Love at a festival

Last week, I went to an Asian festival in Des Moines,. I loved it — seeing the people of different colors. A Chinese man painting names in Chinese symbols, Korean women making “bubble tea,” Nepalese, Japanese, Indian, Arabs with turbans, Filipinos, Vietnamese, Laotians, Cambodians and natives of some unfamiliar-sounding people groups: Hmong, Thai and Taidam.

Wandered around in tents for a while, and right before my family was about to leave, I met an Asian man at the hand-washing station. He said he was from Nepal, and told me that he was one of the third-best chefs in the world. And said he and his team were soon going to Puerto Rico to compete for first place!

I told him that I wanted to go to a prophetic school in California—where they teach about healing and miracles and heaven. I showed him my family with four newly-adopted siblings.

Mangal thought they were beautiful. “Come and see my tent,” he said. So I headed across the lot with him and met his whole team. They were all very gracious. “Here is something for you,” my new friend said, giving me a cross keychain. “I think it is good what your family do. I have relatives who adopt from Nepal. They are having problems with paperwork.”

“Do you believe in miracles?” I asked them all.

“Yes, we do.” The response from three Buddhists and one Hindu. (As if: “Of course, why wouldn’t we?”) I was taken back by their reality and openness. For them, miracles are more than a belief; they are a part of the culture. A culture, I realized, which was vastly different from mine.

“I will pray for your friends adopting. That all goes well.” I said.

“Thank-you,” Mangal said. “Pray also for my physical health.”

Right there, right then, we went back in the tent, and I did.

“Very powerful …” he told me when I finished. “I feel a heavy weight ... like cloud,” he motioned with his hands around his shoulders. “When you pray, it’s gone. Thank-you.” He pressed both hands together and slightly bowed his head. “Thank-you very much, my new friend, Annabelle.”