The wrapping on the toilet paper roll made me think of
it. There were little green falling
leaves pictured on the wrapper. I
remembered that in some countries they don’t have the roll, just the leaves. It gives you pause to think of it. I have a friend who has been a missionary
across The Pond for over 40 years. He
has taught the people of the village how to dig fish ponds to raise their
food. He has helped in the work of
education in their seminary. He told me
tales of women walking for miles to attend Mass with babies on their
backs. As the hot sun beat down on the
babies, they do what babies do … and there are no such luxuries as disposable
diapers/nappies there. So the spot on
mama’s back grows wet, hot, sticky as she gets to church. And they sing and dance and pray for
hours. Then she gets to walk back home. No cry room for a fussy toddler. No Buick to hop in and try to race the fellow
congregants out of the parking lot before the last blessing is given. It’s just a different world.
He came to visit me here in the States once during the
summer. I remember a few things about
that visit 25+ years ago, but relative to this writing I will tell you about
our trip to the Mall. My city tried to
build a bigger Mall to rival the Mall of the Americas in the Midwest. At the time of his visit, ground had not been
broken yet. I thought maybe he’d like to
see the different kinds of stores we have.
He was unimpressed. What he DID
comment on was the child in the shoe store who was having a good old-fashioned “fit”
and saying to his mother: “but I don’t like them!” My friend couldn’t refrain from commenting on
how disrespectful American children are, even ungrateful. It was a sweeping generalization that left me
with a bad taste in my mouth because not all of our children are this way. The adults, perhaps that’s another story
entirely.
He wanted me to come teach theology in their seminary. I was just ending the Arizona chapter of my
life and beginning my Central New York story and couldn’t quite wrap my brain
around the idea of leaving so soon.
Perhaps I should have. Then I
found out that African seminary was not serious young college students, but
rather, junior high age boys and the level of my interest dropped. It’s a long way to travel just to teach grade
school. Then there were other
considerations.
I couldn’t imagine living away from my American
comforts. Well, mostly it was about the
dog, I think. Now I have three dogs and
am fairly anchored without question to this continent. I like electricity. I like flush toilets that are indoors. I like hopping in my car and going shopping
or sight-seeing or to the state park.
There’s a line in a popular movie where the man says to the woman: “You had me at 'Hello.'” In my case, as I
learned more about the African village – the weather, the adorable guinea pigs
that live in the bush outside my friend’s window, the agricultural area, the
warmth of the peoples, I felt drawn to go there. And then he said the game-changer. And my response: “You lost me at 'cobra in the chicken coop today'.”
So I like my creature comforts. I have grown accustomed to my freedom and
responsibilities. My wardrobe is not
fancy but it is fairly comfortable, as is my house. But I do, thoughtlessly, what so many other
Americans do: I complain. In fact, I may actually have a college degree
in complaining because I am so good at it.
I can make being displeased come out like an entertaining story. My colleague and I were talking about our
tendency as humans to be judgmental. I
can be judgmental and make my listeners walk away with the impression that I am
of refined taste and very wise. I’m that good at being that bad
(uncharitable). I am also easily depressed. I am not going to confession publicly here;
I’m just stating some mental habits in which I detect I may not be alone. And I know I need to change.
When I met her I did not know that one statement from her would
change my kaleidoscope of life so much.
She is an elderly immigrant from an Eastern bloc country. Her eyes twinkle when she talks. She always seems joyful to me. She barely speaks English and I did some
grocery shopping for her. One day she
had that tired-look and I asked her how she was feeling. Answer:
“Not so good. My heart. But, you know, tick, tick, tick for 90 years
and it gets tired.” She held up her
wrist to show me the bracelet with the nitroglycerine vial on it. I didn’t know people still used nitro. Hmm.
Then she added: “My husband, he
die. He had a ‘bad heart’ too. We were both in the camps many years ago.”
There are times when you have to keep your
own eyeballs from popping out of your head.
There are even times when me, the person who mass-produces words
effortlessly, can’t find one single appropriate thing to say. Here was the moment. What do you say to someone who endured a
concentration camp and yet had such a joyful demeanor now how many years later? I think I would be: Bitter, angry, mentally disfigured by my
mistrustful and displeased nature, and even angry at life itself. And, yeah, I call myself a Christian, so
there are a bunch of mental expectations I have of myself – and even others
have of me – just because of that belief system. Most likely I would disappoint all of us. It
leaves me asking myself if maybe, just possibly, I should count my blessings
instead of aggravations?
I am thankful that she felt comfortable enough to slip that into
our conversation because I think she may have saved me.
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