A chubby, short old man ran after me on the way home after church to say I was pretty and ask if I was married.
This is my life.
I realise that I look old for my age and that I should not have 5-star standards. However, if he is shorter than me and in possession of more than one chin and more grey hair than black, the only thing he has that I want is confidence.
BFG asked why I hadn't gotten married in the month he and his wife had been away. I could choose, he said, between having babies and getting married - but I had to get on it right away.
I happily surveyed my (very) extended family from behind a mound of store-bought Indian food and and reflected that it was a good thing all these people had clearance to joke about my life; it would be a waste to have to upend my plate over his head.
This is my very small universe.
I admit that I am mainly anti-social (because people require an extraordinary amount of energy to do them justice, and I'm too anemic and cynical to love like I want to), but it was a joy to have some of our international missions family together at our house. That Saturday morning had started out vile: I thought I had another eye infection, and instead of getting to sleep in like he'd wanted, Butters had been woken early by Captain, who wanted us to drop by and pick up our monthly stipend. I lay in bed with my left eye both burning and watering, listened to Butters' drawled Americanisms through my door, and blearily tried to decide whether to make this difficult for him or really difficult for him.
“No.”
He was unimpressed.
And I was not about to start my morning even earlier than already planned – I had people to meet, a slow broil in a crowded bus to enjoy, patients to pray over, laundry to do, and an eye to curse through it all.
So he had to refuse on my behalf. As confrontations seem to make him want to curl up into a ball and die, I think this was a good learning experience for him. Organizing things for this family trip and ordering people around while trying to make sure each point of view was listened to and cared for was also taking its toll on a personality more used to accepting and shrugging, but he's handled it well. Thus, he picked up my stipend and receipt for me, I refused to sign it, and we parted ways again in state of mutual incomprehension.
I then hurried to arrive at church on time for our monthly hospital visit. After waiting half an hour for the leader to not arrive, I became part of a makeshift group that was in transit for forty-five minutes to reach the next commune of this city, where we discovered we had neither the sugar and soap that we usually give to the patients (apparently a woman had said she'd give them to me – I had no idea this woman was involved in this ministry, rarely see her, and had debated not coming that morning, so this was all news to me), nor the means immediately available to buy more. Eventually, we bought the items, made our way to the hospital, and prayed - which took a total of ten minutes at most. On the sweltering bus ride home, I gave thanks that neither Timbit nor Butters and his family had decided to join me for that excursion. I visited Captain's house to discuss my stipend, didn't find him, was accosted by Butters, and valiantly fought a gate and a door to get to his side (the worst thing about him is that he opens things like a man – it'd be nice if he at least pretended to struggle)... only to have him politely ask if he could have his family and Grandma and Grandpa and Carrottop and BFG over at the apartment for a takeout Indian dinner.
I wilted inwardly.
Not because I dislike any of these people or Indian food. But I'd just had a very long morning, I still had laundry to do, the house was a mess of dishes, hair, and pesto sauce, and all the company I wanted was Ed Sheeran and Lil' Wayne.
Of course I couldn't say no - not with Butters' mom washing sheets somewhere in the house, Butter's sister smiling sweetly at me, and Butters' dad cracking jokes like he was representing USA at the Dad Olympics.
They're such good people! They were friends in high school! They had a baby in order to have a washing machine during their mission term in Egypt! The most foul language they use is 'buns'! They use the Bible as a instructional tool!
You've never had people over at the apartment!
Butters has shared peanut M&Ms with you.
And so I scuttled off to clean my clothes, the apartment, and myself. And then I watched two episodes of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. because the other tasks weren't that hard and the reality is that I am a world-class whiner with a distressing tendency to smile (even without a 'happy pill' - Butters' mom's theory for my good humour).
For example, when I'm talked through a possible scratch on my eye rather than panicking and taking antibiotics for an infection. When I learn that Monday is a statutory holiday. When I'm asked by a youth to translate Hindi... All of these allow me to cope with concurrent setbacks. The joy only increases when, expecting anything from a Swahili word to one of Tagore's poems, I hear “Kuchi kuchi hota hai!”
The kid also wanted Korean citizenship so, after squeaking this a few times to make sure I'd heard him right, I gently broke it to him that their immigration laws are quite strict. He wanted to go because it was a very Christian country; I womanfully refrained from telling him that his was too. And Korea also contained soju, makeolli, noraebangs, and a drinking culture. And that it was important that individual people lived in a Christ-like manner instead of looking for countries where it seemed easier to be 'good.' But maybe if he met up with that student who'd really loved black people...
This is family, right? Being proud of where you're going, but also of where you've come from. Trying to burst one bubble at a time, gently, while pointing out rainbow reflections on others. Connecting people who have been raised differently, who see differently, who do differently. Sitting at a table for ten and sharing ice cream and a watermelon that had already served as an appetizer for Bunnicula (if you have never read this book, your childhood was as colourless as our watermelon). Butters admitting he may have allergies and taking honey as a home remedy. Me being close to saying Love you! at the end of conversations, texts, or goodbyes out of absent-minded affection (mainly with Carrottop, Grandma, and Butters – I guess I have a soft spot for moms and little brothers).
Family isn't a choice; loving is. It is accepting that some people are broadminded enough to think that pineapple on bread is called a pizza instead of a violation of the Geneva Conventions. It is inhaling the dark decadence of ground coffee in the garbage can and accepting “It was 6 months old!” as a valid explanation instead of the stupidity it appears to be - coming from someone who intentionally bacterially colonizes tea to such an extent that it has become sentient, escaped its glass prison, and made it a quarter of the way to the door. It is finding family resemblances, whether you look like Captain America or a distressed shih tzu.
It is looking at the people that God has placed in your life and realising that He has made them – and you – perfectly for this time, this place that you are to share. It is admitting you have made mistakes, but knowing you've tried. It is being hurt but loving hard anyway. It is extending your table, because we all need to eat - with those who would betray us, deny us, doubt us, and love to the end.
This is everything.
This is my life.
I realise that I look old for my age and that I should not have 5-star standards. However, if he is shorter than me and in possession of more than one chin and more grey hair than black, the only thing he has that I want is confidence.
BFG asked why I hadn't gotten married in the month he and his wife had been away. I could choose, he said, between having babies and getting married - but I had to get on it right away.
I happily surveyed my (very) extended family from behind a mound of store-bought Indian food and and reflected that it was a good thing all these people had clearance to joke about my life; it would be a waste to have to upend my plate over his head.
This is my very small universe.
I admit that I am mainly anti-social (because people require an extraordinary amount of energy to do them justice, and I'm too anemic and cynical to love like I want to), but it was a joy to have some of our international missions family together at our house. That Saturday morning had started out vile: I thought I had another eye infection, and instead of getting to sleep in like he'd wanted, Butters had been woken early by Captain, who wanted us to drop by and pick up our monthly stipend. I lay in bed with my left eye both burning and watering, listened to Butters' drawled Americanisms through my door, and blearily tried to decide whether to make this difficult for him or really difficult for him.
“No.”
He was unimpressed.
And I was not about to start my morning even earlier than already planned – I had people to meet, a slow broil in a crowded bus to enjoy, patients to pray over, laundry to do, and an eye to curse through it all.
So he had to refuse on my behalf. As confrontations seem to make him want to curl up into a ball and die, I think this was a good learning experience for him. Organizing things for this family trip and ordering people around while trying to make sure each point of view was listened to and cared for was also taking its toll on a personality more used to accepting and shrugging, but he's handled it well. Thus, he picked up my stipend and receipt for me, I refused to sign it, and we parted ways again in state of mutual incomprehension.
I then hurried to arrive at church on time for our monthly hospital visit. After waiting half an hour for the leader to not arrive, I became part of a makeshift group that was in transit for forty-five minutes to reach the next commune of this city, where we discovered we had neither the sugar and soap that we usually give to the patients (apparently a woman had said she'd give them to me – I had no idea this woman was involved in this ministry, rarely see her, and had debated not coming that morning, so this was all news to me), nor the means immediately available to buy more. Eventually, we bought the items, made our way to the hospital, and prayed - which took a total of ten minutes at most. On the sweltering bus ride home, I gave thanks that neither Timbit nor Butters and his family had decided to join me for that excursion. I visited Captain's house to discuss my stipend, didn't find him, was accosted by Butters, and valiantly fought a gate and a door to get to his side (the worst thing about him is that he opens things like a man – it'd be nice if he at least pretended to struggle)... only to have him politely ask if he could have his family and Grandma and Grandpa and Carrottop and BFG over at the apartment for a takeout Indian dinner.
I wilted inwardly.
Not because I dislike any of these people or Indian food. But I'd just had a very long morning, I still had laundry to do, the house was a mess of dishes, hair, and pesto sauce, and all the company I wanted was Ed Sheeran and Lil' Wayne.
Of course I couldn't say no - not with Butters' mom washing sheets somewhere in the house, Butter's sister smiling sweetly at me, and Butters' dad cracking jokes like he was representing USA at the Dad Olympics.
They're such good people! They were friends in high school! They had a baby in order to have a washing machine during their mission term in Egypt! The most foul language they use is 'buns'! They use the Bible as a instructional tool!
You've never had people over at the apartment!
Butters has shared peanut M&Ms with you.
And so I scuttled off to clean my clothes, the apartment, and myself. And then I watched two episodes of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. because the other tasks weren't that hard and the reality is that I am a world-class whiner with a distressing tendency to smile (even without a 'happy pill' - Butters' mom's theory for my good humour).
For example, when I'm talked through a possible scratch on my eye rather than panicking and taking antibiotics for an infection. When I learn that Monday is a statutory holiday. When I'm asked by a youth to translate Hindi... All of these allow me to cope with concurrent setbacks. The joy only increases when, expecting anything from a Swahili word to one of Tagore's poems, I hear “Kuchi kuchi hota hai!”
The kid also wanted Korean citizenship so, after squeaking this a few times to make sure I'd heard him right, I gently broke it to him that their immigration laws are quite strict. He wanted to go because it was a very Christian country; I womanfully refrained from telling him that his was too. And Korea also contained soju, makeolli, noraebangs, and a drinking culture. And that it was important that individual people lived in a Christ-like manner instead of looking for countries where it seemed easier to be 'good.' But maybe if he met up with that student who'd really loved black people...
This is family, right? Being proud of where you're going, but also of where you've come from. Trying to burst one bubble at a time, gently, while pointing out rainbow reflections on others. Connecting people who have been raised differently, who see differently, who do differently. Sitting at a table for ten and sharing ice cream and a watermelon that had already served as an appetizer for Bunnicula (if you have never read this book, your childhood was as colourless as our watermelon). Butters admitting he may have allergies and taking honey as a home remedy. Me being close to saying Love you! at the end of conversations, texts, or goodbyes out of absent-minded affection (mainly with Carrottop, Grandma, and Butters – I guess I have a soft spot for moms and little brothers).
Family isn't a choice; loving is. It is accepting that some people are broadminded enough to think that pineapple on bread is called a pizza instead of a violation of the Geneva Conventions. It is inhaling the dark decadence of ground coffee in the garbage can and accepting “It was 6 months old!” as a valid explanation instead of the stupidity it appears to be - coming from someone who intentionally bacterially colonizes tea to such an extent that it has become sentient, escaped its glass prison, and made it a quarter of the way to the door. It is finding family resemblances, whether you look like Captain America or a distressed shih tzu.
It is looking at the people that God has placed in your life and realising that He has made them – and you – perfectly for this time, this place that you are to share. It is admitting you have made mistakes, but knowing you've tried. It is being hurt but loving hard anyway. It is extending your table, because we all need to eat - with those who would betray us, deny us, doubt us, and love to the end.
This is everything.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!