My eight year old came home from school one day with a surprise in his backpack. The first words out of his mouth were, “Mom! Hey! I saved you some sushi!”
Immediately I began brainstorming excuses for not eating sushi out of his backpack. He had brought home leftover school lunch hamburgers in the past and they were always in terrible shape upon recovery. Even his best intentions (“school burgers are soo good, Mom. But I ran out of time to eat, so I had to wrap it up and save it for later.”) couldn’t swallow a cold, flattened hamburger.
I assumed this sushi was from lunch and Jubal was thinking this is terrible! Followed by but my mom likes weird food. Concluded with I’ll take it home to her! She’ll be so jazzed!
Fortunately I was wrong.
He unzipped his backpack and removed two origami tops and a small, rice-filled dumpling wrapped in a paper towel.
“It’s not from lunch,” he explained. “Ethan’s grandma is heading back to Japan tomorrow, so she came to our class to teach us some origami and share treats.”
We sat on the floor and began spinning the intricate paper tops.
“Wow, you made this one?!” I asked, incredulous.
“Yeah,” he said, “she gave each of us one and then taught us how to make our own.”
“Did she speak any English?”
“No, but Ethan does, so he translated. And Ms. P–she speaks a little, too. You know, she’s from there, too–Japan.” he said.
“That’s amazing! How cool! I wish I could’ve been there for it,” I said, wistful, and I meant it.
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Growing up and living in the white, rural midwest, my folks took the initiative to introduce me and my brothers to all sorts of people. There were Chinese students at the local university that butchered my name, Pearl. As a six year old, I indeed took offense. I feel I still owe an apology to all Mandarin speakers–L’s and R’s are no easy feat (and my name has both letters back to back).
My mom babysat for a Japanese couple when I was very young. They were precious and kind, and tried so very hard to assimilate to the American culture. I still remember visiting them at their apartment and feeling rather opposed to them putting ice cube in my glass of milk.
(Was I hard to get along with as a child? Jury is out.)
On Sundays, we rode in the station wagon to the independent living home for church. All of the residents had one disability or another, but the living situation seemed to be a step above nursing home, since they had their own rooms with locks. I watched my parents knock on doors, collect people and gather them into the general meeting room, the one with a piano and a couch.
I remember it smelling horrible. I remember not understanding a word Tom, a man with palsy, said. Was he mentally impaired, or was it just physically impossible for him to communicate? My parents seemed to understand him completely, adjusting the straws in his cup, asking him about his week. It didn’t phase them, and it didn’t matter his intellectual capacity. I saw, even as a child, that this man was important to them. Serving him, visiting him, and having church a wheelchair’s roll away from his apartment was holy.
My parents were oddballs, and contented ones at that. They’ve never lived in excess, and in fact regularly condemn worldly pleasures, save for bluegrass music and warm pie out of the oven. Our humble home was always under construction (due to a quirky, distractible carpenter dad) and cluttered with books, instruments, projects, kids. My sensible, quiet mother spent hours in the kitchen (still does!) perfecting the art of a home cooked meal. She won our adoration and loyalty from infancy. Food and time–it was love because there wasn’t much more.
Beyond the homefront they lived unashamed of their homeliness. They were interested in people that were unique and different, both socially and culturally. They didn’t seek out like-minded friends who helped them feel better about themselves. They cared about the marginalized. They were intrigued by differences. They didn’t give two cents about social norms or standards.
I’ve always been fascinated by this, even as a kid. My parents treated people with respect, but they were especially warm and kind to strangers, outsiders, the elderly and disabled. This made comfortable onlookers uncomfortable in the best way.
Now I recognize it. My folks didn’t buy the American dream tale about ladders and success. They rejected it, it was garbage.
People. The poor, the disadvantaged, the ignored, the foreigner. My folks weren’t climbing a ladder, they were lowering a rope. They knew the value of a soul to its Creator. People are priceless.
Plain and simple, it’s the love of Jesus. It’s the fruit that hangs off branches of a life hidden in Christ. It is serving others while seeing Jesus as the recipient. As a child, it pulled me in, curious and hungry. I saw early on the futility of social status. It seemed small and petty. My parents were imperfect; they stumbled–they will tell you this. But they regularly confessed that God can straighten out even the biggest mess we can find ourselves in, and it became their life song.
They sang it to the tune of Jesus’s example as He washed his disciples feet. “As I have loved you, you ought to love one another.”
I bore witness to this inexplicable beauty in service, the holiness in pouring out.
But mostly I developed an eye for the stranger.
As the saying goes, it takes one to know one.
