HTML clipboard 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