Susan LaffertyFitting in when you enter a new culture can be a challenge.
My parents grew up in America and moved to Asia. Learned language and culture to fit in.
I grew up in Indonesia and loved the place of my childhood and teenage years. I spoke the language, played their games, knew how to bargain with the best. Had dear Indonesian friends.
But I wasn’t Indonesian.
Every four years we came and spent a year in the country of my passport. America.
I wasn’t sure I was American either.
Specific names. Or initials. Scribbled in ink. Indelible. On lined paper in plastic-bound journals bought at the local bazaar.
Thirty years later I’m reading the pages. Details about our encounters with them.
Conversations. Situations.
Prayer requests recorded. Hospitalizations. Heartaches. Crises. Losses. Spiritual confusion.
The servants know.
They’re going about assigned duties. Ordinary behind-the-scenes labor. Keeping food and drink flowing at the wedding feast.
But then the unthinkable happens.
“They have no wine” (John 2:3).
