I stepped out of the car with much difficulty.  I was dressed in wedding guest finery complete with high heeled shoes, but I stepped out onto a pitted field of ankle high grass on a sharply sloping hillside, smack dab in the middle of what seemed like nowhere in the countryside of Madagascar.  Every muscle in my body ached after that horrendous four hour drive over roads that never should have been roads.  Four times I had to stop the car, wait for Barry (who was driving the lead car) to notice, and then beg him to drive my car also over a treacherous spot while I endured the laughter of my passengers (the groom’s family and friends). 
            These are the times when it really hits.  I am a missionary, surrounded by strangeness on all sides.  “What possible good can I do here?” I ask myself.  Then I notice.  The wedding family are not getting out of the car.  I reach in, smile, and flip the seat forward waiting for them to get out, but they flip the seat back upright and refuse to get out.  I’m confused but feel that maybe I’m intruding on a last talk between momma and the groom-to-be, so I walk a little distance off and wait.  Two hours later and still standing in the field I’m asking myself, “Will there be a wedding today or not?”  Although there are many people, some dressed in wedding duds and some in rags, milling about the edges of this village, I see no organization, no procession to the church, no church for that matter.  No one feels the need to explain anything to me. I’ve just about decided that I’m in the middle of a bad dream when with no visible cue, the groom and his mother hop out of the car.  I rush to lock doors before I’m pushed along by the crowd into the narrow courtyard of three different houses and before I know it, without a word of explanation from anyone, I find myself herded along with about fifty other people right into a teeny tiny room of a house that has been freshly mudded. 
            Barry and I are separated by dozens of guests, so I can’t ask him what I should do.  Havilah is hanging onto one of my arms afraid of getting lost in the shove.  I look to my left and there stands the groom and his brother so I opt not to go stand with them figuring I would be in the way.  I look straight ahead, and there is the groom’s mother motioning me to come get behind her.  That confuses me too, but as I head across the five foot gap, a little old lady rushes forward, grabs my arm, and tries to propel me toward the groom again.  No, I shake my head, I don’t want the place of honor.  Just let me stand somewhere in the background.  She gives up and I head across to the groom’s mom who is still frantically motioning me to get behind her.  Just as quickly as I get situated, the ceremony starts.  The bride is nowhere in sight.  First order of a Malagasy wedding.  The groom’s brother must introduce his entire family to the family of the bride.  That’s when I discover, much to my shame, that when I was arguing with the little old lady about not wanting the place of honor, I unsuspectingly placed myself right smack in the place I least wanted to be, right between the family of the bride and the family of the groom.  It would be like insisting on standing right between the bride and groom at an American wedding. 
            I can count on it every time.  One giant mistake sure to be made by me at every social gathering to which we are invited.  I wonder how I ever can influence these people if I keep inadvertently offending them.  No one complains.  No one gets angry with me.  No one even laughs.  It’s too gross a mistake to even laugh at.  Besides, Malagasy are too polite to correct my mistakes.  They just bear the embarrassment and go on, probably assuring themselves in the privacy of their own homes that after all, I’m just an ignorant missionary.
            Just for once, I wish someone would explain the program before it gets started so I could understand things like where I should stand, when the event will take place, why so-and-so is doing such-and-such, why the groom refuses to get out of the car, and why we drive for four hours, wait in a field for an additional two, and then hurry up to get finished quickly.  Just for once I would love to attend a public gathering without making a fool of myself, and I could, if they would only explain why. 
            I don’t think they understand how difficult it is for us.  We not only have to decipher the vocabulary of a strange language while those around us talk at lightening speed, but in Madagascar (as it was in Kenya) one is forced to make an educated guess anyway (once we’ve figured out the words) concerning the real meaning of any given statement, since it is considered impolite to say anything directly. 
            I remember another wedding when I brought the best man’s big speech to a complete standstill because I didn’t get his joke.  The entire reception room came to immediate silence because I didn’t laugh at the appropriate time.  Who would have thought they would have noticed that in a room filled with two hundred people?  The speaker stopped in amazement.  The person next to me leaned forward and asked if I understood.  I politely asked him to repeat the joke.  He repeated while two hundred odd people waited. 
            “I understand the words but I don’t see what’s funny,”  I replied in all honesty. 
            “No. You didn’t understand our Malagasy,” they were quick to reply.  They waited while someone translated.  Still I couldn’t force myself to laugh.  I didn’t understand what was funny.
            “Yes.  I understood the words, but I don’t see what’s funny.”  They could hardly believe I didn’t laugh.  They repeated the joke and tried to explain.  After three attempts they quit trying and the speaker tried to continue his speech, but I don’t think he’ll be giving anymore wedding speeches anytime soon. 
            On top of all that, even a seasoned missionary of 17 years is like a babe in terms of cultural taboos that no one wants to talk about.
            It amazes me really.  They still want to invite us even if they don’t know quite what to do with us once they have us, and when they know that I am inevitably going to make some terrific error that would be near unforgivable from another Malagasy.  And that’s exactly what makes it all worth while.  To get the Savior, they are willing to put up with that silly missionary who always manages to get him or herself into an extremely embarrassing faux pas.   They are quick to forgive and for that I am so thankful.  Sometimes I just wish it would happen to Barry for a change instead of me.
            It is so true, especially on the mission field.  God uses the foolish (namely me) to shame the wise, and he uses the weak (me again) to shame the strong.  I am glad that He is glorified when I play the fool.

The sweetest gift
I remember when Kit was born.  I received two dozen roses from my husband and another nine dozen from various friends.  I also received a two foot high stack of the most precious baby clothes you have ever seen.  But the sweetest gift I received when Kit was born was a pineapple (to strengthen the new mother) carried to my home under the arm of a widow who lived in a bare mud house that didn’t even contain a bed.  This Christmas was much the same.  Gifts abounded, but the sweetest gift we received was a bowl of fresh eggs given by a family who had nothing else to give but wanted to say, “We love you”, with the very best they had.