Giving Thanks

I’ve got Thanksgiving on the brain. A few days ago, I requested November 25 and 26 off from school so I could celebrate the Thanksgiving weekend with some ETA friends. Part of my request meant explaining to the teachers and headmaster what the holiday is about. I explained that it involved the first bules in America and eating turkey, but that mainly Thanksgiving is a chance to be with the people you love and to tell God what you’re grateful for. So, in honor of the days off which my school graciously gave me, here is what I’m most grateful for this Thanksgiving season: Ester.

Ester has not come up in this blog yet because she’s just too important for anything but an entry devoted exclusively to her. You know how Squanto taught the Pilgrims to hunt and which berries were poisonous and how to survive a New England winter? Ester is my Squanto.

Her full name is Ester Diane, because her mother wanted to name her after a Biblical heroine and a modern one (her brother’s name is Reagan David). She’s 26 years old and like me, she’s an English teacher at SMA 1, although she’d rather work in government administration. From my first day, Ester was there, translating, explaining, warning me against spicy foods, serving as a gentle barrier against people who asked baffling questions like “Miss Polly, when can I come sleep at your house?”

Ester likes to say “All the ways go to Rome,” by which she means, there is always a solution and we will find it, so please, Polly, calm down. Like when I was electrocuted for the second time by my third stove and started to cry, Ester patted me on the arm and said “I guess it’s time to try a gas stove,” and then told me firmly that I was not staying home to wallow in self-pity over a dismal peanut butter sandwich; she took me out for dinner. Or when a certain host beamed at me as I tried to gulp down his homemade juice, which looked and tasted like sewage, Ester whisked it away, saying “Can I have some? Here, Polly, try my drink.” Or when we were at the fanciest mall around, trying for the infuriating fourth time to make my internet modem work, and the power failed and the whole mall went black, Ester kept right on negotiating with the IT guy. All I could do was sit down and laugh.

That might be my favorite thing about Ester: her ability to make me laugh when I want to scream. Her response when I whined about my two-puppy predicament—one Louisa May in my house and another arriving in four weeks—was “We’ll name the first one Louisa April!” After trying for an hour to buy a plane ticket online, I finally asked Ester for help. She said “No problem, I have a friend who’s a travel agent!” and proceeded to buy me a ticket over text message.
   
Ester’s patience and strength are even more remarkable in light of the terrible fact that her boyfriend died of liver failure six weeks ago. She loves to talk about him—I’ve heard about the first time he asked her out and what songs they sang karaoke together—but she doesn’t ask for pity.  She often says "I believe God has a good plan for my life," and then quickly adds that she doesn't want to think about it because it only makes her sadder. I am thankful for Ester because she puts faulty stoves and foul juice in perspective.

I’ve gone with Ester to three of her boyfriend’s funerals. (In North Sulawesi, multiple funerals are held after a person's death: after several days, a week, two weeks, 40 days and a year). The funerals were a strange combination of devout Christian church service and raucous party; when I commented on all the joking and games—which came right after the praying and tears—Ester said “It’s to distract the family. To make them laugh.”