She welcomed us in with giggles and joy, like Fancy Nancy coming to life in a 60 year old body. I'd never met her before, but was immediately embraced into her home like a grandchild at grandmas.
The front sitting room was strewn with randomness, my eyes trying to take in this masquerade. Hot pink feather boas, purple and green ones too. Mardi gras necklaces, of colors and circles, dancing across numerous hooks. Wide-rimmed hats, floppy and regal, but cloche and boina ones too. Pictures, colors, accessories flung and laid on every hat-rack and table, long white gloves and clip-on earrings arranged. Oh what a marvel of art and eclectic decor garnished every aspect of this room!
She could almost shimmy with excitement, I could see it; one could feel it. This missionary wife, come to life. Our eyes were watching, child-like, taking in her joy on display.
"Oh, I'm so glad your here!" She stood before us, now opening her life, explaining and gifting her story.
"You see, I don't feel called to the Philippines, I don't feel called to be a missionary. I wouldn't choose to be here. But, my husband was called to be a missionary, and he was called to the Philippines, and I was called to love my husband."
Our single-women minds paused on that but she moved on: "So, I had to figure out what to do here, and who I was and how that would work here. Otherwise its long days and lonely hours. So, I figured I loved books and children, so once a week I have a little story time for the neighborhood kids..."
I could see the kids tinkering down the bumpy, hard-dirt streets, frolicking among the wild dogs and hoots of "banana-qua", enthusiastically jostling as a group down to gather at her legs and this graying white lady bringing to life picture books, with every voice-inflection and pomp and circumstance possible. The highlight of all of their days.
Then she continued, though I don't remember all the exact details, she rambled on as such: "I was the only sister amongst my brothers, and my mom had no sisters, and we had no daughters, and all my life I was the only female for so many things. As I grew older, I missed enjoying all the girly things like dresses and heels and tea parties and frills. When I moved here and had to figure out how to be me amongst all the dirt here. So I decided to start having tea parties..."
I sat on the maroon, floral couch mesmerized, taking her story in. Becoming part of literally hundreds of women who have passed through her house, touched and blessed with boas and darjeeling, literally feeling the cup of my soul fill to the brim. To overflow.
She swung her hands around the room, "So, help yourself to whatever little trimmings you'd like, there's all different accessories to choose from, or just come as you are, and bring yourselves over to our tea table."
I glanced again over the elbow-length gloves and shiny gold broaches, but decided to stay in the comforts of normal wear. Gathering adornments with friendship, we proceeded to follow her over to the adjoining enclave, once again nearly breathless with the beauty within.
Stacked white towers of tea cakes, cut in all shapes with rare-found-here cucumbers and fillings, petit fours dancing across floral china plates, lemon wedges mixed among sugar cubes, silver polished atop the white-lace tablecloth. Oh, my mom would love this! Heaven meeting earth in the most beautiful, extraordinary, tangible way!
Not one detail was overlooked, not one short-cut taken, not one pleasure withheld.
This woman had taken such pride in presenting us with her best, the best, that merriment jeweled the table.
It was a festivity in itself. She pulled a little square book from under her plate and proceeded to pass it around, "This book is full of questions to enhance our conversations this morning. I've had so many women here, from all over the globe, of all ages, and some know each other but most do not. So I pass around this little book for each woman to choose a question, then we'll all use to know each other better later."
I remember then the charm of her thoughtfulness, the ease of placed-conversation putting my heart to rest. Through the tea, the simple questions followed, but our answered unearthed glee or emotion or stories or wonder as the fruition of well-planned conversation unearthed a depth in us all, sharing in the years of toiling and blooming. Years later, I still remember Michelle asking "What was the view from your bedroom window as a child?" And how that small question unearthed so much of our home, our family, our quiet, our spaces, our plantings.
We sat for a couple of hours, feminine luxury and the comforts of home treasured within us like a rare gem. Quietly and loudly we swapped stories and experiences, questions and probings, giggles and tears. Sometimes homesick; sometimes heartsick. Moreso released in the most beautiful, gratifying way: loved.
I remember little tastes of her pleasure, placed sweetly to serve. I remember the tinkering of floral china cups, sugar and cream. Dots of conversation, speckles of laughter. But what I remember her doing most, was her flourishing, thriving, ministering, in what she was called to.
That statement has never left me: "My husband was called [here], and I was called to love my husband." It strikes me with strength and vigor, with stillness and acceptance. It is this truth which still speaks to me, years later.
She had sifted her purpose, accepted her place, both geographical and situational, and bloomed where planted. Her methodology encourages and spurs me to grab gumption or boundaries or purpose, to find ways to weed out and plant in, making space and intention, for what I was called to do.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I love that my mom, in hearing this story upon my return, loved this so much she found out who the woman was through calling Faith Academy long-distance, asking around about the "tea lady" and wrote her a thank-you card, for loving her daughter so far away, in a way that she needed, and I needed too. My mom loves tea; my mom loves me. :)
No comments:
Post a Comment