Tag Archives: cultural norms

Good Friday, indeed (And why I didn’t rub dirt on my face and lament)

In Australia Good Friday is observed as a public holiday.

Now I could just have a hazy memory, but I don’t think Good Friday is included among our “holidays” in America. (If I’m wrong, please forgive me. It’s been 12 years.)

Ryan and I don’t have EAster Monday off  (some do, but not our workplace), but we do have Good Friday off along with the rest of Australia. So as the day approached I thought a lot about how we should spend our time.

Since we’ve been so crazy busy lately it was kind of a given that we needed some down tiem as a family. But we needed to do something “spiritual” too, right?

Maybe watch The Passion (after the kids are in bed)? or go to a church service? or–I don’t know–rub dirt on our faces and tear our clothes?

But instead we went to the beach.

We ate a picnic lunch.

We played in the water.

We lounged under palm trees.

We ate fudgesicles.

We loaded sandy little feet and wind blown hair and rosy-shouldered bodies into the car.

And as we were driving home from the beach I thought to myself, what a perfect GOod Friday.

I do’t want to mourn on Good Friday. I don’t want to lament.

Yes, there’s been pain. There’s been suffering. There’s been incredible injustice.

I understand all of that. (As much as my finite mind can at least.)

But I also understnad htat the reason for all of that is to give us a good day. A very good day.

A day so good that we can’t help but give thanks to the One who has sacrificed and poured out his everything so that we might have incredible, amazing, aweosme days like today.

You know, really, really spiritual days.

If it weren’t for his suffereing, there is no way I’d have ever met my husband or have the two gorgeous boys that I have now.

And so what better way to recall his suffering than to enjoy (part of) the very reason he paid the price?

Thank you Holy God, for a Good Friday, indeed.

STOP.

Q for you: Do you observe Good Friday? How?

Love,
A

p.s. I absolutely think there is a time and a space for meditating on the dark hour of the cross and all that it entails. If that’s how you choose to observe Good Friday, then I think that’s wonderful. Today just wasn’t that day for us. And that’s okay too.

Click Clink Five | Five minutes a day, unedited.
Adriel also writes (using spell check!) on motherhood and parenting at The Mommyhood Memos

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Different isn’t wrong, it’s just… different.

Culture shock is a funny thing.

People often think they don’t have it. I don’t have culture shock, I like it here they say. As if “liking” has anyting to do with “shocking”. (Yes, “shocking” is a word I just came up with to shorten for culture shock. And then by explaining it I made it a thousand tiems longer anyway. Humph.)

When I was living in Greece my culture shock came by way of please and thank you.

I was 18 and working as a waitress at a restaurant on Santorini Island. Most of our customers where vacationers from Eurpoe and America and Canada and AUstralia. They wanted english-speaking staff for that reason.

But every once and a while we’d get a day with lots of Greek holiday-goers.

One day in particular I was serving Greek couple after Greek couple after Greek couple.

“Coke!” they would shout at me. “Spaghetti Bolonaise!” they would shout next. “Refill!” And on and on it went.

Never a please. Never a thank you.

maybe I woke up on the wrong side of hte bed that day, but for whatever reason by mid-shift I was ready to break down into tears.

They don’t appreciate me. They’re so rude. They’re condescending and belittling.

They haaaaaaate me.

(Why do they hate me so much?)

And then I realized… it’s cultural.

As an American it’s considered rude to throw out your orders to the server. You request. You use pleasantries. You make eye contact.

But as a Greek these people weren’t being rude in teh slightest.

They were just being Greek. THeir role was to tell me what they wanted. My role was to follow directions adn deliver. End of story.

They didn’t hate me. They weren’t being rude. (Well, most of hte time anyway.)

They were just being Greek. They were different. And different isn’t wrong, it’s just… different.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said htat over the last 15 years, most of whichI’ve lived abroad.

Different isn’t wrong, it’s just different.

STOP.

 

Q for you: Have you ever experienced culture shock? How did you handle it?

 

Love,
A

p.s. went over time today!

 

Click Clink Five is a blog by Adriel Booker. | Five minutes a day, unedited. | 2012 All rights reserved. | Adriel also writes on parenting and motherhood at The Mommyhood Memos.