Flower sprays, the most elaborate casket I’ve ever laid my eyes on, endless amounts of food, monks speaking prayers foreign to my ears, and countless people bowing in respect as Buddha is worshipped.
It’s 8:15PM on Sunday night, and I’m typing this from a Buddhist funeral. Yes, a funeral service I was made aware of 2 hours prior to leaving our apartment. Why are we attending a funeral? Well, because of me.
I am teaching English to 5th and 6th graders this month at a Buddhist school 1 mile from my apartment. The teacher of the 6th grade class lost her husband in a car accident on Friday night/ early Saturday morning.
God works in mysterious ways because I happened to be at a night of prayer from 6-12 on Friday night that my ministry host was hosting. 12 turned into 1:30AM. On our way from church to our apartment, we passed an accident. At the scene, I noticed a familiar onlooker, the male 5th grade teacher but thought nothing of the coincidence.
Now, as I sit here in unfamiliar waters, I pray the seeds planted in this community begin to be watered and flourish. I pray that God receive the glory from the presence of four light skinned Americans and one Canadian. I pray that the teacher, who fell into my tight embrace and allowed me to gently kiss her cheek, felt the warmth and unconditional love of my Heavenly Father during the 60 second squeeze.
