Church in Any Language

We didn’t go to church for a month after we arrived here. The CLO gave us their list of English-language religious services, as we’ve come to expect at each post. But here, the list was distressingly short. It was filled with orthodox services and with chapel services at Camp Bondsteel (almost an hour away) or at Film City (a nearby KFOR/NATO base, open to some employees of the American embassy, but not to family members, so Alexa and I can’t go). There was one and only one non-orthodox, nearby, open-to-all-of-us option: Bashkësia e Popullit të Zotit, or Fellowship of the Lord’s People. According to the information from the CLO, this congregation is mostly Kosovan, and services are conducted in Albanian, with English translation. I had visions of headphones, flashes of polite smiling while utterly failing to communicate with the other attendees, and fears of just plain not fitting in. We weren’t sure exactly where this church was located, and to be honest, we didn’t expend a lot of effort to find out at first … we were too busy trying to find out if there were any primarily Engish-speaking congregations that we could visit instead. We didn’t find any.

Accordingly, this past Sunday, we piled into the car and went to church, for the first time in a month. As we entered the building, my dread premonitions seemed to be coming true—all around me, I heard people speaking Albanian, but none speaking English. I understood not a word. The greeter gestured us toward a specific section of the sanctuary, and I began looking for where the interpreter may stand, or where the headphones and jacks were. I didn’t see any, and I began to wonder just how this English translation would occur.

Before the service started, we met three English speakers: a probably-American man whose native language definitely was English, an African woman whose native language may have been English, and a Kosovar woman whose English was superb. I relaxed a little, but not much—here were three people we could talk to, but what about everyone else? Would our opportunities for Christian fellowship be limited to these three?

Not by a long shot.

When the service began, it became clear how the translation occurs: from the stage, with practically the entire congregation chiming in to help when the interpreter gets confused over a word. The greeting was spoken in Albanian, with a woman translating each phrase or sentence into English. There was a time or two when she did hesitate over a word, and at least half the congregation called out the correct word for her. When we started singing, the words were projected onto a screen, but each verse took up twice the amount of space it “should” have: Under each line of Albanian lyrics was a line of English lyrics. Most of the songs were sung first in Albanian, then in English; a couple were sung in English first.

I even tried singing a little in Albanian, after listening to the pronunciation and reading the English translation so I had an idea of what I was saying. That was one of those small moments worth remembering. There I was, for the first time in a church service where English was not the primary language, singing praises to God in a language that I didn’t know, but understanding the words because the translation was provided, and sometimes because I knew the words in English already. It reminded me of the first time I attended Maadi Community Church in Egypt—a little glimpse of what Heaven will be like, although it felt a bit like a different perspective this time, because of the unfamiliar sounds of the Albanian language. At MCC, it was a glimpse of Heaven because of all the different “nations” and “tribes” worshipping together; at the Fellowship of the Lord’s People in Kosova (the Albanian word for Kosovo), it felt more like a preview of the “every tongue” part.

After we sang a few songs, a prayer was said in Albanian—no translation. After a few more songs, a prayer was said in English—no translation.

Then the pastor started speaking. He spoke in Albanian, with a woman translating into English after every sentence or two (no short phrases for him—he was eager to share). When she hesitated over an English word, he joined the congregation in providing it for her. He introduced two special guests: two pastors from neighboring countries who were in town for a prayer breakfast, which was attended by government officials from Kosova, Serbia, and many other countries, including a congressional delegation from the United States. He invited these guests to greet the congregation.

The two other pastors came up to the podium, one at a time. They each spoke in English, passing along greetings from the evangelical churches in their home countries (Serbia and Macedonia) and expressing hope for reconciliation of all the people of the Balkan region, which is well-known for wars and ethnic violence. One even joked about how he, like me, tried singing in Albanian for the first time that morning. The interpreter translated their comments into Albanian—again with some assistance as necessary from the congregation. The second pastor said his first sentence in Macedonian, obviously not expecting anyone to understand—the translator smiled politely and looked at him blankly, and the congregation chuckled. It was obvious that most of the congregation speaks English, and it was equally obvious that English is the language of communication among the various ethnic groups of the Balkans.

After the greetings from the pastors, the children went to the front to be prayed over (in Albanian, no interpretation). Alexa chose to stay with us. Then the children went downstairs to Sunday school, and Alexa announced a desire to go, too, but reminded us that “Mama needs to go with Lexa!” So we excused ourselves and followed the sound of children to the Sunday school room, a windowed room off a larger fellowship hall. I was grateful to see that the service was being shown on a television in the fellowship hall—once Alexa is comfortable enough to be in Sunday school without me but not yet comfortable enough to be in there without being able to see me, I hope to hear the sermon from that television. For this week, however, I sat in the Sunday school room with Alexa in my lap, listening to the story of Zaccheus, first in Albanian, then in English—I even was consulted on the proper English pronunciation of his name—and then the memory verse, first in Albanian, then in English. Then, while the children colored a picture of Zaccheus in the tree, I chatted with my first non-embassy-affiliated Kosovar acquaintance. She was very friendly and welcoming, and she offered to put me in touch with the woman who coordinates a weekly playgroup for preschoolers.

I knew when the service was over, as the congregation moved down to the fellowship hall for coffee. Jeff and I met the pastor, who spoke to us in fluent English. We tried to catch the Canadian missionary who had delivered the morning’s sermon but were unable to do so—undoubtedly, we’ll meet him some other time, as he and his family live in Pristina and attend the Fellowship of the Lord’s People regularly. We didn’t stick around very long after service was over; Alexa was hungry and exhausted and needed to go home. Unfortunately, service begins at Alexa’s usual lunch time and goes through her usual nap time … we’ll have to figure out how to adjust her schedule so that we can attend church without inviting a hunger- and/or sleepiness-induced meltdown each week.

I think it’s safe to say that we’ve found our church home here, or at least a temporary one. If we hear of other English-speaking congregations, we may try them, but my impression is that we will be able to make friends and enjoy Christian fellowship at this church. I didn’t hear the sermon, but Jeff didn’t tell me of any major theological differences, so we’re hopeful that this church is what it appears to be: a fellowship of Bible-believing Christians, many or most of whom speak a language we understand as well as one we don't.

Moments to Remember

Every time we move, we experience many small events that make an impression in the moment. Many of these events go unrecorded, as there isn’t enough to say about them to fill a blog post. Many more get quick mentions on Facebook, only to disappear into the ether as time passes, memory fades, and we don’t look back on old Facebook statuses and remember.

Life with a young child, likewise, is filled with small events. We parents think we’ll never forget all the moments of sweet innocence, of joyful silliness, of hilarious cluelessness. But we do.

This blog can serve as my reminder. After each international move, I download the posts written from our previous home, and I create a “blog book.” In the process, I edit heavily—correcting the formatting errors that occur during the download (why in the world do ALL the blog-to-book software options remove the space between paragraphs?!), adding in pictures and names that I don’t want to share on the internet, fixing the typographical errors that I missed the first time around. And in the process, I remember.

As I read each post, it takes me back. I find myself reliving the moments of which I hadn’t thought in months, about which I’d totally forgotten. I am reminded of details. I look back on those moments that would have been lost forever if I hadn’t recorded them.

Today I am inspired to preserve a few* moments. Bear with me, please … or better yet, enjoy and appreciate these small moments with me.

I Love You, Mama

Several months ago, I asked Alexa—on a whim, really—if she wanted to tell Daddy that she loves him. Immediately, she made her wordless affirmative noise. “Ok, then, go ahead and tell him.”

No hesitation: “I love you, Daddy,” came her sweet voice. Since then, she’s told him more times than I can count.

But ask her if she wants to tell Mama that she loves her. Again, no hesitation: “No.” Ask her if she loves Mama, and she says “yes” or makes her wordless affirmative noise. But ask her if she wants to say the words, and she absolutely, positively, most assuredly does not.

Yesterday morning, I was getting ready to go out to the supermarket. Because it was Memorial Day, Jeff was home, and Alexa would be staying with him while I did the shopping. As I was putting my shoes on by the door, I heard Jeff upstairs in the playroom, asking Alexa “Would you like to tell Mama you love her?” I didn’t hear the response, but I didn’t need to; I’d heard it every time he asked her that question.

“Mama, did you hear that?” Jeff called. After my negative response, he asked Alexa to say the same thing, just louder.

And then I heard it.

Alexa’s sweet little voice, saying “I love you, Mama.”

I restrained my impulse to go pick her up and hug her with all my strength … scaring and possibly breaking her isn’t the appropriate reaction. Instead I took a cue from Jeff’s response when she tells him that she loves him, and I said calmly, “I love you, too, Sweet Pea.”

Since then, Jeff has asked her a couple more times if she wants to tell Mama that she loves her. The response? Absolutely, positively, most assuredly “No.” But that’s okay. She’ll say it again in her own time. Until then, I’ll be grateful that one time, she chose to give me the simple joy of hearing her sweet little voice telling me that she loves me.

Uh Oh! There’s Nobody There!

Apparently I have not done well in saying the blessing with Alexa before she eats her lunch every day. Each evening at dinner, either Jeff or I will say “It’s time to pray,” and Alexa obediently will put down her fork, spoon, or food (whichever is in her hand at that moment) and reach out her hands—one for Jeff to hold and one for me to hold. Then we pray, we release hands, and we all start (or resume, in Alexa’s case) eating.

At lunch, Alexa almost always eats earlier than I do. She eats between 11 and 11:30 most days, well before I get hungry—and since she doesn’t take long to eat, and goes down for her nap immediately after lunch, I don’t eat with her even when I am ready for lunch, because I don’t want to rush. So I set her up with some food and then either clean up the kitchen while she eats or sit with her at the table but don’t eat anything. Although it feels a bit sacrilegious to admit it, it usually doesn’t occur to me to pray with her if I’m not eating.

Today, however, I did eat with her. I set her up with her food, then prepared mine and sat down at the table. “It’s time to pray,” I said.

Alexa obediently put down her spoon and reached out both hands—one to me and one to the empty chair beside her. Then she looked at me in all seriousness and said, “Uh oh! There’s nobody there!”

I had to assure her that when no one else is here, it’s okay to just hold Mama’s hand while we pray. Unfortunately, for Alexa, that translates into transferring her spoon to her other hand and continuing to eat while holding Mama’s hand during the blessing, but that’s a discussion for another day.

Lexa is Still Hungry!

Jeff was a little late getting home today, and Alexa was really hungry by the time he arrived. I’d held dinner because I didn’t realize just how late he was going to be, so she hadn’t had anything to eat in over three hours, even though it was half an hour past her usual dinner time. So we fixed her plate first and let her go ahead and sit down to eat while we fixed ours (since we were eating leftovers from our cookout yesterday, it was just a matter of fixing plates and reheating them). By the time Jeff sat down and I was almost ready to sit down, Alexa was ready for dessert.

We offered chocolate ice cream, also left over from yesterday. Alexa enthusiastically accepted. I gave her the ice cream, then sat down to eat (“Uh oh! We forgot to pray!” Alexa said, as we said the blessing over her dessert). Moments later, Alexa had eaten all her ice cream and wanted more.

We said no. Cue the sad little pitiful crying, with big crocodile tears rolling down her face. “Lexa is still hungry!”

Jeff told her that we understood that she was still hungry, and she could eat more if she wanted to, but not more ice cream. She needed to eat a lot of good healthy food, and only a little dessert. That was not what she wanted to hear. The crocodile tears intensified.

Then we offered a specific alternative to chocolate ice cream. “Would you like some carrots and red pepper?” (Also left over from yesterday, from the vegetable appetizers.)

“Yes!” The tears dried up—immediately. When we offered some leftover watermelon as well, you’d think the chocolate ice cream never even existed.

Is there any other child in the world who views carrots, red peppers, and watermelon as an acceptable—and even superior—substitute for chocolate ice cream?

*Originally there were two more moments I wanted to share today, moments that have more to do with moving here than with Alexa. However, in the process of writing them down, they became their own blog posts. Expect them in the coming days.

Spirit Houses

One of many spirit houses at Wat Phnom

Ever since my arrival in Cambodia, I have been fascinated with spirit houses. I see them everywhere—there is one outside almost every building in Phnom Penh; it probably would be more accurate to say that there is one outside almost every building in Southeast Asia! There is even one on the embassy grounds, presumably doing duty for the entire compound.

Spirit house at the U.S. embassy

 

So what is a spirit house, anyway? It’s exactly what it sounds like: a house for spirits. Although most Cambodians are Buddhist, there is no problem for Buddhists to adopt or maintain aspects of other religions as well. Spirit houses  are highly associated with Buddhism, but their roots are in the animistic religions that predate Buddhism. According to these old religions, there are spirits everywhere, associated with particular areas of land. Some of these spirits are good, some are evil, and some are morally neutral, but most of them seem to be mischievous. They cause trouble for humans, whether deliberately or accidentally, and if you insult them, they cause big problems for you. So, it’s in your best interest to keep these spirits both happy and out of your home or business. That’s where spirit houses come in.

 

Making an offering

 

Spirit houses are small structures located outside of buildings. These structures usually are in the shape of an ornate house, and they are located on pedestals. The purpose of spirit houses is to provide a home for the animist spirits. The idea is that if you provide a nice home for the spirits, and keep them happy with food, flowers, and other gifts, then those spirits will not invade your home or business and cause trouble. Placate the spirits, make sure they’re happy in their own houses, and they will have no reason to enter your house (or business).

One of many in the Silver Pagoda compound

Why exactly would I be fascinated with spirit houses? After all, I’m not Buddhist, I’m not animist, and I don’t believe in these spirits. I believe in God, angels, and fallen angels (demons). I do not believe that having a spirit house would protect my home from harm; if anything, I view it more as an invitation for fallen angels (the only spirits who go around causing trouble) to come and make themselves at home not only in the spirit house, but in the entire property upon which the spirit house resides. The act of placating these spirits by providing offerings is an act of worship, something that the Bible teaches we should provide only to God.

Stone spirit house at Wat Phnom

There is one reason, and one reason alone, why I am fascinated with spirit houses: they’re beautiful.

A shop where spirit houses are made and sold

Whether they’re made of wood or stone, these houses are designed to be ornate and beautiful. Some are white with sparkling gold trim. Some are gold with burgundy accents. They almost always have ornately peaked roofs, columns around the front “entrance,” and pretty “porch railings.” The inside is a single open space, usually filled with flowers, candles, and fruit. The whole thing is gorgeous to look at.

Spirit house outside of a shop

I never will have a spirit house on my property, although I do believe that one would be absolutely beautiful in or beside a flower garden, for example. It would go against my beliefs and would send an incorrect message to all who saw it and knew it for what it was. But because they are so beautiful, and because their prevalence here has made them become representative of Cambodia to me, I wanted to share them with my family and friends who may not have seen them before.

Spirit houses outside of businesses

New Friends

Since we came to Cambodia, Jeff and I have had a few struggles. I struggled with the pragmatic aspects of living here for a long time—primarily with the grocery shopping and cooking, but to a lesser degree with other things as well. As a couple, we have had real struggles finding a church that was a good fit for us—the first one we tried featured an antisocial congregation, funereally paced “contemporary” worship songs, and a nonsensical sermon; the second sported a “Chinese mother” pastor who had a gripe with anyone who didn’t do exactly what he wanted in all areas of life, as well as a serious case of class warfare mentality; the third had sincere and welcoming people, but was steeped in a philosophy that elevates custom to the same level as biblical mandates; the fourth would have worked for us if necessary, but primarily was a church for missionaries, so we just didn’t fit in; the fifth … well, let’s just say it was a feminist’s dream, and we are not feminists. Finally, after almost giving up hope and returning to church #4, we happened upon the church that we think will be our church home for our remaining time in Cambodia. This church was the last one on our list to try because, on paper, it looked like it was the polar opposite of what we need and want in a church. We almost didn’t try it at all. I’m so happy that we did try it, three weeks ago tomorrow!

You see, not only does it seem as though this church will meet our need for a regular gathering of believers for worship, prayer, and teaching, but it has provided the opportunity for something else that we have sorely lacked during our time here: friends that are our friends, as a couple, rather than friends that are more “his and hers.” We had one couple, met at church #3, that filled that role for us for several months … until they returned to Canada back in May. There also was a couple from the embassy with whom we spent some social time … until they returned to the States in early June. And there is one other couple from the embassy that we enjoy, but they seem to have limited time for socializing. Other than that, I have friends from playgroup, Jeff has friends at the embassy, and we don’t have any friends in common. This situation provides enough of what we need to get us through, but there definitely has been something missing. Maybe, just maybe, that missing element has been filled.

You see, our first week at the new church, we met a couple with whom we both got along well. A couple that just arrived in Cambodia and is planning to be here longer than we will be. A couple that lives nearby. A couple that has a 10-month-old daughter and therefore is at roughly the same stage as us in their parenting journey. A couple that shares our faith. A couple we want to get to know better.

It took us a while to get around to it, but a week after meeting them, we extended an invitation to join us for dinner. Later that week, just a few days ago, we hosted them at our house. Although the purpose of the event was to offer hospitality to newcomers and to enjoy some time together, it also served as an opportunity for all of us to get to know each other in ways that were more … evaluative … than exploratory. For example, one issue when socializing with other Christians for the first time often is whether or not it’s acceptable to offer alcoholic beverages—the choice regarding alcohol itself doesn’t matter so much as what else often is revealed: the use or avoidance of alcohol is one of the major areas where a person who is inclined to elevate custom or opinion to the level of biblical command often will reveal that inclination. It was a matter of some anxiety for me, therefore, whether to offer beer or wine with dinner, as I didn’t want to offend our guests if they were of the “alcohol is evil” persuasion, but I also did not want them to assume mistakenly that we were of that opinion. I finally decided to set out the water, Coke Light, and Sprite on the buffet in the dining room, leave the beer and wine in the kitchen, and make a verbal offer—that way, our guests would know it was available if they wanted it, they wouldn’t have to see it if they objected, and Jeff and I would discover much more about them than whether or not they drink.

It worked out perfectly. On the alcohol front, the relief was palpable when I offered the beer or wine—our guests share our opinion on the issue and apparently were as aware of it as we were. Everything else went just as smoothly. The luxuries we enjoy as embassy personnel were acknowledged with humor and grace, with no trace of jealousy or judgment. The conversation never lagged. No one minded when their daughter babbled loudly through the blessing, or when Alexa interrupted the conversation with cries for attention. After dinner, while walking and calming his distraught daughter, our male guest roamed into the living room, only to return with a quip about how only geeks have home media servers—and I was amazed to have met someone who recognized the equipment without prior explanation. We learned a little about each other’s history, and about the hopes we all have for our time in Cambodia. They even made our shy girl smile and laugh. In short, that first fledgling exploration of each other’s personalities revealed real potential for a solid friendship.

I hadn’t realized just how much we’ve been missing “couple” friends. I’m extremely introverted and do pretty well with playgroup twice a week, especially with the addition of a full-time housekeeper for some conversation during the day. I enjoyed spending “extra” time with our Canadian friend before she left, and I have missed having a regular group Bible study to attend, but I haven’t felt a gaping hole in my social life—though I recognize the need for couple friends now that it seems on the verge of being satisfied again. Jeff, on the other hand, apparently has felt the need much more strongly than I have. Our new friends were barely out the door on Thursday night before he told me that he’d wanted to invite them for pizza on Friday night and didn’t do so only because he hadn’t discussed it with me yet. When we discovered they had other plans, he immediately suggested a game day on Saturday. When I balked at that (we have no snack food in the house other than brownies or cookies, and I feel the need to offer … more … when we have guests), he suggested next Saturday. And in the meantime, how about lunch after church tomorrow? You get the idea—apparently he did notice the lack and is very happy that we have a clear opportunity to rectify the situation. (Jeff pointed out to me during editing that a large part of the reason he’s so happy about this opportunity is that he really doesn’t believe me when I say that playgroup is enough—he’s eager for me to have more and closer friends.)

What’s the purpose of this post? I’m not sure. I think I just felt a need to share that God has blessed us yet again. He seems to have provided for our felt need—a church where we feel at home—and also has met a need that I at least didn’t realize we had—friends with whom we can spend time as a family. As icing on the cake, our new friends plan to begin a small group Bible study, so I think He’s going to meet that need as well.

God is good, and I am grateful.