When I was seven my family left our rented farm house and moved from a small town to a bustling suburb just outside the state capital. The new house, only two hours away, presented a new world complete with strange neighbors, cruel kids, and a foreign set of social norms that I had never lived by. In the fall of 2001 I transitioned from a small, private, Christian school to a large, public one. This was not an easy change. The kids at the public school were different from me in ways I had never encountered. For the first time in my life I was Other. I didn`t fit in and I knew it. If asked I’d say my childhood started ending around this time. I was still a child of course (and continued on as one for seven more years), but the euphoric, blissful ignorance often associated with childhood began to disintegrate when I was plopped into Miss Williams’ first grade class on a cold day in November. It is at vulnerable moment such as these that a simple encouraging word can become sweet kindness long-after remembered.
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My ideal airplane ride happens like this: I am seated next to a window near the front of the plane. Outside a sunset pallet commands the sky leaving land and sea richly clothed in contrasting emeralds and blues. My dear friend and traveling companion, Emma Watson, laughs at a pun I make about painting and air travel. Emma and I chat about French artists for a bit and then retreat into our introverted selves, putting in headphones and listening to underground indie music. Comfortable. Picturesque. Perfect. My flight from JFK to Zurich last Friday happened like this: I was seated in the middle section in economy. The window I might have seen through from across the aisle was blocked by a large Swiss man. My traveling buddy (not Emma Watson, but still a great lady) was seated five rows in front of me which made chat about French artists impossible. Determined to reach contentment I put in headphones and started to turn on Birds of the Northeast. I was just about to sink into music when a twenty something, Indian man sat in my row and immediately started asking questions from across the empty seat between us. My introverted plans ruined I answered politely looking for a way to end the conversation as soon as possible. Windowless. Stranger danger. Eh. So there I am trying to duck out of talking to this man (who I would later learn was named Amit). Meanwhile, Amit is pursuing dialogue with a fierce enthusiasm I’ve only seen on QVC. Luckily for both of us, after small talk about our destinations, occupations, and interests we began approaching subjects of consequence. It all started with cow pee. Let me explain. At the first lull in our conversation Amit spoke to a flight attendant requesting a vegetarian meal. I slyly popped in headphones. He then turned to my fully headphoned self (do.you.not.understand.social.cues) and explained to me that as a practicing Taoist he does not eat flesh or roots. He went on to say that in his culture animals such as the cow are regarded very highly and that the cow is considered the divine mother of us all. He said that during famine Indian families feed their cows with what little food they have. The families then in turn are sustained by the cow’s milk. They would die of hunger before eating the cow’s food or the cow itself. Amit said that some Taoists even take drops of cow pee on their hands every morning and rub it from the forehead to the back of the neck as a kind of blessing. At that point my headphones were quietly stowed away in my backpack once again. His account of the famine sent my mind reeling. I was challenged to find my own tangible equivalent to the Taoist’s cow and became frustrated when I could think of none. I would not give my last bits of famine food to anyone besides my family and surely not to a cow whose meat would sustain with more certainty than milk. The one comparable example that came to mind was the way some Jews refuse to say or write the word “God” out of fear and reverence. I silently noted to adopt this practice if possible. “I want the devotion of a Taoist and the fear of a Jew”, I thought to myself. If I am honest most days the name of Jesus does not make me tremble. That is a serious problem. I listened with interest as Amit blushed finishing his thought on urine consecrations, “I know it must seem silly to you, but cows are very sacred to us”. I responded saying that such is true of any religion. “Is it not odd to you that Christianity should adopt the image of their Savior’s execution weapon as their defining, sacred symbol?” I asked. He agreed that it was quite odd. Perhaps even more odd than the cow pee. So then we were talking about Jesus. If there’s one thing I know about spicing up a conversation it’s that bring up Jesus will at worst- get you killed and at best- end in life changing commitments to follow Christ. Our interaction ended with thoughtfulness which I think was a fair compromise. |
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November 2015
AuthorLaura Johnson is a junior writing major at Houghton College. Laura writes for The Houghton Star, Mousailink, and One Mission Society. This virtual space is a journal of things that matter to her; tales, musings, wanderings. |