The wind blows gently, as the haze above Hanoi blocks out the sun.  Night will be here soon.  I can smell an assortment of odors wafting my way.  Some good, some not.  Noodles are being cooked 15 feet over to my right.  People sit on short stools, on the sidewalk, eating and talking.

Outside of my apartment, I sit too, on the raised concrete step in front of my landlord's little store.  Bicycles, motorbikes, and a few cars fill the paved streets.  Dust fills the air as horns echo throughout this noisy city.  The concrete sidewalks are busy with old ladies and young women who come in from the countryside.  They're trying to sell their vegetables, eggs, bread and other such things.  Their skin is dark from years under the sun, and the dirt under their toenails reveals a life more concerned with survival than with glamour.

A few ladies squat to wash dishes close by me.  I sit amazed at how they can squat for so long.  Five feet to my left stands a small table.  Men are gathered around it, drinking tea, smoking cigarettes, and some puffing on a large bamboo pipe that strongly resembles a marijuana bong.  They laugh at some joke passed among them.  Their grins reveal years of smoking and decades of dental neglect.

Just out in front of me is Lu, my neighbor's dog.  He's their prisoner, chained to his tree; but he's also their friend, not an item on the menu.  He looks at me with his soft brown eyes, as if to say that I should let him go free.  I think about it, then resist.

A kid approaches, calling me "Uncle" in Vietnamese.  His name is Tom and he's three years old.  He crawls in my lap, and starts playing with my nose, as is his custom with me.  He reaches up and feels of my nose, saying "soft nose."  He laughs as though I've just tickled his feet.  I laugh, pinch his nose, and repeat his words in Vietnamese. 

Tom runs off, but he'll be back before long, wanting me to hold him again.  And I'll be glad when he returns. 

Then the neighborhood kids surround me.  They use simple Vietnamese words because they know the foreigner can't handle complex ones.  Their ages are 13, 10, 7, and 3.  And none speak English.  I like them all, but Tom's my favorite.  He's not only cute, he's extra kind to me.  I think I could even learn a thing or two from his gentle heart.  But sometimes he corrects my pronunciation.  It's humbling to be outdone in your language skills by a three-year old.  But he's my friend.  He likes my nose and I like him. 

I move over to the tea stand, where I get to know the adults.  I order tea and the cup looks dirty.  Maybe that's because it hasn't been washed with soap all day.  I try not to look at the cup or think about who might have drunk out of it in the last few hours.  I take a sip and the bitterness causes my forehead to furl.  I close my eyes and swallow, saying a prayer for protection, and hoping I'll learn to enjoy this stuff before it kills me.  Surely if I drink this tea enough, I'll get used to it, I tell myself.  My tongue is never ready though.  Bitter!  Always bitter.

Tom's dad, Hom takes me across the street to buy me a high-powered coffee.  I don't like coffee or the tea they serve here, but I like him.  He seems to enjoy talking to me as much as I like talking with him. 

After my coffee, and a couple of hours of chit-chat in Vietnamese, I thank him, say goodnight, and head for my room.  It's dark now, cool but not cold.  A light rain begins to fall.  Before I get to my place, my landlord invites me to lunch tomorrow.  I agree and make my way inside.  It's time for bed (although the caffeine will keep me awake for a few hours). 

I lie in bed, thinking about how ironic life is here.  I came to help them, yet, more often than not, they help me.  I came to tell them the good news, yet sometimes they are better news to me than I am to them.  I get frustrated with their traffic.  I often think they are uncivilized and backwards in their business practices.  Then they honor me, and I'm humbled.  I have more money than many of my friends combined, yet they are always giving things to me.  I'm supposed to be teaching them, but they're teaching me patience and hospitality. 

I think how different they are from me.  They're short.  They have flat noses.  They're poor.  And sometimes they stink.  And too frequently, they pick their noses in public. 

Then, I marvel at how much they have in common with my culture.  The old people want respect.  The young guys like flirting with the girls.  The girls like it when they do.  The kids like eating candy and playing with toy swords.  Mothers and fathers want their children to be safe.  They get tired from a hard day's work.  They hurt when life turns bitter.  They love TV.  And they desperately want to be happy. 

I think of these people who know little about Christ, and I shake my head.  But not at them, at me.  They worship idols and ancestors.  I worship the God of the Bible and sometimes feel further from him than these people seem.  From time to time, I see in them evidence that God arrived here long before I did, because often they are more kind to me than I am to them.

I know that they will never meet God just by doing the best they can.  They must hear the gospel and believe to be saved.  But it's fascinating to see some Christ-like traits in them, even if they're ignorant of him. 

I will keep telling them about Christ.  But, sometimes I have to stop and take note.  I occasionally even have to take lessons on gentleness from my three-year-old friend.

March 2001