Lang gracefully made her way across our living room, out the sliding glass door, and into our backyard. I thought, Her walk is definitely not American. It was a Alice-in-Wonderland walk that seemed to say, I just stepped out of one world into another. I need time to take in all these marvels. I need to hold on to the part of me I left back there. How can I piece together my shattered life?
Several weeks earlier I had agreed to co-sponsor a Vietnamese refugee family. It sounded like an interesting experience, with a minimum of time and financial commitment. We had found five sponsors. Our church family would back us up with contributions, and the resettlement office had a house ready for the family.
Then the day before the refugees arrived we were informed that the house deal had fallen through. So it happened that my husband and I and our two children had the opportunity to share our home with Lang, 32, her brother, Dang, 20, and Lang's three sons, Duc, Hanh, and Trung. During those challenging ten days, words like boat people and refugees changed from strange, almost suspect stories into warm, real human beings.
Lang now lived in her own rented apartment but had come to our house for a visit. As she stepped into our backyard, she exclaimed, "Ooo, flowers?"
"Yes, flowers." I was pleased she knew the word. The roses hadn't been in bloom while she and her family had stayed here. Since then, the April sunshine had energized a dazzling array of flowers.
"I like," Lang exclaimed in her gutteral voice.
"Then I'll pick some for you." I ran to get the clippers.
My mind raced with questions I wanted to ask Lang about her life in her homeland. Did she have flowers there? I usually had to limit my questions to her small English vocabulary. But that day she had a friend with her. He was Phach, a well-educated Vietnamese man. He spoke English fairly well.
As I picked rose buds, Lang spoke to Phach in Vietnamese, pointing to one of the rose bushes. Then Phach turned to me. "That rose there. It has two colors."
"That pink and yellow rose is called a peace rose."
Phach repeated, looking perplexed, "Peace--peach."
I could see him struggling to unravel another complexity of the difficult English language. "You mean, peach?"
"I mean peace. P-e-a-c-e. You don't know that word? Hmm. I'm not surprised. How could you? Peace is the opposite of war and conflict." Light began to dawn in his eyes.
Turning to Lang, who waited for a explanation, Phach spoke in Vietnamese. He appeared to have some difficulty explaining the word peace. When Lang understood, her eyes glowed.
Lang sat on her heels, gazing at the lovely full blooms and promising buds. Her expression seemed to me to be the same as I would expect to see in a battered, abused child who has just been rescued from a nightmare world and shown that there are adults who will hug her and speak softly instead of only hitting and yelling. Lang's gaze reached out in tentative, hopeful wonder.
I spoke to Phach, "Vietnam has not known peace for a long time?"
"Oh, yes. War. Much war. No peace. I cannot live there. The communists came speaking loud, using many words. They make promises. Convince many young people. But it was only talk. They keep no promises. They very bad. The people very sad. They are starving."
"Did you get out on a boat?"
"Yes. On water two days. Water everywhere. All we could see. It was like--how you say? A prison. A ship finally picked us up."
Lang had not been as fortunate. Through much questioning, the use of maps, pictures, gesturing, and a Vietnamese-American dictionary, Lang told me her story of escape.
As the widow of an enemy officer, she was persecuted. She said the communist officials came to her home, yelling and threatening to confiscate her home and take her life.
So, in the dark of night, at the town of Phu Vinh, Lang's family of five got onto a thirty-foot boat along with fifty other Vietnamese men, women, and children. The boat's owner, who charged two thousand dollars a person, pushed them off toward Indonesia with only a compass and the stars to guide them. They carried meager rations of river water, soy milk, bread, and seasickness medicine.
As waves tossed the boat, women and children cried. They were haunted by stories of boats capsizing and thousands of refugees being washed overboard. After five days of endless water and only occasional ships, which ignored the small boatful of humanity, with many sick and vomiting and no room to lie down, the food rations ran out. For two more days they meandered at sea. Disoriented and discouraged, on the seventh day they sighted land.
After five months in an Indonesian refugee camp, a plane ride from Singapore to San Francisco, then two weeks at Hamilton Air Force Base, the foreign mission field came right into our living room. They brought alien customs, foreign tastes in food, and a strange language. Our ways and language were just as strange to them.
Someone had taught Lang a few American words and expressions. She had a dog-eared, Vietnamese-American dictionary. But we had to learn quickly to gesture, act out, and laugh at ourselves. In trying to communicate, our very differences became a common bond.
With her luxuriant dark hair and round face framing her brown eyes, Lang said eagerly, "You teck me."
"Yes. You teach me. I teach you."
It was a deal. And I was the winner. For the one who was really teaching me was God. He taught me that his language speaks to every human being. The language of love speaks clearer than words. But the patience of God is needed to come to a point of explaining that love and its source.
After ten days, Lang prepared to move into her own rented house. She and I sat on the edge of her neatly made bed. She pointed to words in her dictionary and then to me: generous, cheerful, and kind.
I was moved and humbled, for many times I had not felt that gracious. Vietnamese customs clashed with mine. How could I explain what motivated me?
"I help you because I love you, because God loves you. Because Jesus is in my heart." Lang looked blank. Is this how a missionary feels? I wondered.
I took a course in teaching English as a second language and became a certified tutor with the Adult Literacy League. I hoped and prayed that through tutoring Lang, I'd be able to share Christ with her.
During one tutoring session I asked Lang questions, to which she was to make an affirmative or negative response. "Are you Korean?" The desired response was, "No, I am not Korean. I am Vietnamese."
Instaed, she said, "Korean? What Korean?"
I pulled out the world map for a geography lesson. She knew Korea when she saw it, but once again the pronunciation had not been familiar to her. I used the word communism and pointed out the countries behind the iron and bamboo curtains.
With a shudder she said, "It very bad. Danger." That was a word Lang knew.
"The communists take things from people," I commented.
"Take? I do not understand."
I grabbed her book suddenly and held it tight. "Take."
"Did they take your husband?"
"Yes!" A look of pain filled her eyes. "They bad. I have much anger."
"They would take your boys if you stayed there?"
"They would take everything."
Lang nodded, and resentment mixed with the pain in her eyes. She breathed deeply and swallowed, the Asian stoicism struggling to keep control. She shook her head, as if to clear it of unbearable memories.
I felt overcome with the immensity of the suffering of millions of people represented now in Lang's eyes. Tears flowed from mine. When she saw this, Lang looked startled and murmured, "I'm sorry!"
"It's not your fault. It's just that I care. God cares." She did not understand all those words, but I needed to say them.
"Lang, even though the communists take everything, they can never take what is in your heart." My hand went to my heart, and a bewildered look spread across her face. "Your heart. Inside. You say you have anger? It is in your heart. You loved your husband? Love is in your heart."
"God can put peace in your heart and no one can take it." At that, Lang could no longer contain a tear, which stole silently from one eye.
"My heart--is--very sad."
We did not finish the English lesson. But I thanked God for helping us communicate on a deeper level than ever before. I prayed that, as Lang develops in the language, I will be able to explain to her about God's plan of salvation through his son, the Prince of Peace. She lives in a free country now. But she is still in bondage spiritually. She needs the freedom God offers her--freedom from guilt, hate, and bitterness.
Back at home, I thought, What can I do about the suffering and devastation in the world? Then I looked out the window and there was the peace rose, still blooming. It had seemed to quicken Lang's hope of outer peace. So may God's Spirit awaken in her spirit a hunger for God's peace within.
"Lord," I prayed, "help me to persevere in spite of cultural and language barriers. Your salvation, like the fragrance of the peace rose, is for all."
I think I'll pick a rose before our tutoring session tomorrow and take it to Lang.
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Copyright © 1982, 2006, Catherine Lawton