Yesterday was a pretty normal lazy Sunday in Battambang. I woke up around 7:30 to the bells. After coffee and yogurt, I made my way to Mass with the rest of the community, where I sat between two of the young teenage dancers who often hang around our office. They helped me read the words to the hymns, watched my purse for me while I received Communion, and held my hands and brushed their fingertips over the fine blonde hair on my arms when they got bored.
I finished rereading one of my favorite books, had lunch with a few priests, ate a delicious pomelo while I read the New York Times Sunday magazine online. The afternoon passed itself with yoga, visiting Doeaun to marvel at her two grown-up front teeth, and a nap.
Yes, a normal lazy Sunday in Battambang, but one that feels vaguely important as well. Yesterday marked one year in Cambodia, one year of joy and tears and translations and laughter and forgiveness. More than anything, yesterday and for the last few weeks, I’ve been overwhelmed with gratitude. For being welcomed into this community, for living in the most beautiful place, for warm days and cooler nights, for women who trust me with their health and teenagers who think the hair on my arms is beautiful.