This week during a family art session,Baba (Sweet husband) drew a picture of his home in Bahrain, where he grew up. Then he got out the photo album and began sharing stories about things that happened in and near his home over the course of his 15 years there.
I've heard the stories of happiness and silliness. How one sister ran into a wall while making faces and sticking her tongue out at Baba or how another sister stumbled after running through the whole house and while trying to drum up dramatic tears, farted three times and couldn't cry for the wild laughter she was siezed by.
But this time I heard stories about the time his bike was stolen from within the compound. And how, while visiting a friend, a tear gas bomb was tossed into the house and they had to escape and cover their mouths with wet cloths. There was a time that a tire and gas tank was set on fire just outside their back window. It didn't explode by some miracle. There was a time that men came with sticks and broke the light so they could attack Baba's family in darkness. Baba's father convinced them to leave.
I was struck by these stories. I've been so cavalier about his transition to America and how easy it all seemed for him to acclimate. Surely his life must have been easy and modern in Bahrain. Not that things were terrible, but I was wrong!
This story telling time really got me thinking. And I am so grateful for Baba's grace. For his ability to slip into my type of life and my type of lifestyle and my type of eating habits and ... you get the picture. I used to believe that I was the one who bent over backwards to become flexible to his culture, his family, his lifestyle. Now I see things differently.
I have always been a wife that sees the bounty in her husband. I have always felt that I received the better end of the deal when we married. But today I am more humbled.
