A kid and a king

"And then, and then Stand, and then we have to drop the bombs on them before they shoot us.  And, can I tell you something, Stand, we have green core energy."

 

Sixty feet below us rests a pool.  The drop is sheer.  The valley's dehydrated walls are bare.  Slabs of compacted dirt clutch the cliff face, waiting in the sun, waiting for gravity to take notice.  Some trees grow here, though I don't know where they find water.  It's all down there, in that pool.  Up ahead the trail keeps following the rim of the gorge.  Mountains rise along it's left, flanking the path between steep inclines.  It is picturesque.

 

"Hold your fire men.  Roger, Roger.  Ok and, and FIRE!"

 

Two rock-hard dirt clods fall from on high.  One shatters against the ground, reduced to a cloud of dust -- a staccato death.  The other makes the pool.  Mine didn't make the pool.

 

"Stand, can I tell you something, Stand, and then we have to get back to base."

 

I am Stand.  He is Collin Stern.  Faint freckles, a spontaneous mess of hair.  This kid is 100 percent six years old.  He is the playwright of his life -- in total control of every bullet wound, castle storming and alien attack.  Total control of everything, everything except reality.  He is also the youngest.  Collin knows of life's injustice.

 

I can relate.  I am not in control here.  And I like escaping too: in books and, today, a hike with my biggest fan.

 

More Culture

About once a week it happens.  Some unremarkable stretch of pavement gets the royal treatment.  A red carpet unrolls, masking the ubiquitous Yangqu dust.  A red canopy rises.  This is capped by a banner -- red cloth, white lettering, bold font.  And then there are the girls.  About 16 of them form two sides of a tunnel; all wear traditional dresses that are, you guessed it, red.  Each rank is armed with cymbals, which they use.  All day, in fact.  The cadences are often unoriginal, but attention grabbing, and thus effective.  If this weren't enough, it gets better.  Nothing in China is done without fireworks.  The musicians retreat, and the street is enveloped in a gunpowder rant that would make even Crazy Kaplan take cover.  This frenzied eruption lasts a quarter of an hour.  Then back to our cymbal serenade from 16 girls, who by now are quite deaf.

 

Why this exhibition?  Advertising.  It's often some grand opening or anniversary.

 

I went by one the other day (and beat them in who-wants-to-be-the-most-exciting-spectacle).  Up close, I noticed something missing: smiles.  These girls were bored.  All this pageantry, all this gaiety; all pretend.  I certainly don't blame them -- I'd be bored too.  But it made me think: do we sometimes do this as Christians?  We put on our costumes, set off our particular brand of fireworks, clang on cue, and we're even clever enough to fake a smile.  But we're not really celebrating, we're advertising.  It's just cosmetic joy.
 

Thawing at last

I'm used to South Bend springs.  The calendar is spangled with dazzling warmth surrounded by depression.  In one day the perma-cloud lifts and the sun ignites, leaving no choice but to cast off homework and outer layers and play.  This is followed by more stretches of gloom interspersed with joy.  And eventually, spring wins.

 

Here, we recover from winter like recovering from a wound.  Slow, steady.  Unnoticed.  You don't consciously acknowledge the new season, you just gradually forget about the old.

 

One of my friends here is an Aussie.  They don't even have winter.

 

Acclimation

"Welcome to China, here is your bike."  Mike Stern handed it over and grinned.  I love that grin -- full of loving sarcasm.  Mike is Evergreen's language coordinator, and my life coordinator.  He's also my library, soup kitchen, guide, guru, personal trainer and mom.  "Time for the grand tour, you ready?"  This was my first day in China, of course I was ready.  We set off.  "Over there's a good restaurant... and that's the, whatcha-call-it, market... and here's where you'll get your fruit, and..." My head was spinning faster than the wheels.  It was a phantasmagoria of red flags, vendors, vans, dust, ads, vegetables, fireworks and people.  Hello China.

 

Now, a month in, we're acquainted, me and China.  I pass the familiar and it doesn't even register.  Still, there are plenty of  mysteries; take for instance the men on main street.  Nearly 60 of them sit for hours, listless, lining the park-front curb.  They're wearing five layers of cloths, maybe even six.  Some are talking, some are staring, some are spitting, most are smoking.  And then some are stooped in a tight circle ringed with onlookers.  These are the energetic ones, and these are the mystery.  Is there a snake?  A fight?  Or maybe it's Chinese chess (my competitive side starts salivating).  One day I venture closer and see dice and money -- it's gambling.  Later I find out the men are waiting to get picked up for work.  And that's what they do: make money and then gamble.

 

This is actually a huge problem.  Not all men hazard their income on lucky dice, but many play even longer odds with their careers.  They start businesses intent on actualizing the Chinese dream.  They want to get rich, and fast.  What happens, though, is this forces their wives to take steady, low-paying jobs, while they skip from one failing scheme to the next.  Haste makes waste.  And that's what's happening.

 

Life goal... check.

Les Miserables is this mammoth beauty that's been on the back burner my whole life.  Every few years it taps my shoulder, I turn, then cower, then retreat.  But I couldn't resist forever.  Like a sand castle ignoring the ocean, I was eventually sucked in.

 

This week I finished it.

 

And sorry Lord of the Rings, but I might have a new favorite book.  Every page is epic, profound, and sublime.  Well, almost every page... he likes to digress at times.

 

Don't worry, I won't spoil anything -- not that you could.  Even if you've memorized the musical, it doesn't ruin it.  And this is coming from someone appalled by spoilers.  It's as different from the musical as reading a blog about China is from being there.

 

You should read it.

Acceleration

You know that feeling at the start of a roller-coaster?  The sick twinges of  anticipation and then -- BAM! -- you've left your life 10 meters behind you.  You forget to breathe, while the world reels in fury.  Well, that's how I feel.  I'm back in South Bend.  Or rather, the part of me that counts.  Here there is just motion blur, and I'm stuck wondering if I'll find myself when I return.  Maybe the me that's missing will discover its wings and then break free forever.

 

And then I remember who I serve.  That He has placed me here with wise purpose.  That He knows my needs better than me, and is faithful, powerful, gracious, and loving.  That He has given me a charge.  So I'll get my head and heart in the game, and thank God that the Bible kicks hard.
 

Tunes

I have a guitar.  It's not mine, but they're letting me borrow it.  And it sounds good too... I guess... you should ask my neighbors to get an unbiased opinion.  Well at least I for one am enjoying it.  I don't think I could survive without it.  When stress starts collecting in all the hidden depths, it's a sure way to flush it out.  Words articulate my mind, music articulates my gut.

 

So here I am, singing away my frustrations and fears; longing; thanking; praising; baring my naked soul to God.  And then I realize something.  I can hear every word from the street below.  Every word.  I forgot that cities aren't exactly private.  And then I realize something else.  Every word is in Chinese.  Good thing I'm broadcasting in English, eh?  (Hopefully by the end I'll be spouting some Mandarin too.)

 

I'm not just playing in my room.  My guitar has made several guest appearances at the schools, and the foreign fellowship, and this, and that.  What I'm really excited about is giving guitar lessons.   The music here is... not good.  But for a good reason.  I forgot how luxuriously we live in America, and how expensive instruments are.  China may groom an elite set of musicians, but the average guy is a different squirrel.  This is generalizing, I know, but I think it's true.  Anyways, I'm giving mass lessons to about 10 beginners and doing one-on-one with a few.  Fun stuff.

Happy Easter!