One day this week

In the past week, the Middle Kingdom celebrated the Qing Ming (Ching Ming) Festival. The festival was Wednesday, but most people had four days off work, and returned to work on Thursday. Here is a story of a “day in the life” of me.

The day after Qing Ming

I breathe a prayer for the day, asking the Lord to open doors of opportunity for me as He sees fit. Then I walk to the street.

I step on a bus so crowded that the driver almost can’t close the door behind me. Though chilly outside, it is stuffy and hot inside the bus, and I wish I had worn fewer layers. I tense my muscles to brace myself -- every two blocks the bus stops, then starts again, sending me lurching backward and forward.

At each stop, more people get on the bus, but no one gets off.

After 30 minutes of this, I am far from my destination, but I am so exhausted from the hot, jolting, overcrowded bus that I get off and take a taxi the rest of the way.

From the bus, I know where to get off, but by taxi I am less sure. I see a cemetery up on a hill, and I think it is the same one I saw yesterday, so I get out of the taxi.

A village lady and her daughter are busy doing some unknown task by the dirt shoulder of the road that fronts their home. I ask her the best way to get to the cemetery. She tells me where the front gate is, but says it is more convenient to take the shortcut. She points to a dirt path leading up the hill.

I decide to take the shortcut. She puts down her armload of green onions and offers to accompany me. We walk up the path, she shows me where the fence is broken, and she holds it back while I crawl through. 

Yesterday was Qing Ming festival. When I went by on a bus yesterday, thousands of people swarmed this cemetery. It looked like a county fair, with balloons, drink and food stands, flower sellers, and, as always, a loud festive atmosphere. I find that strange since the holiday’s purpose is to commemorate, even worship, the dead. But it is hard to have a quiet festival when thousands of people who need to eat, drink and entertain the young in their midst are all in a relatively small space at the same time.

The hillside

Cemeteries in the Middle Kingdom are often built on the side of a hill or mountain, giving the dead good feng shui – a good view. This cemetery has headstones much like I would see at a cemetery in Texas. Almost all the headstones are for those who have passed away since the turn of the century twelve years ago.

Most graves are decorated with colorful paper strips, anchored by a brick on top of the grave, blowing in the wind to ward off evil spirits that might be lurking in the graveyard.

A few have tiny candles that were burned in the past week. A few have wilted flower bouquets set upon them.

Bodies are required to be cremated (due to lack of land), so the cemetery plots are not large.

Trash from yesterday’s crowd is everywhere.

I find I am alone on the mountain. Or so I think.

After a while I turn a corner and see a man, about age 60, enhancing the faded characters on his grandparents’ graves with a thin brush and a fresh coat of paint.

I snap photos here and there. No one sees me, so no one is offended.

Cemeteries often rouse introspective thoughts of the meaning of life and death, but today, for me, it just makes me curious why so many people in this country think they should worship their dead parents and grandparents. Is it not enough to remember them and respect them? Must they really worship them and provide them gifts for the afterlife?

Exiting through the entrance

I descend the mountain through the main entrance. A couple of men in chairs don’t seem surprised to see a white foreigner at the cemetery, though surely they are. Initially they look unfriendly, but when I speak to them in their language, their faces brighten and they start to talk to me.

There are two burning furnaces at the entrance, with a cartoon-like drawing of the “earth god” in between them.

A carload of rich people drive up while I am there. They bring their paper gifts (fake paper money, paper cars, paper homes, paper iPhones, etc.), stuff them in a a big red paper bag, then shove them in the huge furnace, where they will burn and be an “offering” to the dead that can supposedly be used in the afterlife. The rich people don’t look sad or concerned, they just look like they are going through the motions, doing their filial duty, albeit it a day late. (Apparently it can be done 3 days after the holiday without making the ancestors too cranky.)

They probably will walk up the hill and lay flowers at the gravesite, but I am about to leave, so I don’t know what they end up doing.

A cup of water

A lady wearing a navy suit (her work uniform) is thrilled to see a foreigner at the cemetery. She says she works in the cemetery office. Would I like a drink of hot water? I thank her and tell her I have a bottle of water in my backpack.  But knowing there will be no taxis, and the bus back home may take several hours, I ask if other facilities are available. There are. And they are clean!

She insists I take glutinous rice cakes wrapped in banana leaves with me on my journey back towards town. In fact, her coworkers have all come to check me out, and they insist I taste the treats before I leave. I already know I don’t like these “zongzi,” but I take a bite and say “hmmm!” as is expected of me.

“You are going to eat lunch here!” the lady, Mrs. Xu, proclaims.

“No, I really need to be going now,” I say. I remember my morning prayer, but am just a little freaked out about the weirdness of what’s going down, and wonder if this could possibly be part of His plan. I push my prayer to the back of my mind.

“No! Eat first,” she politely protests.

I even try walking out, but she grabs my arms, pulls me back in and sits me down on a bench at a square table. Apparently this is God’s plan for my day.

Mind you, I DON’T EVEN KNOW THESE PEOPLE.

Two meat and veggies dishes (one a curious mystery meat) and a small bowl of rice are set before me.

The verse from Luke 14 about going to villages, finding persons of peace and eating what is set before you comes to mind.

“Aren’t you going to eat too?” I ask.

“No,” she says cheerily. “We already ate.” But they want me to eat, so six people in navy work uniforms stand and watch me eat, laughing and commenting on my superb chopstick skills.

After lunch, they want me to sit around and drink tea with them in their offices, so I do that too.

This scenario is all so bizarre when I think about it in terms of my American culture, yet for this country it is so familiar. When I lived in Bedrock, this kind of thing happened a lot. This is the first time it has happened in Bamboo Forest though.

I tell the employees that Good Friday and Easter are coming up. I explain about Jesus dying on the cross for our sins and coming back to life after the third day. One lady has heard this before and is familiar with my story. The others look at me politely, yet I can tell they think I have lost my mind for believing someone could rise from the dead. Kind of like I think they are crazy for thinking an iPhone can be transferred via smoke to another world for use by their grandparents.

So there we sit, worlds apart in the way we view life and death.

I don’t know what God has done in their hearts before I arrive, or what He will do in their hearts after I leave. I just share what I can, when I can, hoping the piece of the puzzle I share with them will help lead them, someday, to a complete picture of the Truth.

Returning

We finally say our goodbyes, and they invite me to come again soon.

I go to the side of the road, the bus comes, and I get on. Again, it is crowded. And I have a muscle ailment that is not aided by jolting buses. But I have to stick it out because there are no taxis out this way. I breathe down the bus driver’s neck, my backpack interferes with the stick shift, and someone’s arm rests on the back of my neck because the person has no where else to put it. I feel like I am in a vise grip. I want to scream or at least jump off the bus, but about half way back, a bunch of people get off and I actually get a seat – which I eventually give up for an elderly couple who look to be in their 80s.

I get to my apartment, open the door, and am greeted by the wagging tail of a dog who just woke up from a long nap. I take her for a walk, make a pot of soup, and call it a day.

Oh, what a day.