Our babies cry and we both do what we need to do. My Indonesian friend nurses with no cover. I hide under a blanket.
The differences continue. As is the local custom, her child sleeps with her in her bed, waking often. I put mine in a crib in a separate room. Her philosophies center around keeping a baby happy. I, as an American mama, like my kids to be independent…and hopefully to soon sleep through the night.
I won’t change to these local ways. She probably thinks my ways are crazy.
One thing we share is that we pray. And her prayers seem to get answered. Like when she couldn’t have a baby, and the doctor gave her medicine that she didn’t want to take. Who knows if it would’ve worked anyway.
“I knew God could make it happen,” she said.
And He did.
And then she tells me about how her baby fell off the bed, when she wasn’t looking…except he maybe didn’t fall. One minute he was on the bed. The next, on the ground, happy as can be. No bruises. No crying. Her explanation? An angel protected him—maybe caught him.
Who says things like that? Who believes in angels who hold our children and a God who really comes through? Her belief seems so…unbelievable.
While her faith may seem simple, life in Borneo is anything but that. She grew up with almost no electricity in a village a two-hour boat ride from the nearest town. Her parents are farmers who spend all day working in their rice fields. No machinery. Sickness means boat rides and plane rides to a small town hospital. This girl did not have the easy life.
I admire her. And I want to be like her. I want to say out loud what I really want. What I hope will happen. What I hope already did happen.
I want to believe in miracles and not mere coincidences. I want to hope for good things that could happen and not settle for the bad things that are happening.
I want the faith of a Borneo girl.