Black Milk Tea

Lying in my hammock reading Kate Braestrup's Here if You Need Me, I glance up at the clotheslined pictures hanging between the windows. Illumined by my head lamp I see the outlined features of people and places I love...at home. A fact pops into my mind: I'm not there. And you know what? That's okay. I chose to be here and I am choosing still to be here; present. Life is different. Much different, but that doesn't mean it's not a good life. Stating this is a fact spoken from choice. God's will, my choice.

Earlier today I had an "American day." The children had been busy all morning doing their chores then eating lunch and napping. I spoke with Lisa and my family which was SO good! After nap time  I wandered outside to embrace my Bangladeshi day. As I weaved my way through the courtyard filled with kids I was asked several times, "Can we play the banana game tonight?" I brought Bananagrams with me and taught the older girls the night before how to play. Apparently word had spread about this new phenomenon.

Reaching the kitchen I found Shathi, our cook, making chapatis for my table-for-one dinner since the Waid's had gone to Dhaka this morning and wouldn't be back until Thursday. I told Shathi not to worry about me, because I would happily eat with the children, but she insisted I eat some chapatis which then turned into potatoes, honey, Nutella, an apple, and finally a piece of homemade cake. Oh my! You really can't talk Shathi out of cooking no matter how hard you try.

Finishing my suppose-to-be "snack", Shathi asked if I would like some tea she was making for herself. I eagerly consented that I would love some (I've discovered anything Shathi makes is good) as long as she agreed to sit down and drink it with me. She agreed, but said we should go outside and sit. Following her around the back of the kitchen area we sat on a table made of planks and looked out over the fields of rice stretching to the horizon. This was her place. We talked about the beauty of the scenery, our families, and finally she expressed this, "Kenzie, you are like a daughter or sister to me." I sat in shocked silence counting the days in my head that I had been in the country. The number was 10. Ten days I had been in this country and had had only a few conversations with Shathi outside of her cooking area.

Shyly I asked, "Does everyone in this country think this way about people who simply just enter their lives?"

"Yes," she replied, "people are so important."

God bless a culture who lives by this statement! My mind was blown sitting there on a few planks facing a rice field talking to a woman beautifully marked by years of wisdom that shone through in her words. When you are speaking with someone whose first language isn't yours, you pick your words out with care. Smiling at her I said, "I like that a lot."