Even my shy little daughter played and laughed with the girl next door. (That was a first, by the way.) We felt a sense of belonging in what we did tonight—eating Khmer food, speaking the Khmer language, and playing with our Khmer neighbors.
It was what I call a “good culture day.”
A day like today gives me the courage to go back out and try again. It gives me the courage to interact with the people—unwanted touches included.
God, give us more good culture days.
A Good Day
by Elizabeth
I had a good day today. Yes, it’s true. I had a good day yesterday too. And not just “good for Cambodia,” but honest to goodness, downright good.
The November before I moved here, I climbed a twenty-foot pole. And jumped off it. (I know you’re all asking yourselves if this is the same nonathletic Elizabeth Hunzinger you thought you knew.) I climbed it with no fear. But when I got to the top, I froze. The transition from crouching at the top of the pole to standing on the top of the pole was incredibly frightening. It’s the shortest part, about one second of motion, but it’s the most difficult. And I needed Jonathan to coach me through it. Once I was standing, I felt fine again.
It’s the same in labor. Transition, that part of labor just before full dilation, is the shortest part. It’s also the most intense and the place where a mom doubts herself. She needs help to get through it. (Jonathan claims that since he did this for me four times, I owe him four doula fees).
In training we learned about the “Chaos Bridge,” which is an analogy for transition. We start out settled and stable, move into a period of unsettlement with all its farewells, and then into the bouncy bubbly transition. We start to come out of it while resettling, and then finally reach a new settled state.
When I was neck-deep in missionary transition, friends on both continents supported me with prayers and encouragement. I couldn’t have made it through without their doula-ing, as all my birthie friends would say.
Transition. The most terrible part. The shortest part. Now I know with certainty that it doesn’t last forever. And I can assure the next person I see experiencing transition that it does indeed end. It’s painful, but it won’t last long. Not much longer now. I promise.
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“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me”
(Ps 23:4 ESV).
C’est la Vie
by Elizabeth
Sometimes life surprises me. Like that time when Jonathan was sick with typhoid fever, and I was in the school room, and suddenly the light bulb burst into flame. Literal two-inch orange flames.
That never happened to me in America.
Or that time when Jonathan was recovering from middle and outer ear infections, and he went up to our beloved roof, with its three square meters of peace and tranquility (and several potted plants), only to discover that someone had painted those pots. And the rocks in the pots. And even the plants themselves.
That never happened to me in America either.
Don’t get me wrong—plenty of surprising things did happen to me in America. Like the time a Canadian goose blew itself up when its wings touched two nearby power lines in our yard. Or the time a different Canadian goose attacked my leg while a dog the size of a pony jumped on my back. (That was in my neighbor’s yard, by the way.)
But back to surprises in Cambodia.
Our boys wailed about our painted plants. I was at the end of myself. That week I had dealt with more sickness in the family and fought off more discouragement than is usual for me, and now, my roof, my precious stronghold of sanity, had been vandalized.
But with Otto Koning’s Pineapple Story at the front of my mind, we set out to solve the mystery of who, and more importantly, why.22 Next door to us is an orphanage, and there is an old man who lives there. All day long he lounges on a hammock on the roof, watching television and smoking cigarettes. Occasionally he does some odd jobs around the place.
The neighbor children told us that this man painted our pots and plants and rocks, but none of them seemed to know why. The adults were a bit more helpful, laughing embarrassedly at our questions. This man is apparently bored and likes to make things look nicer. While we were at the seaside with my parents, he took the opportunity to improve our rooftop view.
I thought it would be common courtesy to ask before forcing home improvement projects on someone else. But it wasn’t very long until I could see the humor. “My neighbor painted my plants,” I’ll say. And when you ask me why my neighbor painted my plants, I’ll say, “Oh, because he thought it would look better.” You might ask if it did look any better, and I’ll say, “No, not at all.”
The neighbors asked us if we wanted him to paint them again, perhaps all one color? (He originally painted them yellow and white.) We said yes, white is best. (Actually, unpainted is best, but. . . .) And I did have some hope that our pots would get better when we saw him outside this week, painting three tables white.
We played badminton and frisbee on our roof today. And those pots, they were one color, all right. They were one hundred percent yellow. (Surprise! A darker shade of yellow.) But we enjoyed our roof just as much as we did before our neighbor painted our plants.
22. Otto Koning was a missionary who planted pineapples in his yard. They took three years to grow, but before he could eat any of them, the nationals stole them all. This happened several times, and he was always angry about it. Only when he gave up his “right” to eat those pineapples to God could he stop being angry. The nationals noticed his change in behavior, and he started to have success in ministry.
When Friends Do the Next Right Thing
by Elizabeth
What do we do when the people we love do the next right thing? What if that next right thing leads them away from us?
When we say yes to God, we must often say no to the places we already know. And when God leads us overseas, we enter a communal life that is punctuated by goodbyes. Just like an airport, the missionary community endures constant arrivals and departures. But God is the travel agent here, and he hardly ever places anyone on the same itinerary. Perhaps we knew this uncomfortable truth before we said yes; perhaps we didn’t. Either way, though, we must now live with the consequences of our obedience.
And I, for one, sometimes grow weary of it.
These expatriate friendships of ours tend to grow swift and deep, and ripping ourselves away from those friendships is painful. This summer, I have to say goodbye to two friends whom I love and respect and will miss terribly. And I am still somewhat in denial.
I have never had any doubts that they are following God where he leads them next. They are doing the next right thing. Even in the leaving, they are doing the next right thing. They are honoring their friendships and saying their goodbyes thoughtfully and tenderly. They are setting up ministry for the workers who will follow them. They have listened to God, and they are doing what he says. But they will leave a gaping hole in my heart and in this city, and they can never be replaced.
What am I supposed to do when my friends do the next right thing?
I actually don’t know what I’m supposed to do. But I know what I do do: I grieve, because when a member of the international community leaves, all hearts bleed. The hearts of the leaving, and hearts of the staying. There is just no stopping that.
So I grieve