God Is Red - Liao Yiwu [35]
Ruth introduced me to a friend who had brought her daughter along. The woman, in her midthirties, was animated and articulate. It was hard to imagine that this young mother used to be tormented by depression and insomnia, suicidal thoughts, and dependency on medication. “I have gotten rid of my long-term dependency on medicine. I always bring my daughter to the fellowship gathering. I’m putting her under the care of our Immortal Father.”
Having overheard our conversation, a young woman stepped over, but before she opened her mouth, tears streamed down her cheeks. She began crying uncontrollably, and people around us quietly wiped their own tears. The woman’s husband had been diagnosed with gallbladder cancer. The family had sold everything in the house to pay for his surgery, but it couldn’t save him. He had just passed away. When she calmed down, she apologized and said faith had given her the strength to move on. She pulled a young girl toward us and continued, “My daughter is a fourth-grader. She and I read the Bible together. When she prays, she does a much better job than I do. If her father hears her in heaven, I’m sure he will be so proud.”
Most women in the fellowship were middle-aged. One gray-haired grandma caught my attention; I thought she might have been a seasoned Christian. Instead, she was a relative newcomer, having joined just three months earlier. She grew up fasting and chanting Buddhist mantras. She worshipped indigenous gods but also attended Christian churches when she was young. Like most Bai people, she was carefree with her worshipping and was prepared to accept anything she felt was useful to her. One day on her way home from the fields, she suffered a stroke and collapsed by the side of the road. Ruth happened upon her and took her to a hospital. Timely treatment saved her life. After the woman recovered, Ruth started preaching the gospel to her. Since the woman was partially deaf, Ruth would raise her voice and shout in her ear. Now, each time the woman’s heart becomes constricted, she clutches her chest and prays and immediately feels better.
I spent the remaining few minutes with a couple from my native province of Sichuan. We talked in the Sichuan dialect. They both grew up in Anyue County and moved to Dali more than eighteen years earlier. They had been in the marble and granite business. The wife did most of the talking, while the husband kept nodding. When she and her husband first arrived in Dali, they held temporary jobs and worked long hours. When they had saved enough money, they opened their own store selling marble slabs. In their spare time, the wife said, she would play mahjong:
Wife: Ten years later, I became a mahjong addict and would play whenever I found a spare moment. This shouldn’t surprise you. As you know, Sichuan is probably ranked as the number one mahjong province. Everyone knows how to shuffle mahjong tiles. Mahjong involves gambling. Ordinary folks bet ten or twenty fen for fun. In some circles, the bets are much higher. At the beginning, I didn’t see my addiction as a serious problem. I thought I could kick my habit very easily. I was wrong. I picked up mahjong easily but couldn’t put it down. When I was craving a round of mahjong, it didn’t matter what else I was doing. Nothing would stop me. When I had my first child, I would nurse him with one hand and move the tiles with the other. I lost money big time. Each time I lost, I would go pray at a temple, burning incense, hoping merciful Buddha would grant me some luck