I love my church; I love The Church, the body of Christ. Although I know many people have been injured and harmed by individual groups calling themselves a church, I cannot imagine my life outside the bounds of the lovely body of Christ.
This morning I was renewed again by the beauty of our worship service, baptisms and sharing the Lord's supper together. Through the week my vision had grown blurred; I was tempted to focus on and yearn after things which can never really satisfy the longings of my heart. I was like the Psalmist, my feet had almost slipped, but this morning I felt as if cool clear water was splashed in my face to wake me from a stupor. And it happened in our small, small-time, small-town gathering of the members of the body of Christ.
This morning seven people chose to be baptised in a public affirmation of the change of heart they had already experienced. A more varied group would be hard to find. Two women in their 70's and 80's, another perhaps 60, a 40ish divorced and remarried career woman and mother of four, a sweet, shy woman in her 30's who could hardly speak without crying, a newly-wed couple, he, burly and tattooed, she shy of the microphone nervous about being in front of people but glowing with anticipation.
I wrote that entry a week ago, but yesterday was equally moving for me. My eldest son, the one we named before we were even married, the one who taught himself to read at age four, who used to creep down the stairs at night after his sisters were asleep and sweetly ask if he could stay up and do some math pages, the one who was so excited the night we brought home the trundle bed that he lay down in it, pulled up the covers and said, "Now push me in." - that son stood up in front of our congregation and told briefly of his plans for a five month backpacking and discipleship program in NZ. He is leaving the day after tomorrow on his own, flying from Boston to LA to Sydney to Christchurch. He'll miss his first Christmas at home in 17 years.
So of course, I will miss him tremendously, heartbreakingly, if that is even a word. But I was reminded yesterday that I am not the only one. After he spoke our pastor prayed over Ransom and many "Amens" were heard from the congregation. Then at greeting time and after church men shook his hand and clapped him on the back, women hugged him and wiped tears from their eyes. Nearly everyone I encountered commented on how much they would miss him, and teared up again. Our children have grown up the last ten years in this cradle of love, this web of encouragement and care. They have been praised, teased, fed, loved, encouraged, taught, admonished and cherished by this extended family who have never failed to be there when we needed them.
I am certain my children would not be who they are today without this part of the lovely Body of Christ. Parents can only do so much; there are so many other influences that combine to shape our children, for good or for ill. The predominant influence in my childrens' lives has been this matchless group of people who seem to love my family almost as much as I do. I really don't know how to begin to be grateful enough. My children don't know how rare their experience has been, but they soon will. What they have taken for granted as "the way things are" will seem like a fantasy world when they hit the "real world."
I think of Paul's description of the church, how God called not many mighty, not many powerful in the estimation of the world, and that describes our church. No doctors, no lawyers, a handful of graduate degrees, but many who never went to college at all. Our wise, godly elder board contains a farmer, an electrician, a groundskeeper, a camp director, a forest ranger. But these men are CEOs in the economy of the kingdom; men who know how to lead by serving, just like Jesus did. The rest of the body has been shaped by their example.
Soon after Ransom leaves the rest of our family will be moving on, also. God has called us to Malaysia for two years, though I do not know just why. It breaks my heart to think of leaving our church family here, but I am encouraged to think that we can find brothers and sisters on the other side of the globe waiting to welcome us into their fellowship and share their lives with us. I couldn't go if I did not have that hope. When I was a child I could not imagine Heaven would be very enjoyable. One long church service for all eternity without anyone to pass out Lifesavers midway seemed unthinkable. But now I can't wait because I have known a little taste of heaven here in Windsor, VT.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
newspaper envy
I just learned that a friend of mine reads newspapers for a living. Granted, that's not all he does, but apparently it's a significant part of his job. I mean no disrespect at all for this public servant, but this strikes me as a little like drinking coffee for a living. I mean, I can think of nothing I'd rather be obligated to do each morning, unless it's drink coffee. How nice not to have to rush through the paper in a guilty fashion, so I can get to my real work. How heavenly not to even have to choose which paper to read; I gather he has to read several, poor guy.
I, on the other hand, often agonize over which paper to spend my dime and my time on. I sometimes spend five minutes in front of the newspaper rack picking up first one, then another paper, comparing headlines, weighing the thicknesses, debating between the .50, .75 and 1.00 options. I find myself asking,"Is there anything worth reading in the Valley News today (or a feature on one of my children's activities), or can I skip it and pick up the Boston Globe" - meatier and better-written, with some regional news, but heavy on the metro Boston area which I'm not really interested in. USA Today often gets my vote, though I think it's kind of a lightweight when it comes to the news - sort of the People Magazine of the newstand. Once in a great while I buy The Eagle Times which features front page headlines like "Wolf-dog hybrids get loose" and "Women's pottery supports animals."
I sometimes bring The WallStreet Journal home with me because I like the editorials and the writing is good, though the business slant is not my cup of tea. Once in a while I have to get the Manchester Union Leader though I find its tone a bit rabid; occasionally there's some state news I just can't pass up. The New York Times has the strongest appeal, though I abjure its liberal bias. The wide-ranging interest of its stories, excellent journalism and depth of reporting often coax me to lay down a full dollar for a sheaf of newprint that will end up in the recycling bin by the next morning - if I even have time to read it.
If this sounds a bit neurotic, I want to point out that have made a lot of progress in regard to newspapers over the years. I can think back to the time when the Lancaster Intelligencer Journal was a daily necessity for me. We lived in a huge, gray stone rowhouse in a small, mid-Atlantic city with our growing brood of babes and toddlers. We tried subscribing to the paper for a while, but in those days of lots of diapers and little money we could never seem to come up with 18.00 when the paper boy was at the door to collect. So we cancelled our subscription (or maybe it was cancelled for us; I can't remember.)
Besides, we didn't need to subscribe because right in front of our house was a bus stop and a newspaper box. The bus stop was peopled by various regulars and exotics who sat on our stone wall while waiting for the bus. One was heavily tattooed before tattoos were mainstream, and usually arrived with a boa (live, not feathered) draped about his neck. Another suffered from some kind of delusion that he was a secret agent. He looked like a leaner version of Arnold Schwarzenegger and carried a large radio around on his shoulder into which he frequently spoke. He often ran several laps around the block before arriving warily at the bus stop. My children were fascinated by the bus patrons and their wildlife, but I was fixated on the newspaper dispenser.
The Intelligencer Journal was .35 a copy. Any combination of nickels, dimes and quarters would do, though the machine gave no change. Like any self-respecting addict I did not plan ahead; I never kept a stash of coins for the express purpose of feeding the machine; I deceived myself into thinking I did not need my newspaper fix - I could get through the day without it. But every morning after my husband left for work and the kids finished their Cheerios I began hunting for the requisite coins. I usually checked my husband's pants pockets first, especially the little coin pockets in his Levis. Then there was the tray on his dresser where he sometimes emptied his pockets. My purse usually was next. I have been known to look under chair and sofa cushions as well with varying degrees of success.
My last resort was always a huge glass water cooler jug that sat in the corner in our bedroom collecting loose change. We had begun filling it with pennies years before; it weighed maybe 20 lbs and was about half full. When it was full we were going to do something special with the money. Though it was known as 'the penny jar" we occasionally dropped other coins in. As a last resort I would dump the pennies out on the faded blue carpet, sorting through them for that last nickel or dime I needed to send my pre-schooler out to the paper box.
When I finally found the right combination of silver I would entrust one of my older children (they were all under six) with the precious coins and the responsibility of getting the paper for Mommy. Sometimes by the time I sent them out the dispenser would already be empty and my hopes were dashed. It could really wreck my morning! Other times, though not often, the heavy, spring-loaded door would get away from my four-year old and slam shut before he got the paper out! I was always understanding, but keenly disappointed.
So, I think I have made a lot of progress in my newpaper habit. I often go two or three days a week without touching one. It helps that the local papers where we live now are not nearly as good as the Intelligencer Journal. . . I may also have a bit more of a life, but I'm still intrigued by the idea of finding some way to get paid to read the news.
I, on the other hand, often agonize over which paper to spend my dime and my time on. I sometimes spend five minutes in front of the newspaper rack picking up first one, then another paper, comparing headlines, weighing the thicknesses, debating between the .50, .75 and 1.00 options. I find myself asking,"Is there anything worth reading in the Valley News today (or a feature on one of my children's activities), or can I skip it and pick up the Boston Globe" - meatier and better-written, with some regional news, but heavy on the metro Boston area which I'm not really interested in. USA Today often gets my vote, though I think it's kind of a lightweight when it comes to the news - sort of the People Magazine of the newstand. Once in a great while I buy The Eagle Times which features front page headlines like "Wolf-dog hybrids get loose" and "Women's pottery supports animals."
I sometimes bring The WallStreet Journal home with me because I like the editorials and the writing is good, though the business slant is not my cup of tea. Once in a while I have to get the Manchester Union Leader though I find its tone a bit rabid; occasionally there's some state news I just can't pass up. The New York Times has the strongest appeal, though I abjure its liberal bias. The wide-ranging interest of its stories, excellent journalism and depth of reporting often coax me to lay down a full dollar for a sheaf of newprint that will end up in the recycling bin by the next morning - if I even have time to read it.
If this sounds a bit neurotic, I want to point out that have made a lot of progress in regard to newspapers over the years. I can think back to the time when the Lancaster Intelligencer Journal was a daily necessity for me. We lived in a huge, gray stone rowhouse in a small, mid-Atlantic city with our growing brood of babes and toddlers. We tried subscribing to the paper for a while, but in those days of lots of diapers and little money we could never seem to come up with 18.00 when the paper boy was at the door to collect. So we cancelled our subscription (or maybe it was cancelled for us; I can't remember.)
Besides, we didn't need to subscribe because right in front of our house was a bus stop and a newspaper box. The bus stop was peopled by various regulars and exotics who sat on our stone wall while waiting for the bus. One was heavily tattooed before tattoos were mainstream, and usually arrived with a boa (live, not feathered) draped about his neck. Another suffered from some kind of delusion that he was a secret agent. He looked like a leaner version of Arnold Schwarzenegger and carried a large radio around on his shoulder into which he frequently spoke. He often ran several laps around the block before arriving warily at the bus stop. My children were fascinated by the bus patrons and their wildlife, but I was fixated on the newspaper dispenser.
The Intelligencer Journal was .35 a copy. Any combination of nickels, dimes and quarters would do, though the machine gave no change. Like any self-respecting addict I did not plan ahead; I never kept a stash of coins for the express purpose of feeding the machine; I deceived myself into thinking I did not need my newspaper fix - I could get through the day without it. But every morning after my husband left for work and the kids finished their Cheerios I began hunting for the requisite coins. I usually checked my husband's pants pockets first, especially the little coin pockets in his Levis. Then there was the tray on his dresser where he sometimes emptied his pockets. My purse usually was next. I have been known to look under chair and sofa cushions as well with varying degrees of success.
My last resort was always a huge glass water cooler jug that sat in the corner in our bedroom collecting loose change. We had begun filling it with pennies years before; it weighed maybe 20 lbs and was about half full. When it was full we were going to do something special with the money. Though it was known as 'the penny jar" we occasionally dropped other coins in. As a last resort I would dump the pennies out on the faded blue carpet, sorting through them for that last nickel or dime I needed to send my pre-schooler out to the paper box.
When I finally found the right combination of silver I would entrust one of my older children (they were all under six) with the precious coins and the responsibility of getting the paper for Mommy. Sometimes by the time I sent them out the dispenser would already be empty and my hopes were dashed. It could really wreck my morning! Other times, though not often, the heavy, spring-loaded door would get away from my four-year old and slam shut before he got the paper out! I was always understanding, but keenly disappointed.
So, I think I have made a lot of progress in my newpaper habit. I often go two or three days a week without touching one. It helps that the local papers where we live now are not nearly as good as the Intelligencer Journal. . . I may also have a bit more of a life, but I'm still intrigued by the idea of finding some way to get paid to read the news.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
another all-time favorite poem
As the Ruin Falls
All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.
Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.
Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.
For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.
All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.
Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.
Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.
For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.
-C. S. Lewis
when yes means no
I read a passage from Paul Tournier today with a sentence that jumped out at me: "Sadness and joy kiss at every moment." It captured exactly what I am feeling right now - in so many parts of my life.
There is my children's increasing independence and imminent leave-takings - exactly what we have been training them for these 18 years. They are ready to fly, literally, and I can see it so clearly. I am proud of them, excited for them, jealous of them. . . but I know I'll ache when they really go. I welcome the busyness of preparation in the same way that I welcomed the mediocre artwork on the walls of the phlebotomy lab today; anything to look at instead of the vial filling with my blood.
Then, too, there is an upcoming reunion with friends who were once exceedingly dear to me, with whom I have only recently reconnected after a long absence. The thought of spending time with them is wonderful, but poignant, too, fraught as it is with the reminders of the decades gone by, and the way life has changed us all.
And of course there is our upcoming move, which is in many ways a dream come true. We have always wanted to travel with our kids but never been able to afford to. We have always wanted to live and work in another culture. (Dare I say we have always wanted a dishwasher??) But now that the tickets are bought and our house is rented and the boxes are piling up in the breezeway I am so very sad to be saying so many goodbyes - to friends, to our house, to our way of life, to our present selves, who will be forever changed by this move.
I have a cowardly streak running through my heart; I am tempted so often to avoid even joy because of the sadness that inevitably accompanies it - or to suspect joy because of the inevitable sadness that travels with it. I wish I were not so careful to protect myself sometimes - still so afraid to feel, because there are always two sides to the coin of happiness.
I have known all my life that every "yes" is also a "no" - or a thousand "no's." I have recognized the terrible power of a single "yes" to outweigh an infinite number of other possibilities. I can never forget that every choice is also an abnegation of the not-chosen. I can't seem to help a certain regret for the things I have said "no" to - even when the "yes" is good and right.
Has there ever been unalloyed happiness in a choice in this life?? Can there be? Tournier thinks not, and I agree. I cried at my own wedding for heaven's sake because of all the "Now I never wills" that I silently said when I said the words, "I do." Sadness and joy kissed at the same moment as the bride and groom.
Tournier's consolation is the hope of heaven, and I hope he is right - that one day we can know pure joy without a tinge of sorrow, that our "yes" can be all "yes," unencumbered by any sadness. That when God wipes away all tears from our eyes we will never again see sadness and joy kiss each other. But today they are as close as they could be.
There is my children's increasing independence and imminent leave-takings - exactly what we have been training them for these 18 years. They are ready to fly, literally, and I can see it so clearly. I am proud of them, excited for them, jealous of them. . . but I know I'll ache when they really go. I welcome the busyness of preparation in the same way that I welcomed the mediocre artwork on the walls of the phlebotomy lab today; anything to look at instead of the vial filling with my blood.
Then, too, there is an upcoming reunion with friends who were once exceedingly dear to me, with whom I have only recently reconnected after a long absence. The thought of spending time with them is wonderful, but poignant, too, fraught as it is with the reminders of the decades gone by, and the way life has changed us all.
And of course there is our upcoming move, which is in many ways a dream come true. We have always wanted to travel with our kids but never been able to afford to. We have always wanted to live and work in another culture. (Dare I say we have always wanted a dishwasher??) But now that the tickets are bought and our house is rented and the boxes are piling up in the breezeway I am so very sad to be saying so many goodbyes - to friends, to our house, to our way of life, to our present selves, who will be forever changed by this move.
I have a cowardly streak running through my heart; I am tempted so often to avoid even joy because of the sadness that inevitably accompanies it - or to suspect joy because of the inevitable sadness that travels with it. I wish I were not so careful to protect myself sometimes - still so afraid to feel, because there are always two sides to the coin of happiness.
I have known all my life that every "yes" is also a "no" - or a thousand "no's." I have recognized the terrible power of a single "yes" to outweigh an infinite number of other possibilities. I can never forget that every choice is also an abnegation of the not-chosen. I can't seem to help a certain regret for the things I have said "no" to - even when the "yes" is good and right.
Has there ever been unalloyed happiness in a choice in this life?? Can there be? Tournier thinks not, and I agree. I cried at my own wedding for heaven's sake because of all the "Now I never wills" that I silently said when I said the words, "I do." Sadness and joy kissed at the same moment as the bride and groom.
Tournier's consolation is the hope of heaven, and I hope he is right - that one day we can know pure joy without a tinge of sorrow, that our "yes" can be all "yes," unencumbered by any sadness. That when God wipes away all tears from our eyes we will never again see sadness and joy kiss each other. But today they are as close as they could be.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Penitent
"Penitent"
Once I stood alone so proud
held myself above the crowd
now i am low on the ground.
From here i look around to see
what avenues belong to me
I can't tell what ive found.
Now what would You have me do
i ask you please?
I wait to hear.
The mother, and the matador,
the mystic, all were here before,
like me, to stare You down.
You appear without a face,
disappear, but leave your trace,
i feel your unseen frown.
Now what would you have me do
I ask you please?
i wait to hear
your voice,
the word,
you say.
i wait to see your sign
would i obey?
I look for you in heathered moor,
the desert, and the ocean floor
how low does one heart go.
looking for your fingerprints
i find them in coincidence,
and make my faith to grow.
Forgive me all my blindnesses
my weakness and unkindnesses
as yet unbending still.
struggling so hard to see
my fist against eternity
and will you break my will?
Now what would you have me do
i ask you please?
i wait to hear
your voice,
the word
you say
i wait to see your sign
could i obey?
-Suzanne Vega
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
First impressions
Well, I am finally over my jet lag. Yesterday was the first day since we've been in Malaysia that I made it past 4:00 PM (Malaysia time) without feeling like I needed to either throw up or fall asleep. Then I actually slept 5 hours in row last night. I have two more nights before I head home to do it in reverse.
So, things look a bit brighter today in spite of the haze which hangs over Kuala Lumpur from the burning rainforests in Indonesia.
This morning we left our hotel room, executing, as usual, the traveler's macarena - touching evey pocket top and bottom, right and left, front and back, to make sure the necessary documents, keys and wallets are in their appointed places. After a while it takes on a little rhythm of its own though it's still not foolproof and you have to make yur own music.
KL is about as different from New Hampshire as it could be. Densely populated, tropical, urban, ethnically diverse and chock full of shopping malls! The only thing people here like to do more than shop is eat. By their own confession, Malaysians live to eat. One older gentleman cheerfully told us, "That's all we do. That's all we talk about!" Hardly anyone here is obese, but they put away enormous amounts of food - round the clock, I'm told! So while there is no real weather to make small talk about, there's always food - Balinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, Korean, North Indian, South Indian, Malaysian and more. Two nights ago we had dinner in a tiny open air Italian restaurant, with a real Italian chef!
We're starting to pick up on some of the local idioms; an overpass is a "flyover," food ordered to go is "take away," and a parking garage is a "car park." We're also getting used to the local fashions - full length black burkhas don't startle me any longer, even when they are worn in the wave pool of the resort! Burkhas aren't all that common, but nearly half the women here wear head scarves covering their hair and necks.
There are desperately poor people in Malaysia, some living in virtual servitude, but there are many very wealthy ones. I can hardly believe how much money there is around here. Some of the houses we have looked at to rent would cost close to a million dollars near where we live. Today we visited three "Smart Houses" in a new development. Lights, fans, power, etc. can all be controlled with a cellphone! But most houses still do not have hot water in the kitchen. They all have a bathroom for every single bedroom (including the maid's room), but hardly anyone has a clothes dryer. Just very different than what we are used to. But I don't think we'll be suffering here!
I have already run the gamut of emotions - I hate it, I love it, I can't stand this, I love that, I'm homesick, I'm fascinated by everything new. I can imagine the next two years will be the same way - lots of ups and downs. Right now the driving seems to be the biggest challenge for me. The roads here are so random; no exit numbers or route numbers on the highways, just signs saying where you can get to from the exit. There are so many ways to get to the same place that you see the same destinations on the signs over and over again. Which to take? They LOVE U-turns here. A lot of them are built-in to the system. Just beacuse you see the building you want to get to on the left doesn't mean you should get in the left-hand lane. It's as likely that you are expected to exit right and drive till you get to a U-turn. Then the joke around here is that "All roads lead to Ipoh" since you constantly see signs for it, whether you are traveling north, south, east or west!
The most terrifying part of driving for me (I have not gotten behind the wheel once, though I keep opening the driver's side door by mistake since it's on the right!) is the "hell-drivers" - the millions of motor-scooters that weave in and out of traffic, passing on both sides, sharing lanes with cars, seemingly coming out of nowhere to zip in front of your car. They are everywhere. They all drive to the front of the pack at every traffic light or jam. I am sure I will kill at least one of them in the two years we are here. Then I read in the newspaper about an accident between an SUV and a taxi where the taxi driver was killed. The incident was treated as a hit and run because the people in the SUV fled on foot after witnesses to the accident pulled them out of their car and began beating them. The witnesses were not charged with anything. Apparently righteous indignation is an acceptable motive. Fortunately "teksis" are cheap. I plan to live in them.
Well, those are enough first impressions. We are about to sign an agreement on a house today, probably in a country club (sigh). It has a lovely guest room (nudge, nudge knowwhatImean?)overlooking the pool. I hope it gets well-used!
So, things look a bit brighter today in spite of the haze which hangs over Kuala Lumpur from the burning rainforests in Indonesia.
This morning we left our hotel room, executing, as usual, the traveler's macarena - touching evey pocket top and bottom, right and left, front and back, to make sure the necessary documents, keys and wallets are in their appointed places. After a while it takes on a little rhythm of its own though it's still not foolproof and you have to make yur own music.
KL is about as different from New Hampshire as it could be. Densely populated, tropical, urban, ethnically diverse and chock full of shopping malls! The only thing people here like to do more than shop is eat. By their own confession, Malaysians live to eat. One older gentleman cheerfully told us, "That's all we do. That's all we talk about!" Hardly anyone here is obese, but they put away enormous amounts of food - round the clock, I'm told! So while there is no real weather to make small talk about, there's always food - Balinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, Korean, North Indian, South Indian, Malaysian and more. Two nights ago we had dinner in a tiny open air Italian restaurant, with a real Italian chef!
We're starting to pick up on some of the local idioms; an overpass is a "flyover," food ordered to go is "take away," and a parking garage is a "car park." We're also getting used to the local fashions - full length black burkhas don't startle me any longer, even when they are worn in the wave pool of the resort! Burkhas aren't all that common, but nearly half the women here wear head scarves covering their hair and necks.
There are desperately poor people in Malaysia, some living in virtual servitude, but there are many very wealthy ones. I can hardly believe how much money there is around here. Some of the houses we have looked at to rent would cost close to a million dollars near where we live. Today we visited three "Smart Houses" in a new development. Lights, fans, power, etc. can all be controlled with a cellphone! But most houses still do not have hot water in the kitchen. They all have a bathroom for every single bedroom (including the maid's room), but hardly anyone has a clothes dryer. Just very different than what we are used to. But I don't think we'll be suffering here!
I have already run the gamut of emotions - I hate it, I love it, I can't stand this, I love that, I'm homesick, I'm fascinated by everything new. I can imagine the next two years will be the same way - lots of ups and downs. Right now the driving seems to be the biggest challenge for me. The roads here are so random; no exit numbers or route numbers on the highways, just signs saying where you can get to from the exit. There are so many ways to get to the same place that you see the same destinations on the signs over and over again. Which to take? They LOVE U-turns here. A lot of them are built-in to the system. Just beacuse you see the building you want to get to on the left doesn't mean you should get in the left-hand lane. It's as likely that you are expected to exit right and drive till you get to a U-turn. Then the joke around here is that "All roads lead to Ipoh" since you constantly see signs for it, whether you are traveling north, south, east or west!
The most terrifying part of driving for me (I have not gotten behind the wheel once, though I keep opening the driver's side door by mistake since it's on the right!) is the "hell-drivers" - the millions of motor-scooters that weave in and out of traffic, passing on both sides, sharing lanes with cars, seemingly coming out of nowhere to zip in front of your car. They are everywhere. They all drive to the front of the pack at every traffic light or jam. I am sure I will kill at least one of them in the two years we are here. Then I read in the newspaper about an accident between an SUV and a taxi where the taxi driver was killed. The incident was treated as a hit and run because the people in the SUV fled on foot after witnesses to the accident pulled them out of their car and began beating them. The witnesses were not charged with anything. Apparently righteous indignation is an acceptable motive. Fortunately "teksis" are cheap. I plan to live in them.
Well, those are enough first impressions. We are about to sign an agreement on a house today, probably in a country club (sigh). It has a lovely guest room (nudge, nudge knowwhatImean?)overlooking the pool. I hope it gets well-used!
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