quick to listen, slow to speak

Yesterday was defined by dichotomous tasks: talking in the morning and listening in the afternoon. The talking was nothing memorable. I introduced myself and went through the course syllabus and expectations. I never get bored with the variable of students, though; every class has its own fingerprint. But, in general, the first day is relatively smooth and well-rehearsed. Yesterday afternoon, however, I traded in my fatigued voice for a more passive role in unexpected conversations, abiding by the admonition of being, “quick to listen and slow to speak.”

The first came when I was forwarded a message received by my team-mates. It was written by the angry elf and sent to almost everyone in the English department, including the dean, the associate dean, and several others of sizable influence. Because I teach non-English majors, I was not included in the list of recipients. The email was brief but rife with anger. In it, he observed that the curriculum videos he had requested to be put on the school's English language website were not only listed in Chinese but were available for download with Chinese subtitles. While his frustration is understandable, his response is not. He actually referred to what had been done as, “plain stupid,” and ended the rant with a demand in all-caps to take the videos down. I can't imagine that things will end well for him, here – not after publicly insulting the very people responsible for hiring him.

Yikes.

Round two came several hours later while I was walking up a hill to meet a friend. At the corner opposite my dorm, I noticed a guy whom I met in the elevator one evening. He is Asian-American and has committed to a year-long Chinese study here. He smiled and waited up for me. A few strides later, he had begun to share his feelings on the locals. “They're selfish, always trying to talk to foreigners just to practice their English. Always got ulterior motives.”

I was aghast. Even considering the opportunists that do exist here (and everywhere else), I have found Chinese friends to be some of the most loyal and sacrificial of my entire life.

I gave him my best quizzical brow. You don't have many Chinese friends here, do you?

“Nah, not many.”

Not with that perspective, you won't.

“Yeah, but I've lived here for a year and know how they think.” He paused. “How long have you been here?”

This is the beginning of my fourth year.

He sobered up and tried to backpeddle his words, but the impression had already been made. He's not the first Asian-American to be so jaded with his own ethnicity. A few minutes later, he mentioned having a friend in the area who is also an American – a female teacher – who is struggling with culture shock. She's from North Carolina. He asked if he could put her in touch with me. For her sake, I said yes. I don't like the thought of a single female feeling so alone in this city – moreover, a southerner who actually knows that one doesn't order a bowl of grits according to individual grit count. I also want her to see a more holy representation of living a transplanted life here.

The third lesson in listening was delivered to me by way of none other than StoneCold. Some weeks ago, I had taken a raincheck on his offer to go walking after a heavy meal of hamburgers. I was just too tired. I didn't forget my promise, though, and was actually on my way to meet him when I had the unexpected encounter with the Asian-American mentioned above. We made the circuit outlining the entire campus - at least a 45 minute walk past dorms, basketball courts, the library, the main building, the dining halls, the gym and then back toward my dorm. As we passed underneath branches overhanging the sidewalk, he spoke of his desire to see China step out of the shadows of dominant countries that have always led it like a muzzled ox. I didn't have to ask which country might be the foremost offensive in his mind. Instead, I reminded him that the time of world dominion by a single culture is over. "The age of an ethno-geographical empire is no more, especially with world cultures being irretrievably linked by economies and social networking. The only empire on this earth that I now know is the empire of technology. It rules and it conquers and it absorbs generations into its kingdom. It has become a deity, worshiped and proclaimed, especially by our generations. I mean, can you imagine what would happen to the students here if their cell phones and computers were taken away? It would be chaos." StoneCold lifted his face in illuminated understanding and smiled.

Whenever he does that regarding some observation I have voiced, I know that I have won another square foot of respect and favor in his life. It is the Spirit within me granting wisdom in such moments, and to have three of them in one day is worth commemorating.

(almost) singin' in the rain

As I was crossing the street the other day, I noticed a guy on the corner squinting at me and then waving his arms. It was StoneCold. I hurriedly crossed over and talked with him for several minutes. I had been hoping that we would meet up again; it had been weeks since any sighting.

I invited him to join me for dinner later that weekend at a nearby Arabian restaurant. Despite his seriousness, he's pretty intrepid when it comes to eating, so I thought he might enjoy being my company on Sunday evening. In true StoneCold investigation, he asked if it was "authentic." "Well, the guy who owns the place is from Syria," I responded. That was good enough for him, and he seemed eager to exercise his international palate.

I tried to order things that utilize ingredients commonly found in Chinese food, such as tomato, cucumber, eggplant, chicken, beef, and garlic. We had a good sampling of some dishes that he had never tasted, before, and all of them earned his approval. He was delighted with the meal and plans to take his dorm-mates back for dinner one night.

Long before we ever sat down, I had been asking for any future conversations to take a natural path toward eternal topics. I cannot develop a script in anticipation of our meetings and dinners. He would see through my attempt, and I would be at risk for losing ground with him. Instead, I continually ask for favor with him and for his mind to be steered into questioning me about what I believe. If he initiates those kinds of dialogues, I know that I am not stepping out of bounds.

Over tearing pieces of steaming hot pita, he very casually asked me, "Are you commanded to go throughout the world with your beliefs?"

Yes, [we] are. But it's not something that we are told to do without joy. It's like being cured of cancer and the doctor says, "Go out and tell others." Wouldn't you do it not only because you were asked but also because of the second chance you had been given?

He nodded and gave a simple, "hmmm." Considering his view of imperialism and forced theology, his answer - devoid of any rebuttal or inflammation - was a sweet acknowledgment to me of grace that is slowly invading his perspective. But I swallowed my joy along with my baba ghanoush and, like Mary, treasured that moment in my heart.

As we left the restaurant, I noticed that the evening sky was hovering low and dark overhead. I heard an inimitable roar above the clouds, something foreign to me these last seven months. My face erupted into a grin as I considered that "He thunders with his majestic voice." Within a few steps, the pavement was beginning to become spattered with rain. We hastened, but the heavens gave way and we were caught in a downpour. I looked over at StoneCold, walking step in step with me and shaking his head from time to time. I felt water begin to penetrate my jacket and the lightweight sweater underneath. We jumped over slight dips in the street and laughed at all the other pedestrians so luxuriously shielded by umbrellas.

We finally arrived at an intersection near my dorm. As I turned, he followed, assuming that he would escort me all the way to my front steps. I assured him that I would be fine. Above the thunder and the echoes of raindrops, he said, "Call me if you have any problem."

I stepped into my lobby with only the tops of my jeans still dry, water dripping from my hair, my eyelashes, and my fingertips. I hurried upstairs, changed clothes, dried my hair, and cocooned myself in a comforter.

I never got sick, and I never regretted sharing the first thunderstorm of the year with StoneCold.

Emoticons

It was a text message composed of three strokes:

:-)

But it came from StoneCold, and that immediately lifted it from the ranks of “CHINESE CUTE” to “STOP AND CELEBRATE THIS MOMENT.”

He had responded to a reply that I had sent him after his original message of “Happy Birthday, Meagan 朋友 (friend).” I wrote him back saying thank you and that I hope to have him over soon for a hamburger reunion.

His reply was three strokes – not even a word.

I sat down in my chair and stared at it for a long time. I recounted how many steps our relationship has taken to this point, to a gesture so unimaginable two years ago. I wept, prayed, and then got up and walked into the kitchen to get started on a birthday cake.

Who would've thought that a wordless text message would be such an extraordinary testament?

hamburgers with extra grace

About a week ago, Stonecold and his friend came over for what is becoming the default menu: hamburgers. I've never met a Chinese person so infatuated with them and so surprisingly open-minded to some of the more traditional ingredients that have proved stumbling blocks to Asian palates: cheese and yellow mustard. He uses them with the same liberality as I do, which makes me laugh when we both reach simultaneously for my imported jar of French's.

That night, I found out his birthday is in December. I didn't write it down and soon got lost in another tangent of conversation. This morning, as I was remembering him, I was reminded of what he told me and soon sent him a text message asking, once again, for the date. His response was surprising, considering that he had not hesitated with me in the original exchange of information:

Stonecold: May I ask, what for?

Me: I want to make sure that we celebrate in some way. If that's ok...

He was silent for 15 minutes. I was concerned. Finally, my phone beeped.

Stonecold: Well, your idea upsets me. First of all, I'm still too young to celebrate my birthday. It's not worth it. We have a saying in Chinese that's something like, “It's bad manners to only receive.” If you keep doing something like this and don't give me a clue about what I can do in equal [return], I'd be worried, though friends we are.

I was a little stunned and wondered if his limitations on birthday celebrations are more Stonecold than they are Chinese. I felt like I had taken a step back for the ground that we gained with our most recent interaction. I asked for wisdom as I pressed my faded cell phone buttons.

Me: I instantly and sincerely apologize. I wasn't aware that you had such a complex view of birthday celebrations. I should explain to you that, growing up, we celebrated birthdays as a way to express our gratitude for the lives we've been given, and saying that I want to celebrate your birthday is also a way for me to demonstrate an appreciation for the day that YOU came into the world. You see, I know full well that none of us is guaranteed another sunrise. Life isn't fair, and as a response to that, I celebrate things as they come, knowing that I may not have another chance to do so.

There was much more that I wanted to say, but my message was already in four installments. I felt that the rest of the explanation would have to wait. I pressed “send,” with dueling tides of peace (over what I had said) and apprehension (over his forthcoming reply).

He wrote back quickly.

Stonecold: Ok. I understand your theory now. It's December 18th.

Me: Thank you. As for what you can do in return, my answer will have to be in person. It is very heartfelt, and my cheap rebellious Nokia is unworthy of such a task.

As I finished my message, I felt warm tears slowly trail down my face. I was overwhelmed by the realization that he and I are on the cusp of a very pivotal conversation. Telling him what he can do to repay my kindness is nothing less than spelling out what grace is. It is receiving something good and beneficial for which there is neither merit nor equal recompense. My very life has been defined by grace, and so my generosity with him is my very human attempt at enacting what has divinely been given to me. He cannot repay me, as I cannot repay my Redeemer. My tears turned into pleas, and I begged for the explanation of grace to impale him like “a double edged sword, penetrating even to divide soul and spirit, joints and marrow.” (Heb 4)

In remembering my text to Stonecold, may I be given another sunrise so that I might say these things to him face to face. And may he be prepared to hear them.

StoneCold

“Stonecold” is not only his email address, but also the lingering impression that I got from him during our first class. He was among the students assigned to Sophomore Oral English during my inaugural semester at Harbin Institute of Technology. I remember that he sat on the right side of the room, distanced from the huddle of smiling eager students and not inclined to the slightest hint of enjoyment or relaxation. His dark brown eyes never broke their intensity. He sat in rigid angles that would've made any officer proud; 180 from the top of his head to his waist, and then legs bent at perfect 90 degrees. I later learned that his grandfather had been a soldier and that StoneCold came to HIT only after being denied by a military university.

He approached me after class that first day and told me that he wouldn't take an English name – something I require for the sake of avoiding mass Chinese students introducing themselves as “Lemon,” “Satan,” or “Machine.” (These are all names nominated by some students. Permission denied.) With a firm stare, he refused to be called anything but his real Chinese name, given to him by his grandfather. If I forced an English name on him, he warned me that he wouldn't answer to it. I was surprised at his defiance; teachers in China have managed to remain largely unchallenged. My response had to be quick, and I decided not to go into battle with him so early. He intrigued me, and I was willing to concede to buy some time. I acquiesced. He thanked me, bowed, and then walked out the door, tall and straight. We had no individual interaction for the next several classes. He was there on time and had the completed assignments but was aloof even with his classmates. By week four, I knew that teachers with less hours would inherit some of my classes. One of those was his. I wondered what would become of him. I prayed that his heart might be softened and that, somehow, I could get to know him.

The answer was yes.

The following semester, he appeared at one of my office hours (informal conversation times outside of class). Echoing his earlier protocol, he distantly observed me and the other students, quietly leaving before the session was finished. Several months passed. One day, he sent me a text message asking if he could stop by for a visit. So unexpected was his request that I wondered if I had done something wrong. I was perhaps as suspicious of him as I assumed he was of me. Still, I knew that face time was something I had asked for, and I wasn't about to excuse myself from it. His visit that day turned out to be innocuous. In fact, he seemed to have no real reason at all for coming over. If he had come with defenses, they were neglected once he saw my bookshelf decorated with photos and mementos from home. He studied everything and asked about the people smiling back at him from the various frames. Before he left, he presented me with a miniature catapult that he had made in one of his welding classes. I had no idea why he chose to bestow me with a medieval projectile device, but I noted it as a gesture of goodwill and was honored to be its recipient. That form of twisted metal sits on the top shelf of a curio cabinet in my living room. I'll never part with it.

By the end of the first year, I was able to recount several visits with him. He even brought a friend of his into our little circle, and the three of us had dinner together on a few occasions. One of the most outstanding features of our growing relationship, though, was the day that StoneCold and I spent together traipsing around Harbin. He had invited me on a walking tour of the city, and I immediately accepted. His initiations are more divinely promoted than he knows; if enough time passes between communications, I pray for our paths to cross again. Without fail, he always finds me within a day or two and proposes some sort of meeting. What a wonderful reassurance that asking for the right things pleases the Provider in granting them.

Our relationship is closing out its second year. For the first year, I assumed – and rightfully so – that I was being evaluated. I was under no initial pretext of friendship. I am aware of his disdain for many foreigners, especially those who – in his understanding - compromise the identity of the Chinese people with their imported theology and cultural-centrism. He knows what name and faith I represent, and one mis-step would relegate me to the ranks of “ignorant crusader.” For me, the admonition of being “wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove” is all too clear when I'm with StoneCold. I can't afford a foul.

But somewhere along the way, he softened. Maybe it's because I never decline an offer from him to do whatever it is he has nominated to do, even if it means covering the city by foot and nursing blisters for the next few days. Maybe it's because I brought him a camping hat that I purchased while Stateside for the summer. (It had LED lights in the bill. He was stoked.) Maybe it's because I don't keep my life compartmentalized; I talk about my own shortcomings as easily as I talk about what I had for breakfast. Maybe it's because I don't flinch if he wants to take me to a Buddhist temple or some other venue that might appear a challenge to my piety. Maybe it's because I spend time I don't have helping him and his friend with a project. Or maybe it's because I don't plug my American rhetoric into our conversations, especially when there's silence. Or maybe it's because I'm not afraid to laugh despite his austerity. Maybe it's because of all of those things. But all of those things go back to the One who ordained them long before they ever came to pass.

Our last outing together was a commemoration of our City Tour '09. Again, we covered Harbin with our footsteps. But something was different. I felt an ease with him that wasn't there the previous spring. We laughed more. He spoke about his family. He told me how his grandfather met his grandmother, and he laughed abundantly when I told him about mine. He ate my half of the pork leg because I couldn't bring myself to swallow pure fat. He entertained a detour to help me find food coloring. When a car came dangerously close to us as we crossed the street, he quickly outstretched his hand in a protective maneuver. Over a delicious lunch of fried lentils, chicken soup, and stir-fried wood ear (a type of mushroom), he confessed that he was glad to have someone along for an adventure or two. A year ago, none of those things would've taken place.

While I was typing and deleting and retyping the first paragraph, I started thinking about the possibility of one day showing this essay to him and watching him read about his old self and how one appointment to an English class may have changed his entire life. I would give everything for that to be so. For now, though, what is required of me is to appeal to him through unwavering friendship and determination to look beyond how ill-fitted we should be with each other. Indeed, he may be StoneCold, but water – Living Water – can gracefully carve its way straight through.