How the Buddhist Funeral is Ruining My Life Today

An 80-something year old woman across the street died recently and the 7-day Buddhist funeral commenced. This apparently requires the family to erect a giant tent that blocks off the whole street, and set up tables and chairs reminiscent of a Western wedding reception. Hence the reason it took me 3 days to figure out that it was a funeral.

The Buddhist chiming and chants begin at dawn, which coincide nicely with the construction next door that also begins at 5:30 in the morning. I have thoroughly enjoyed the built-in alarms, because the roosters down the street just weren't doing the trick.

I was super relieved and happy to see the tent being dismantled over the weekend, and hopeful that normal life would resume come Monday. (hahahah, "normal." Insert bitter laugh). However, this morning, I groggily peered down from the balcony to, GASP, see poles being precariously attached once more, young guys swaying back and forth on a 2-story tall, rusted tent-skeleton of impending doom. I poured my dark-roast Sumatra coffee with 2 cubes of sugar and a dash of milk into my orange mug (this is the bright spot in this story: all hope is not lost when you have good coffee and an orange mug, made in Korea no less) and carefully walked downstairs to question my English-speaking landlord. She assured me that today would be the last day and that sometimes these funerals last 100 days. ONE-HUNDRED DAYS! Oh, the tediousness. Note to all Buddhist relatives: you will not be receiving this kind of funeral if I'm in charge of anything.

Suffice it to say that my frustration with the funeral tent being resurrected, but this time even more intrusively, has caused just the tiniest bit of culture shock to surface. I've been in culture-shock land before, in 2010, and it ended in me aggressively pushing a, likewise, aggressive tuk tuk driver, my co-worker crying, and my subsequent 60-day notice at work because I HAD TO GET OUT OF CAMBODIA or else possibly be sent to prison!

Back to today. I decided it was best to spend the rest of my day inside when, walking home from Jars of Clay, I found that I could not maneuver past the tent without walking directly into a tree, whose leaves were so heavy, I could not move them without them hitting Kathleen and awaking her. So.....I walked through the funeral tent.

I know it was tacky. I know it was disrespectful. (I should note that there were probably only 3 people sitting in there and the monks had yet to arrive). But this is what happens when I'm in culture-shock mode. I don't think, "Let me be humble like Jesus and crawl to the gate, sacrificing the happiness of my baby to show respect to the grieving." No, I think, "Why the hell are these people taking up the whole street with this stupid tent and can't they see I'm not even able to walk to the gate and that my husband can't park his moto inside and that we can't get our tuk tuk out because they are being so inconsiderate?!?!?"

This is my ongoing battle.  I know who I am and I struggle every day not to be this person. Cambodia makes my faults even more glaring. But it's when they come to the surface that I can really work on them and ask God to humble me. So....I'm glad I'm in Cambodia??? I don't know about that. But I hope God can break me and build me up to be a truly patient woman. Full of grace and forgiveness. And NOT full of frustrated assumptions.

I often think of this Shel Silverstein poem, "Ladies First," because I identify with this girl. It's not a good thing, but it does make me laugh. And I realize that if I don't change my ways, my selfishness might just get me kidnapped by a terrorist or run over by a tuk tuk driver (both probably more realistic consequences of my bad attitude than Pamela Purse's fate, but you never know):

Pamela Purse yelled, “Ladies first,”
Pushing in front of the ice cream line.
Pamela Purse yelled, “Ladies first,”
Grabbing the ketchup at dinnertime.

 Climbing on the morning bus
She’d shove right by all of us
And there’d be a tiff or a fight or a fuss
When Pamela Purse yelled, “Ladies first.”

Pamela Purse screamed, “Ladies first,”
When we went off on our jungle trip.
Pamela Purse said her thirst was worse
And guzzled our water, every sip.

 And when we got grabbed by that wild savage band,
Who tied us together and made us all stand
In a long line in front of the King of the land-
A cannibal known as Fry-‘Em-Up Dan,
Who sat on his throne in a bib so grand
With a lick of his lips and a fork in his hand,
As he tried to decide who’d be first in the pan-
From back of the line, in that shrill voice of hers,
Pamela Purse yelled, “Ladies first.”