Military life is colorful. There are many races, religions, political views, nationalities and football teams represented. It has been my joy to be able to interact with many of these people…well except for the Patriot haters of course. Yesterday, I was able to talk to my friend from China. She is teaching mandarin at a local university, has two kids, and tells stories of her mom who still worships Mao. Our neighbors are from Guam (him) and the Philippines (her). She has crazy stories of her early years and not knowing who her real father was but finding letters he sent to her mom. She then would guess where he was from by the traits on her face that didn’t look like her mom. Her perseverance through many difficult seasons inspires me. I have another friend who grew up in South America and his parents died when he was young. He was sent to the States to live with an unknown Aunt who then raised him in an unknown land, climate, and language. I have no reference for that. My childhood was a fairy tale compared to all of theirs.
But the friend who has impacted me the most with her stories is my friend who was born, raised, and escaped from Cuba. She tells me how every family is given “a month’s” worth of food supply. The rice and beans that are given only supply families for a day. A day. The rest of the food they need to survive is begged, bartered, or stolen. The Cuban people are not allowed to eat lobster or beef. If they are found with lobster, they are put in jail for life. Life. These edibles are only for the tourists.
Hospitals are not for the sick or well. Blood is not cleaned up off the floors. Medical equipment is not sterilized. The doctors that have not left are not to be sought. The bathrooms are rusted and leaking with toilets that are worse than the ones I’ve seen in Thailand and Ethiopia. There are no clean linens and the mattresses for pregnant women look like old, stained thrown out camp casualties. My friend’s mom went in for a cyst to be removed and ended up getting a bigger cyst (almost the size of a watermelon) and infection. Since her mom has dual citizenship, she was able to get it fixed in Florida much to my friends relief.
When my friend was a teenager, she was able to escape by flying to Spain, then to Mexico and from there she walked across the border when wet foot dry foot was still the law of the land. She began a new life in the States where she could work and earn money to buy the food she needed, or even wanted. She also ate lobster and beef boldly and brashly.
I listened to her tell me these stories while her mom was visiting and cooking us Cuban food. The smells made my mouth water as her mom smashed plantains, cooked pork, and boiled yucca. She recalled how her friends and family in the neighborhood would save what little money they had to buy some food, pack their pots, and head to the beach. The women would make pots of beans and rice while the kids ran and jumped into the ocean. The men drank their cheap rum, smoked cigarettes, and told stories. These were some of her favorite times.
As we ate the succulent food I asked her mom if she still likes living in Cuba. Since we don’t speak each other’s language, my friend interpreted for us. “It’s home. My friends are there.”
Wow. It’s amazing to me what a difference perspective makes. People who grow up in the States are used to a certain way of living. Hardship is not having a cell phone or direct TV. I get upset when I can’t watch a football game or catch an untimely red light. I hear my kids complain about school when I’ve seen raggedy clothed kids ride their bike to school on a dirt road in Cambodia for three hours so they can get the education they need to get out of poverty. They pay by the day because they never know if they will be able to go again. I see my friend’s face light up when she finds a fruit on the side of the road that she used to eat back in Cuba. How can I gain a grateful heart where fruit gives me joy? How can I live my life where I see all that I have as a gift?
This colorful military life has convicted me of my entitlement and selfish heart. I’m actually thankful for this. My friend’s life stories have reminded me of how much I do have and that my words should be more of gratitude than greediness. Oh to live in the realm of thankfulness, the ultimate thankfulness that my sins have been forgiven thanks to a God who became a man…a poor man who relied on the kindness of others to feed and house him during his ministry. He had nothing, yet gave everything for the joy that was set before him. He gave his life so that I might live. My sins are forgiven! I have Christ! Oh God let that be what leads me to a life lived in gratitude and joy where even if the Patriots lose, my joy is not lost.