chinese spaghetti

Yesterday I drove to central Austin to pick up a Chinese woman we are hosting in our home this week.

I was a little nervous.

I really knew very little about her. I knew her name is Esther, that she speaks very little English, that she brought orphans from China to visit America and meet prospective parents, and that she is four months pregnant.

My thoughts all orbited around her pregnant state. I’ve been pregnant enough times to know that visiting a foreign country, staying with strangers, and having difficulty speaking the language would not be ideal.

My heart ached to be able to make her comfortable in our home.

I had shopped for ingredients to make spaghetti for dinner and we had invited some friends over for dinner later to broaden the party. I crossed my fingers that Pioneer Woman recipes would be cross-cultural.

When I got to the host house she stayed at last week, there was one bit of information passed on to me: Esther doesn’t like pizza.

Snap. Pizza is a little too similar to spaghetti for me not to be worried at this point.

We all climbed into my car and headed home. We downloaded a translator for our phones (talk about a godsend!) and learned all sorts of things from each other. I chopped onion and garlic, stirred tomatoes and parsley, and prayed that my food wouldn’t make this sweet pregnant woman ill.

When it was time to dish plates she looked in the pot of sauce and said, “Cow?”

I nodded yes, and she smiled wide and gave me a thumbs up.

Esther took a picture of her plate of food, and I wondered if she was sending it to her husband to show him the crazy stuff she has to eat in America. But I chose to believe it was because she is one of those people who posts photos of every meal on Instagram, and documenting it has nothing to do with the fact that it looks like alien food to her.

She ate and was happy. I thought I might cry for joy.

As I crawled into bed last night, I realized why my heart is so tender toward Esther.

I often feel like a foreigner, as I seek to live for the King of a country I cannot see. I don’t always understand how to say what I feel, or translate the language of God into the language of the people around me. I sleep and eat and live here, but my true home is far away in heaven.

1 Peter 2:11-12 wells up from deep within me:

“Dear friends, I urge you, as foreigners and exiles, to abstain from sinful desires, which wage war against your soul. Live such good lives among the pagans that, though they accuse you of doing wrong, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day he visits us.”

My prayer is that Esther sees our love for God and for her, witnesses our good deeds and glorifies God. Wouldn’t that be amazing- even more amazing than Pioneer Woman recipes being cross-cultural?

Today I’m taking her out for shaved ice and a trip to the library. We have quite a week ahead of us. And I can’t wait to see all God does….