that clearly reached my knees.  Butters seemed slightly surprised as well – presumably at the fact that crazy people also have knees.