Orbits Collide

There are times when orbits collide. It is no coincidence. It is the hand of Him.

Last week at Beida (where Matt and I teach) we were holding our bowls of vittles in the teacher's cafeteria, standing awkwardly looking for a place to sit - socially naked, like two freshman girls on the first day of high school.

There were no tables open.

So Werner and I sidled up to a man eating kung pao chicken in solitude. We introduced ourselves, but it was clear that the Kung Pao Chicken Man was not an English speaker. Plus, even if he was a Shakespearian scholar and was as smooth a speaker as George W. Bush, it still would have been a quiet meal. You see, Beijing men don’t just eat, they eat with purpose. Both elbows are anchored to the table for stability, back bent at 72 degrees to ensure a quick bowl to mouth voyage, neck bent southward, eyes focused on the prize. These men do not eat for enjoyment, they do so for survival – there is a primal competitiveness in how they slurp, suckle, and swallow. I am in awe. Anyway as the Kung Pao Chicken Man is inhaling his food, a young lady stops by our table and starts talking to the Kung Pao Chicken Man.

They must be friends.

She introduces herself to us. She speaks in near flawless English. Her name is Nancy (not really, but I’d rather not use her real name). Nancy sits down with Matt and I as we chat about everything from our favorite Beijing foods, to her year abroad in England, to our families. I told her about studies that we lead, how we speak English and talk about Him. She said she was curious.

We ate lunch with Nancy two more times that week. I asked if she would be interested in coming to Tuesday night study. She said, “Giddiup.” (Actually she said, “Yes,” but “Giddiup” has a bit more pizzazz.) So I picked up my friend from the subway and brought her to our study and we sat in a circle of 17 friends and explored a beautiful story about a rebellious son who leaves home in a fit of arrogance and returns smelling like a pig; and his father is waiting for him, and when he’s a long way off the father runs to him with tears streaking down his cheeks and embraces the one who had spat in his face and whispers, “Welcome home.”

There were no tables open in the cafeteria that afternoon.

It was no coincidence that Matt and I sat with the Kung Pao Chicken Man. He wanted us to sit there, so that our orbits would collide with Nancy’s. Hopefully there will be eternal ripples…

- m -