Silly

I am not sure why, but for the last couple of days I have been finding myself completely hilarious.

Yesterday at lunch, I told my brother that we are having our house connected to the town sewers. So, after 81 years, the cesspool is closed for business.

"Just think, Jake, next time you have to throw up in our toilet, it will go down in one flush..."

Except that I was laughing so hard at my own joke he couldn't understand what I was trying to say. And I had a mouthful of roast beef sandwich and nearly choked to death. I was referencing, of course, a past incident that involved my brother and an apparently too strong marguerita.

My brother didn't find my little joke nearly as funny as I did, even when I was able to stop laughing long enough to tell him.

Today, another incident.

I was walking through Walmart (that in itself is embarrassing, but not that funny...) when suddenly I thought about a conversation I had with a friend and had an idea to make him a funny tee-shirt in response. I found my idea so utterly hysterical I started laughing out loud in the store. Like, almost pee my pants kind of laughing. Like they might have to call the guys in white coats kind of laughing.

I finally managed to pull myself together, but would periodically think about it again and just lose it. In the paper towel aisle, men's tee shirts, arts and crafts.

Everywhere I went, I left a trail of housewives, old women and stock clerks who must have thought I had forgotten to take my medication.

I have heard that sometimes people laugh during Pentecostal services at church. Holy laughter, they call it. I don't think the Holy Spirit has anything to do with my current silliness. But dang, I sure am keeping myself amused.

Critical mass

There were 7 of us in Lectio Divina this morning. The biggest crowd yet. And another woman asked me about it at coffee hour, so it looks like we might even grow out of our space.

We have been hovering at 3 or 4 for months. For the whole first year, we were lucky if two of us showed up. But God has plans for our little group, I think. So we are growing.

Thank you, Lord, for your presence when we gather in your name. It is such a gift that you join us every week.

Coming out of the closet

as a pro-lifer.

I have decided to participate in the annual 'Walk for Life' this year. The proceeds benefit CareNet, RI... which is an organization that supports pregnant women who are thinking about whether to keep their babies. CareNet also offers after abortion counciling, as well as parenting classes and support for women. My role with CareNet is to provide childbirth classes, which I have been doing for the last couple of years.

So, I am going to ask my friends and family to sponsor my walk.

If you would like to sponsor me, please email me. Click on my profile and there is an option to email me under the photo. You can donate any amount you want. The walk takes place on May 15th.

Thanks!

Hafiz

Back in my UU days, I was introduced to the 14th century Persian poet Hafiz by my friend Ray. He would come up to me at church and start quoting these wild and wonderful love poems about God.

Hafiz had a close friendship with God. He called him by various, affectionate, nicknames. He wrote love poetry to God. He chronicled his relationship over the years in lyrical poems that draw the reader, too, into a deeper intimacy.

Once, Ray and I did a lay led service that was centered around Hafiz poems. I still have the bulletin from that day! We stood together in the chancel and read poems of love. They were funny, sexy, deeply moving.

If you haven't yet encountered Hafiz, I urge you to check him out. He was so madly in love with God you can't help but be moved.

Here is an example from the book The Gift translated by Daniel Ladinski:


The Sun Never Says


Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe Me."

Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.

Another of my favorite new highs

Ok, in order of importance, the things that get me high:

a. God
b. Playing my djembe
c. Working out at the gym?!?!?!

The first two make sense, right? I mean, of course I get euphoric when God whacks me upside the head. Of course I feel like I am on a happy pill when I am playing drums with my peeps.

But working out? I can't imagine why it is so wonderful. There I am, slogging away on the eliptical trainer, listening to Salif Keita on my Ipod and I just can't stop grinning. While I am working out, I am usually thinking about a. and b. it's true. But sometimes I just want to close my eyes and sing along with the music. (Dangerous and irritating, I think...)

Yeah Planet Fitness.

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!

I am not sure what the problem is, but I seem to be crying an awful lot lately. Tears of sorrow. Tears of joy. Tears of awe. Tears of grief. Tears of gratitude. I need to keep a big bunch of tissues handy at all times because I swear I never know when I am going to start snuffling. And this isn't just a couple of moist eyes. This isn't the discreet glassy look that happens to some folks. This is great big salty tears rolling down my cheeks and ending up splattered all over the continental shelf that is my chest.

Today in Lectio Divina, it happened yet again. I joked as it started, telling my fellow contemplatives that I am going to start bringing Puffs Plus with Aloe because the chinzy toilet paper I was using to sop up the waterworks is making my nose raw.

Is it Holy week? The death of my sister in law? The trip to Vietnam? God whacking me upside the head with the Holy two by four of Christ? I don't know. I just know I am very raw and right at the surface and when I start to get a sense of God's presence I just can't hold 'em back.

Lectio Divina was incredible today. We had a new friend join us. The gospel was Jesus showing up and letting Thomas feel his wounds. This gospel says TWICE that Jesus showed up even though the door was closed and locked for fear. What a miracle that is. Even when we slam the door shut, he is there. He did that for me. He has done it for others in the Lectio group. I wonder if he has done that with you, too? As I sat and thought about the fact that for decades, I was in the desert of my own life, with the door to Jesus firmly closed, and yet he was still there, I just could not hold back the tears.

Thank you, God. Thank you. What wondrous love is this? Oh my soul.

And thank you, too, Lord,for my fellow travelers. When we gather, you are there.

My Hero

Here's what I am talking about. Check this guy out, my friends.

Not quite centering prayer

While driving home from the vigil of the Altar of Repose the other night, it occurred to me that I don't spend enough time just loving Jesus.

So lately I have been spending at least a bit of my prayer time sitting in silence at his feet, so to speak.

A few years ago I had a Centering Prayer practice. I would sit a couple of times a day, in silent worship. I used a kitchen timer to keep me on track.

This feels different. I have no expectation at all, including a time frame. I just sit (or kneel, or lie down) and, well, think of how much I love him.

Friday Five Millionaire edition

Singing Owl at Revgalblogpals asks what I'd do with a million bucks.

Here's my answer:

1. Tithe, baby. And on the gross, not the piddling net that I'd get after Uncle Sam gets their share. So, Grace Church would be a hundred grand richer.

2. Set up some kind of foundation to help kids in Vietnam go to school. In Vietnam, kids have to pay, even for public school... so the poorest don't get to go. The fee is $20 per year, so I could send a LOT of children to school. I'd buy a little shack in Dalat, too, so my husband and kids could fish in the pond all summer.

3. Pay off the mortgages. Mine, my brother's, my in-law's. All of them.

4. Put some cash away for the kid's education.

5. Buy an African strap for my drum and spend a couple of months in Mali to study drumming. Every year. In fact, maybe I'd set up a drumming school for my teacher and give scholarships to kids who can't afford lessons.

The Great Vigil

Saturday:

The church was pitch black, even as the last of the daylight was fading outside. Because there had been a near miss with the new fire at some point in the past, Steve, our sexton, was outside on the church steps kindling an inferno in a flower pot. He had big barbeque gloves on and smoke billowed into the narthex, even through the closed glass doors. The whole scene was so funny I chuckled out loud and got 'shushed' by a woman I didn't know. Maybe her Easter hadn't come yet.

I love the Great Vigil. It is another long service. On Saturday it was almost two hours. There is a lot going on, between the Old Testament readings, the candles, the first Eucharist and the Hallelujah Chorus. But the part I love best of all is the Baptisms.

This year, we had one. It was someone I knew. An adult who has been coming to Grace for quite some time. He has been coordinating the soup kitchen on Saturdays and is a sweet and gentle young man. At first I didn't realize it was he who was getting the dunk. I thought perhaps it was a member of his family. But when no baby appeared in the front pew, I began to put it together.

In our church, we sing the litany of the saints during the procession to and from the Baptismal font. The choir sings the names of the saints and the congregation sings back "stand by us now".

Saint John the Baptist.... stand by us now.
Saint Mary Magdalen.....stand by us now.

D.was walking with his sponsors back towards the font.

I love adult baptisms best of all, because I know what it is like to get socked by the Holy Spirit as an adult. I relive my own baptism and feel great joy at theirs. And I feel privileged to be a witness to the beginning of their transformation.

The next morning, at the Easter service, I approached D.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" I asked.

"No," he laughed.

"The Holy Spirit is going to kick your butt..."

We laughed and hugged.

Because we both knew it was true.

Struck dumb

Good Friday:

Three hour service at Grace. I sit in a pew, alone for most of it, clutching my rosary beads. I can't bear the idea of sitting through those three hours without the Mother with me. Every now and then I pray a decade. I have no idea what mysteries I am praying, except that they are sorrowful.

No,

Joyful.

I am beaming.

I can't stop thinking about the night before. The Vigil at the Altar of Repose. The first time I felt a sense of absolute adoration of our Lord in the consecrated host.

Adoration.

I have a confession scheduled after the service, but I can't think of what I am going to say.

Last year, I was flooded with things to confess during the Good Friday service. I kept looking at my priest, while he was kneeling during the prayers, and thinking of all the things I was going to say to him. By the time the actual confession came, I was beside myself with grief.

But not this time.

This time, I feel light and free and joyful. I have a few things to say, sure. Grave things, even. But I can't help feeling that during the night, while sitting at the feet of my Lord, they were all forgiven.

"It is finished."

The preacher on Good Friday is Bishop Steven Charleston. He's amazing. He walks down the aisle and looks you in the eye. And holds your gaze while what he is saying sinks in. He is talking about the conversion of life. About leaving your pain at the base of the cross. About inviting Jesus, TODAY, to heal you. If there had been an altar call, I swear you'd have seen a church full of Episcopalians step forward.

I praise God during the meditations. But they don't resonate for me. My Easter has already come. It came last night.

The service comes to a close. I kneel as the bells are tolled. It goes on for a long time. People are weeping around me. I weep too, but realize that I am full of

Joy.

I wait for my priest outside the sacristy. He comes out of the robing room and tells me that the Bishop will hear my confession.

I go into the robing room. There are no confessionals at Grace. The Bishop stands to greet me. There is a chair for me. I sit.

"I feel unprepared, Bishop" I say.

"How so?" he asks.

"I feel like my sins were all forgiven last night. I am not sure I can make a thorough and accurate confession today." I explain about the Altar of Repose.

"Do you wish to continue?" He asks."You don't have to."

I tell him, yes, I want to. I am not sure why.

So we begin. I kneel on a cushion next to the chair and I try to be as searching and as thorough as I can. I mumble a few things. I feel remorseful as I say them, but it is like a retroactive confession. Jesus has already washed me clean.

Finally, I just fall silent. I am praying: Lord, if there is more that you want me to say, please help me remember.

Nothing.

I can't speak for a long time. I wonder if the Bishop is uncomfortable in the silence. Or impatient to get home. Or bored. Or as dumbstruck as I am.

I finally manage to finish.

It is finished.

I am absolved.

I am asked to pray for the Bishop, a sinner, like me.

A man forgiven. Like me.

A man of God.

Like me.

We embrace, say goodbye, go on our way.

For me, Easter came early this year.

Sweet Jesus at the altar

Maundy Thursday:

Only one person signed up for the overnight vigil at the Altar of Repose and she didn't show.

A few emails back and forth between me and my fellow 'altar' coordinator. I agreed to sit the vigil between 10:30pm and 1am. He would sit until 10:30. We'd see if we could find some other folks to sign up at the Maundy Thursday service. I made a few calls and left messages. We agreed that we might have to close the church early if no one came.

I left immediately after the service on Thursday and drove to Cumberland for the monthly drum circle. I know it was weird, book-ending two of the most solemn events of the Triduum with some raucous djembe playing, but I decided, by golly, that if I was going to sit the vigil for hours on end, I might need to blow off a little steam first.

Drumming ended at 10. I raced back to church and entered through the side door. There were two people sitting in the Messiah Chapel. My friend, James, and a man I didn't know.

The big stone altar under the carved image of Jesus was covered with twinkling votive lights and tall glass vases, each with a single stem of some kind of pure white flower. In front of the chalice that contained the consecrated host, there was a red votive light. The church was chilly and quiet. The two men were sitting quietly, in silence.

My new cell phone died, so I had no idea of the time as I sat in the pew. I think hours creeped by.

I wanted to get closer to the consecrated host, so I grabbed a needlepoint kneeling cushion from the rail of the little chapel and moved it to the base of the stone altar on which the chalice was resting. I sat at the base of the altar, my back leaning against it. I closed my eyes and felt like I was in Gethsemane. But strangely, I didn't feel anguish or sadness like I usually do while sitting the Vigil. Instead, I felt a sense of calm, love, forgiveness. Love. I felt like I should be praying, but I kept saying to myself

'Lord, I ask you for nothing. I just want to love you. I just want to love you.'

There was a knock at the side door. My friend Vera arrived. It was midnight.

I went back to my seat at the base of the altar. I was in shadow, so I don't think I was distracting to the others. Eventually James and the other man left.

I sat at his feet. I leaned against the stone.

Just let me love you, Lord.

I wanted to kiss the chalice that held the host, but I was afraid I'd knock it over or get lipstick on the beautiful white embroidered cover.

So I just sat at his feet. Just let me love you, Lord. Nothing else. Just love you.

I felt a great sense of joy that I could sit like this. I knew that if I was anywhere other than my own Grace church, I'd have to sit in a pew... which is ok, too. But truly, I wanted to be as close to the Host as I could. I wanted to be right there.

Just let me love you Lord. Nothing else.

I got up. Some of the candles had gone out. I gently pulled replacements from the glass bowl they were held in. I gingerly moved the little vases aside and brought the glass votives to the front of the altar, so as not to knock over a vase or disturb the chalice. I replaced the white wax disks and carefully lit them, sliding them back into position.

Just let me love you, Lord. Nothing else.

I sat back down and lay my cheek against the cold stone of the altar. I had been weeping the whole time.

Finally, I heard Vera moving about and opened my eyes. She was standing, looking at the altar, at the carved image of Jesus, at the chalice. I stood up and walked over to her. Gave her a hug. Held her for a moment.

Then the two of us sat on the steps that lead up to the altar and started talking about what Jesus has done for us in our lives. We witnessed to the power of his love. Shared our doubts and fears. Smiled at Jesus' patience with us.

There was a knock at the side door. My friend Paul was standing there, waiting.

It was 3am.

He came in and said that he would stay until dawn.

Vera and I walked out into the cold night, empty streets, full moon. I got in my car and drove home.

Just let me love you, Lord.

Nothing else.

A new Friend

My friend, John, has become a real Friend. This week he joined the Religious Society of Friends.

We have been corresponding for a few years now...and this is a huge shift for him. But lucky for us, he is starting to blog about it, so you can follow the story yourself.

http://friendlyhesychast.blogspot.com

Shrouds

Palm Sunday was a busy day for me. I was playing drums for the procession around the church and I was reading the part of Jesus in the Passion narrative. I was distracted and a little nervous.

Then, I walked into the church and saw all the crosses shrouded in red fabric and truly, I choked. I wanted to just crawl down the aisles on my knees and beg him to forgive us.

I have asked my parish priest to hear my confession on Good Friday and I am almost sick at the thought of sitting for three hours listening to the last words and THEN having to go in there and tell my priest all the crap that I do, day in day out, that holds me back from God.

Oh, Jesus. Your mercy is great.

Holy Week is here.

Ashes to ashes

It has been a tough week around here. My husband's 46 year old sister died, unexpectedly, on Friday, from complications after a mastectomy.

I was out of town at a conference and didn't have my cell phone charged. On Saturday evening I came back and heard the bad news. We are pretty shattered.

This week has been a kind of slow motion process of getting ready for a wake and funeral, and then actually going through it. On Monday night we went to the funeral home and saw her laid out.

I grew up in a culture where death was never faced head on. We didn't do wakes or funerals in my family. At best, we would do some sort of an informal memorial gathering, using weeks or even months after the actual death. Everyone was quietly cremated. We never saw the body. We never went to church. We never did any of that.

I have come to feel that it is better to just come face to face with it. There was something beautiful and extraordinary about touching my sister in law's body. Holding her hand. Runny my hands over her hair. Kissing her forehead. Smoothing her dress. Her flesh was cold. There was no life there. But those were the exact things we would have done in life and it was comforting, even as we knew that she was already in the arms of God.

Chau was loved deeply. At 9 months old, she had slipped from death's fingers when she survived a terrible illness. She didn't escape unscathed, however. Her brain was permanently and profoundly damaged from the fever. She had epilepsy. She was paralyzed on one side of her body. She was mute. She probably understood at about a 3 year old's level. In a family that is uncomfortable with physical affection, she was always doted on and adored. She loved kids and they loved her. My niece, from the time she was an infant, was incredibly attached to her. Chau would even share her dolls with Emma. It was a sweet relationship.

At Swan Point Cemetery, in Providence, they let you go to the cremation. So after the wake and the mass yesterday, this morning found us on a rainy, cold day, saying a last goodbye. We arrived at the chapel early and sat waiting. She arrived in a big cardboard box, which made me smile a little. The funeral home guys wheeled the box in on a cart and stood back to let us have some time with her. We took off the lid to have a last moment. Then we followed her into the room, watched as they loaded her into the furnace and my brother in law pressed the button to start the process.

Later, as I sat with my boys, I asked if they were scared about it. No, they said. I reminded them about what we heard on Ash Wednesday, that God makes us from dust and to dust we return.

Chau is not dust. She is in Heaven with God.

Thank you, Jesus, for the 46 years. We know they were a gift.

Banh Xiao

 

Nguyen took this picture last time he was in Vietnam. It of a girl making the pancakes I keep talking about.

Crash landing

My parents said that they got very depressed when they got back to Newfoundland after the trip to Vietnam.

I was too busy to be depressed, but today, finally, it hit. I just feel... ugh.

Luckily, my drumming class is tonight and I hope it will pick up my spirits.

In the mean time, a couple of stories from the trip:


An afternoon in.

We wanted to stay in the hotel, one lunchtime, because we were all tired and going into the streets in Nha Trang was, in itself, exhausting sometimes. Nguyen went to the lady that made banh xiao, the little rice flour pancakes stuffed with seafood and dipped into fish sauce. A few minutes later he came back with enough for each of us to have 4 of them. And 6 china bowls for the fish sauce. And 6 china plates for the banh xiao. And 6 pairs of chopsticks. And a plastic bag with the liquid sauce in it. And another with the lettuce and cilantro and hot peppers. The lady must have thought he was a little crazy to ask for 24 banh xiao to go, but by this point he was a regular, so she entrusted him with all the gear on his word he would bring it all back, clean. Which he did, of course. (We washed it all in the sink of our hotel room!)

The total cost was less than $5.

Portraits

I never felt comfortable photographing the locals because it felt a little intrusive. But Nguyen had no such hesitation.

One morning he went to the market near our hotel in Saigon and started taking photos of the ladies in the food stalls. They must have thought he was Japanese because of his big camera! So they started joking about him in Vietnamese, saying he should pay them 5000 dong each to take their pictures. He laughed and said, "how about 10,000?" (about 65 cents) They were a little embarrassed he understood them, but told him that tourists often take pictures in the market, but never come back with the photos.

Nguyen came back to hotel and found a photo processor across the street. While we mosied around the neighborhood, the store was making prints from our digital card. A couple of hours later, the kids, Nguyen and I returned to the market and started handing out the pictures. The ladies laughed their heads off! And were so thrilled, too. They fussed over the kids and asked me lots of questions that I didn't understand. Some of the ladies who didn't get pictures were disappointed, so we promised to come back some day and take their pictures, too.

Today's lunch.

I miss the food in Vietnam, so today for lunch I made a little stir fried beef with Chinese broccoli and noodles. It took me about 10 minutes, cost less than a McDonald's lunch and tasted almost as good as the street stall noodles I ate in Nha Trang. Plus, I used less than 3 ounces of beef, so I have plenty for dinner tonight, too.

Screw the South Beach diet.

48 hours and then some

So, jet lag isn't just that you are tired. It's that you wake up at 2 am and can't get back to sleep because your body thinks it is 2pm and wants some good noodles for lunch. Which of course would be impossible to get, even if the restaurants were open, which they are not, because food in the United States just isn't as good.

It is a simple fact that everything we have eaten since coming back has more or less been a disappointment. Even our own home made breakfast today, with eggs which were likely laid a month ago, was terrible.

We got back very late on Wednesday night, exactly 27 hours after we were supposed to, because our 747 jumbo jet to Hong Kong had some unexplained mechanical problem and they ended up canceling our flight on Tuesday morning. United Airlines seemed like they had no clue how to handle the situation. (400 frustrated passengers!) But they eventually sent us off to the swankiest hotel in Sai Gon with meal vouchers and taxi fare and promised to get in touch with us with further instructions.

The New World Hotel is the very one that Bill Clinton stayed in when he visited Viet Nam a few years ago, and happens to be right across the street from the very modest place we stayed for our first two nights in Sai Gon. So it literally felt like the chickens had come home to roost. (And yes, there ARE chickens in downtown Sai Gon, LOL.)

The New World has the most beautiful swimming pool I have ever seen. It is designed so the water is at the exact same level as the tile patio surrounding it. The whole area was filled with tropical plants and chaise lounges, big white umbrellas and beautiful fluffy blue towels. The water was about 85 degrees, which is to say hot as a tub, but since the air on Tuesday was in the high 90s, it was actually refreshing.

The boys wanted to use our 'lost day' for hanging at the pool. Nguyen was on a quest for his last street vendor meals. He had visited the Banh Xiao stall the day before and wanted another go at it. This one, he said, had curry in it, which made the rice flour pancake yellow. It was the size of a dinner plate and stuffed with bean sprouts and shrimp, pork and squid. He took off for the afternoon while the kids and I took naps.

Which is a darn good thing, because United left us a message that we were to get up a 3am and take a cab to the airport for a 5am check in.

So, for the second day in a row we were up WAY before dawn. We got to the airport and all 400 displaced passengers, with our mountains of luggage, were in line trying to find out if we were going to get home today.

United got us seats on Cathay Pacific for the long leg from Hong Kong to San Fransisco. And United could take care of us for the rest of the flights. (4 altogether!)

From the time we got up to the time we got to our front door, we had been traveling for 33 hours. Yesterday I slept until 2:30 pm.

We are home. But oddly, we don't feel like we are home. Our house seems strange to us. Overstuffed with stuff we don't really need. Big. (Which is funny because it has always seemed too small.) It is strangely silent here. The hum of the highway, which used to irritate me no end, is nothing compared to the constant honking of traffic in Viet Nam. At 11pm last night I stepped out of the house and was stunned at how quiet it was.

And the world here, even with it's billboards and signs and cars and traffic and mini malls and STUFF seems, strangely, bare. Where are the street vendors on all the sidewalks? In this neighborhood, where, even, ARE the sidewalks?

The whole time I was in Viet Nam, I felt unable to really say much about it. The experience was so huge in the experiencing of it, it seemed impossible to distance myself enough to really look at it and take it in. I wonder if that will change now that we are back.

Last night we looked at some of the photos and I am very glad we took so many, because truly, I had already forgotten so much.

We are home. Sort of.



Thanks to all for your comments along the way. I finally got a chance to read them this morning and it moves me to know that you all were with me on this amazing journey. I am sure that I will be writing about it more, as I process it.

Rain in Nha Trang

It has been raining since my parents left, but we are still having a great time in Nha Trang. The other night, my new-to-me sister in law took us out to dinner. It just so happened that she chose the place we have been going for coffee and breakfast every morning, so we were already regulars!

It was a great evening. We were joined by her uncle, who works for the train department. This was fortuitous, as Nguyen and I were trying to get 1st class train tickets to Saigon for tomorrow, but discovered that they were sold out. I am a little embarrassed to admit that we took advantage of the connection and let Nguyen's brother ask about securing us seats. The train guy/uncle got on the phone to try and get us tickets.

Dinner wasn't really dinner, but more a series of stunningly delectable appetizers and tons of beer. At first we were fairly moderate, having a round, then another. The Vietnamese drink their beer with ice, but Nguyen and I drink it straight. Luckily it was good and cold. We prefered Saigon to Heineken. The dishes served ranged from very simple (stir fried corn kernals with chili peppers, pork and green onions) to complex (shrimp spring rolls wrapped in a kind of rice paper netting I have never seen before. They were incredible.) We had little clams with garlic and panko breadcrumb topping, cuttlefish steamed and served with soy sauce, stir fried noodles (for the kids... they are now, officially, addicted to them) and, well, beer.

As the evening wore on, I noticed that my lack of Vietnamese seemed less and less important. We were laughing and relaxing and having a grand time. The train guy, it turned out, wasn't a typical lower ranking party guy at all. He was brought up in the South and vehemently opposed the communist government, even trying to escape the country several times. Once, he actually almost made it, but had a change of heart as he realized that he would never see his mother again, so he came back and decided to make the best of it. And he has been very successful. Now he pins his hopes for the future of his country on his children and their generation. And as Vietnam is the fastest growing economy in Asia, I'd say he has reason to be hopeful.

The waitress brought a case of beer and left it at the end of the table. I start splitting beers with Nguyen so that we are only drinking half what my brother in law and the train guy are having. And still, my lightweight husband starts getting pretty plastered. But he says to me that this is a right of passage that he missed because he had to leave the country when he was so young. I laugh and agree to help him stagger back to the hotel later.

"You can put this in your blog," he says. And here it is.

Where are the kids, you ask? For the last couple of nights, they have been invited to spend the night at my in laws. We were happily suprised to find that the boys have a 10 year old cousin who is visiting from Australia with his mom and baby sister. Vincent is a very sweet boy and the kids get along famously. And older cousin Tam watches over all of them. So they are safely off at Pop's house.

The restaurant is beautiful. It is really just a big thatched roof with rust colored columns and a big tile floor. In Vietnam, there is very little distinction between the inside and outdoors. It surprises me that there are no walls at this place. Everything is just wide open. There is a patio with a canvas awning which abuts the sea wall, so we are just feet from the pounding surf. It is one of the few places in Nha Trang that you don't hear the roar of traffic, which is why we have grown to love it for breakfast. And the bathrooms are beautiful! They are housed in a separate building. I told Nguyen that if I ever build a house in Vietnam, I want it to be like those bathrooms. Brown tile floors, ochre yellow walls, a thatched roof and dark wood trim.

Finally, Nguyen says he is ready to go back to the hotel. We survey the damage. A case of beer bottles, several empty plates... big, big, smiles.

And 4 first class train tickets to Saigon.

A down day in Nha Trang

My parents left today, and I confess I am feeling melancholy about it. Their flight leaves Nha Trang in a few minutes and we won't see them again until May.

Noah and I also had a bit of tummy trouble today. Nothing serious, but we just didn't feel up to speed. So we skipped the trip to the aquarium and spent the last couple of hours lying in our room watching Animal Planet on tv. For lunch, Nguyen brought us a couple of loaves of French bread, right from the oven. They were still warm and were a great choice.

This has been an extraordinary trip so far. We have packed our days, and today was no exception. Before they left for the airport, we went with my parents to the Cham temple at the top of the hill in the neighborhood we are in. It is a beautiful place. The towers are from the 9th century and 4 of the 8 of them survive. Originally Hindu, they are now a mixture of Hindu and Buddhist. Inside each tower is a diety, to which pilgrims light incense and leave offerings. 3 of the towers are really small, and one is quite large. I left my shoes at the door of one of the small ones, as requested, and entered. It was filled with incense smoke and the interior walls were black from 11 centuries of smoke. The diety presiding inside was a stone depiction of a woman, I think, who was dressed in actual cloth clothing. The incense sticks were in a package next to a burner filled with sand, so I drew one out and said a little prayer to my God for the safe travel of my parents, and my thanks for such a wonderful, life changing trip. Then I lit the stick and poked it in the sand with the dozens of others.

Outside one of the towers, a trio of Cham musicians were playing. There was a flute player and two drummers playing traditional Cham drums. The drums intriqued me, of course. They are wooden cylinders, about 2 1/2 feet long. The musicians play both ends at once. On one end, they use a stick.... on the other, their hand. During a break, I squatted beside them and peppered them with questions, which Nguyen translated. The drums they were playing were so old they had no idea when they were made. The end they play with sticks is made of buffalo hide. The other end is goatskin. The ropes holding the heads on are also buffalo. The drums sounded beautiful. I asked one of the drummers if he knew of anyone still making these drums and it turned out that his brother does. Unfortunately, the brother lives in the mountains, several days journey away, so there is no way I can buy one. I said I would love to take a lesson from him some day. He said he would teach me to play and then make a recording for me so I could practice. Just like Sidy!

I asked the drummers if the rhythms had dances associated with them. At that, the drummers called over several women who were dressed in traditional highland garb. They began to play a different rhythm and the women danced for us. We were simply thrilled. Like African music, the rhythm changed in the song to indicate a change in dance steps. And like African music, the two drums were playing different rhythms which layered together into a very complex and beautiful piece.

Nguyen took a ton of photos, so as soon as we are home I'll post some of them. Talking with those Cham drummers was really a highlight for me!

But my tummy is still bothering me and my parents left today. I am going to miss them terribly.