In the small things...

****DISCLAIMER***
The main purpose of my blog is to communicate with whatever poor sap accidentally stumbles upon it (my apologies in advance). One function of this blog is to let people back home know what's going on with me, specifically about exciting news and positive themes and encouragment concerning the work here in Cambodia. Other posts will not be so cheery. I fully intend to write down some of the bad stuff too, for it is both the bad and the good that constitute our short lives in this fallen world. Out of the bad comes Hope. In desperation Redemption comes. That is the message I've brought with me from home; why should it be any different here? If you are one of my supporters I want you to know you are supporting a real human being who has bad days sometimes, but I'm here and I'm more convinced than ever this is where I'm supposed to be right now. I'm not going anywhere, and in the mean time you get to read ALLLLL about it! :0)

I've spent the past few days pining away in my own bubble of cultural depresssion. I miss home. I miss good food. I miss my gym. My body has been attacked by Southeast Asia and it's fighting back, albeit a losing battle. The memories of my family are being relegated to further and further back in the ole brain, and this time around there won't be any going home in a month or two for a refresher. A group of 18 that three weeks ago were relative strangers have now become my only friends, coworkers, and classmates. I've come to love many of them and value their friendship; they are a refuge of community and like-mindedness in an onslaught of crazy. There exists little doubt I'll continue to stay in touch with many of them in the years ahead and will see them on the other side of Glory, yet two weeks from now has a sad goodbye in store as some go on to Laos and other parts of Vietnam while my three team mates and I go on to Cambodia.

I've been shocked how small things are what make me miss home most, and how the small things are fueling culture shock. Today a random smell (and there are plenty here) reminded me of my parents' living room, the mental image of which brought a hundred sights, sounds, and memories to mind. It could be a play of light on the sidewalk, or the sound of traffic that reminds me of Mobile. A young child playing with a toy car might remind me of my godson Bailey, or the laughter of someone on the street might pass for my brother's laugh.


It's almost impossible to handle crazy without wanting to share it with your friends. ("Crazy" is my new noun for the week, and yes I know it's not really a noun.) If you're having trouble with this vicariously, imagine you're driving by a corn field, see aliens land, stop, meet them, they look cross-eyed at you and leave. What's your first inclination??? You want to tell people, of course! I'm not yet sure if I believe in aliens, but Vietnamese people are coming close enough lately. And when they throw crazy at me all I want to do is tell someone back home. It's usually Craig, sometimes Kristen, although I tend to want to spare her somewhat as she'll be experiencing all of this for the first time soon enough. (Love you babe!)Unfortunately I can't tell anyone except through this blog.... GET ON SKYPE, CRAIG!

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, it's the little things that make the difference in life. My dad always told me that if you paid attention to the little things that you'd get the big things right. Great inductive advice from a guy who is great at the small things, that's for sure. Or is it deductive? I can't remember which one, anyway... It was a little thing that brought me out of my stupor of culture shock this evening and put me back on track, returned to me the perspective and focus I so desperately needed. And you probably thought this was going to end negatively, didn't you? Maybe next time...



It all started when Ben and Andrea, whose blog is linked to the right here, suggested we go out tonight for Chinese dumplings. I'm a fool for Chinese dumplings and didn't have to think about my answer. As is typical with the group of teachers here, our small trio turned into a sextuplet which snowballed into the 8 or 9ish range... We piled on a crowded bus and headed for a tried-and-true Chinese dumpling street restaurant. Once there we realized the menu was all in Vietnamese and Chinese - strike one and two. My phrase book didn't provide much assistance. Frustrations built. To stall for time we ordered drinks (coke translates well in most cultures). I frantically tried to translate the menu to make sure we got pork dumplings instead of squid and rice....



That's when it happened... Andrea asked for a coke and an ice water, so I quickly spat out the order at the lady with too much forcefulness and very incorrect intonation. The waitress looked at me with just the right amount of annoyance to say, "You don't have to be a jerk." Suddenly, despite the absence of words, I saw the light through that well-deserved disdain. Here we were - a group of five dumb, illiterate Americans demanding drinks and hopelessly and quite erroneously making blind jabs at this young lady's national language. It's not her fault we can't speak her language in her city (even if it full of crazy). She can't help it if we don't know the difference between dumpling and toilet paper in Vietnamese. And she certainly hasn't done anything to warrant impolite customers.




Oh, if I could only tell you what good that proverbial slap-in-the-face did for me in that moment. As I wallowed in my abject shame, our friend and classmate Steven came up just in the nick of time. He and his wife Joelle have been here for 6 months studying language, and he was able to help us order our food. Plate after plate of, in my opinion, the best food in Asia came pouring out from this little street kitchen. There's something perfectly inviting and comforting about Chinese dumplings. It's the same quality shared by macaroni or spaghetti or french fries... I suppose it must be the simplicity of these meals that makes them so appealing, their very nature reassuring us that everything will be ok, just take one more bite. Even the utensils - essentially, two dowel rods - are the epitome of simple function - no bells and whistles. It's the little things...


I'm sure I sound ridiculous, but who cares? Who knew that something as basic as steamed dough and meat could do so much for this ethnocentric American guy, wallowing in his self pity? Dumplings taught me a lesson today about the small things. They often matter most. I'm thinking the tongue here, mustard seed maybe, or heck even ordering a coke in Vietnamese. The small things constitute life, and now, thanks to a little dumpling, I'm ready to get on with mine again.