My Little Chinese Angel
I was wishing I did not have to fulfill a commitment I had made weeks
before. "Sure, I'll help out," I had said when asked to be on the clean-up
committee for the International Students Welcome Dinner. However, my
Monday had been a long and busy one, so by 7
p. m. I was longing for an easy chair and a book to read. Instead, I was
on my way to the university campus soon to meet the first problem of the
evening..where to park. After a few unsuccessful attempts and a bit of
mumbling and muttering as I searched, I managed to find a spot. I walked
almost begrudgingly to the Ecumenical Center a couple blocks away and
slipped past the assembly of new International students seated at long
tables, all listening intently to a man with a microphone.
Dr. Bob was explaining what the HIS organization was all about. Sponsored
by the churches in our community, HIS provides friendship to these often
lonely and bewildered people who have come here to study. Each student,
that chooses to participate, is assigned to an American family who invites
them into their home for an occasional dinner, provides transportation
when needed, or answers questions they may have. The American families
help ease the Culture Shock some of these students face. Different races,
different religions and customs can be a lot to deal with when far from
home.
I found my way to the kitchen and dove into a pile of platters and bowls
that needed washing and drying. Finishing that, I moved on to clear the
remainder of the food from the serving tables. I was busy gathering things
to the center of one table, still wishing I was somewhere else, maybe even
sighing now and then. At that point, a little child slipped quietly over
to the table where I was working. She was about five years old, pretty,
petite, and completely silent. Her almond shaped eyes regarded me warily.
Short black hair, cut to cup her face, looked like silk. She wore pink
capri pants as well as pink and white sandals that made her look like any
American child. Her blouse, however, was typically Chinese with a mandarin
collar, frog closures rather than buttons, and delicate embroidery work.
I smiled at her and said hello. No response.only those big, dark eyes
watching my every move. I asked her if she would like a cookie, using both
words and gestures, since I was unsure if she understood English. Again,
no response. I moved farther along the table, and she moved with me on the
opposite side. I spoke and gestured; she remained silent and unsmiling.
But, oh, those beautiful eyes never left me. I felt she was storing
information in little compartments in her mind. Surely, she would chatter
later, in Chinese, to her mother and father about the lady cleaning the
table.
I smiled and waved to her as I headed back to the kitchen with the
leftover food. Another woman and I were bagging it to take to the
Emergency Shelter. Shortly, I looked up, and there she was, my little
Chinese friend. She stood in the doorway, watching and listening for a few
moments until a woman came and pulled her gently away. That sweet child
had never said a word, but her eyes spoke volumes.
As though I had been called, I walked back to the dining room and stood
listening for a few moments. The man with the microphone was still
talking, still explaining what life would be like in this strange place
called Kansas. Dr. Bob approached these wary strangers with kindly humor
laced throughout necessary information.
My eyes scanned the room, and what I saw warmed my heart. People from
around the world sat side by side, many hearing a language not their own.
As the school year progresses, they will form friendships and attachments
to one another and to their American host families, and the good-byes next
summer will be emotional ones.
Suddenly, I felt fortunate to be here sharing this new beginning with
these people. Once again, God knew where I needed to be, and I wondered if
He had sent a petite little Chinese angel to tell me so, a special
messenger who spoke not a word but said so much.
Nancy Julien Kopp © 2001
kopp@networksplus.net