They were already hot this morning when I walked across the blistering pavement with my student to her relative's house where meat dumplings, chunky butter tea, and bags full of walnuts awaited us. Panting in too many clothes by the time we got up the third flight of stairs, I was refreshed by her sweet demeanor and eagerness to chat. I never cease to be amazed that chatting slowly shyly about nothing can open doors to storehouses where so much something lies...
One potato, two potato...
Hours and countless dumplings later we hopped on a bus together and she shyly sweetly said you know my small cousin loves you. You don't know him, but when I showed him the picture that you gave me for Christmas two years ago he loved you. All my family loves you. My mother put the picture on our wall. She loves you. When people come to our house she always makes sure they see your picture. In awe of such admiration for absolutely no reason whatsoever, I made a mental note to hang her picture up in my family's house in America...
Three potato, four...
My now smoldering feet trundled off the bus into the blare of taxi horns and I was quick to dash down an alley into a dumpling restaurant where three friends waited for me. More dumplings, I politely refused though it was difficult. I insisted we go to the teahouse distinct only for the mildly crazy grandfather who always manages to find us there. We laughed, gave walnuts to beggars, drank too much tea, and discussed the pronunciation difference between 'snake' and 'snack'. I was loath to leave their all too familiar company, but knew I had promised my evening to some students back up the hill.
Five potato, six potato...
The bus sputtered to a stop outside our school gate without a peep from me. Sometimes it pays to be the only foreigner on the bus route. The three former students were waiting for me at the gate. Feet all but charred, we marched farther up the hill to the most dilapidated tea house on the street, the nunnery tea house where all of my nun friends and one midget work. Over noodles, bland butter tea, and gratuitous sweet tea, the boys joked and spoke of dreams and the possibility that they might come true. One boy, renowned as an extreme traditionalist, leaned back and said Ms. Kelly you ask me this question about is next life true. I often have this question. I can't say I believe in this thing but I am thinking about it. I have so many questions and I want true answer. I nearly fell out of the window, hot feet and all.
Seven potato...
By the time I got back to my stuffy apartment that evening and peeled my socks off my steaming feet I knew I would write about today. I wanted to write about becoming a part of a family album in a village I may never actually go. I wanted to write about the mystery of familiarity in a place where I remain as foreign as a creature from outer space. I wanted to write about traditions coming under question and truth being sought and a Holy One coming down and making a way just as He promised He would and now that I have I can't help but wonder if you may think it's all just small potatoes...
more...
Small potatoes yes. But they are hot. They are burning questions into souls, lighting lives on fire, and leaving blisters on the stories of those who dare to touch them. May He receive this potato offering and multiply it in the way that only He can.
