The invitations to sit and eat were expected. After all, it was the third time I walked through the middle of the wedding tent in twelve hours. I continually said no, forcing myself to the sides, until one lady literally put a plate in my hands. Yes, I guess I can sit and eat.
It turns out the woman was a neighbor The same woman who drove me to town the first time I went by myself, stopping me on the side of the road and telling me to get in. She wants to practice English but thinks its funny I speak Malay, so we use that instead.
The food is delicious. It always is for weddings, when the family of the bride spends all night preparing the might before. As I try to eat quickly, we talk. Her excitement is infectious. I find myself answering so many questions about myself, and asking just as many in return. As we talk about siblings, I find myself explaining the difference between middle and center. I am the middle child in my family, not the center child. This is the center of the table.
The mother of the bride, the host, comes to join us. She was a math teacher at the school who now works in administration. I want to ask her about the Jireh Home kids that she taught last year. Ask her about the school system. Instead we talk about both of her daughters whose double wedding we are celebrating, and how beautiful the tents, decorations and of course brides are. The woman's love for her daughters and her family is powerfully obvious.
Her husband joins us and I learn how to say eat in their tribe's language. I try their favorite traditional kuih (cake/snack) and tell them I have to go. Jireh Home has a function. I have to shower. I thank them in Malay and kirim salam, which is how people show respect. I think I should press the woman's hand to my forehead, but don't know if culturally its okay. Instead I touch my heart and give the most grateful smile I can manage.
After ten months here, I guess its never to late to meet the neighbors.
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