Mothballs

 Part 1.

Do you know what mothballs are? 

I do and I hate their smell. 

I wanted to leave. I wanted to get up out of the seat I had paid for and leave to stand in another car entirely.

This woman that sat next to me on the train had just taken a bath in mothballs.

She had eaten mothballs for dinner, then she had put on a winter jacket that have been roasting in mothball hell for 35 years. This is the stench of mothballs that makes your grandma's closet seem like a walk through a rose garden. There is no need for this level of mothball stench to exist on earth, let alone permeating every inch of the nostril cells of each person that was on that poor train. 

I wanted to say things that I would be ashamed to say to a convicted homicidal maniac, but I am a Christian and this seemed like a good opportunity for me to show Christ's love. So when she arrived on the train I helped her with her suitcase containing her granite-rock-collection and when she fell asleep next to me I allowed her and her odorous coat to spill over the armrest onto my seat with the zipper rubbing back-and-forth against my arm like the unkempt claws of some wretched roadkill. 

Yes. This was an opportunity to be loving and kind and I was going to be sure to act in a way befitting my station as a teacher and a neighbor. 

Part 2.

In order to be a blessing to her I thought that I should probably not even mention the terrible smell, but that I should at least speak something kind to her and then turn towards the window of the train in hopes of catching some relief from the trees and fields and fresh air that passed by less than an inch away from my coughing-sore throat, but for the pane of glass that was never designed to be opened. 

When she finally woke from her nap, she put herself to work drawing on some round pieces of cardboard. I was very interested to see what she was doing so I kept stealing glances. Eventually the sour smell that had seemed so powerful was fading into the back of my mind as I noticed this woman crafting design after design onto her bits of canvas. Every now and then she would get stumped and lean back to close her eyes and gather her inspiration for what she would produce on the next card. 

This greatly intrigued me and after several minutes of observing I ventured to ask her, "Excuse me ma'am, where do you get your inspiration?"

At first, because of her moderately-low English level and my shy voice, she did not understand, but took some time to view my Chinese/English dictionary which I used to translate the word 'inspiration'. She immediately understood and we struck up a conversation with each other.

"I get my inspiration from everything that happens to me. I am designing some cards to encourage my friends with an artistic gift."
I told her that she inspired me and she seemed blessed, but we continued to talk further. 

I told her about how and why I came to work in her country and she told me that she is a founder of a non-profit organization to help students to learn to express themselves and to overcome hardships through the art of theater and choir. I explained that the company I worked for has a similar goal of encouraging students in personal growth towards a more wholesome and healthy life.
We were both genuinely pleased to meet and know about each other. She with a simple and yet profound middle-aged woman's face and I, with what she described by use of the dictionary, as having a "positive countenance".
She explained that she was a part of the traditional religion of the country and was working to better the world. I mirrored her goals for life with my own, of service to God as a Christian. She noted our difference in religious choices but also noted our similarity in passions for a better life for the struggling youth and we ended the conversation on a note of mutual blessing, having been encouraged by each other. In closing I mentioned that I am a writer of poetry in my spare time and she gasped aloud saying, "We must have an exchange of gifts between fellow artists!"

And so, for the next fifteen minutes, in a rush for we were nearly at our destination, we both set to work, crafting for the other a bit of our art to remember each other by; she with her pens and spherical cards, and I with my poetry on a borrowed circlet.
The train was hastily carrying on towards the stop and neither my writing or my rhyming was good enough to express what I felt inside, but we both tried our best and in the end we exchanged the gifts as the Taiwanese do, with both hands and a small nod of respect towards the other. 

In the end I was able to help her with her rock-collection luggage once again and we both got off that train. At the bottom of the stairs leading to the exit of the station we shook hands and said our goodbyes, and I was able to put in a quick, "God bless you," before we each went our separate ways.

So you see, at the beginning I was on the verge of going to leave my seat to escape the smell, but I found that a little self-control and a little courage to speak up cultivated a warm neighborly atmosphere in which two strangers were able to bless each other and share. 

Truly God has blessed me here in Taiwan.