The city of Pulandian, China does not come to life, it turns on. It is as though somewhere there is a giant switch someone throws and the city is instantly on. This “turning on” happens at 5:00am and usually includes some fireworks announcing the opening of a new store or someone’s birthday. The intersection outside my hotel window becomes instantly crowded with honking cars and grumbling trucks. At 6:00am the sidewalks and street fill with children walking to the nearby school, the honking increases accordingly.
Pulandian is considered a small town here in China. I guess when you measure your country population in billions and consider a large crowd to be a million people, 400,000 people is not very large. It is an industrial city where foreigners work, but do not live or visit. I tended to stand out in the crowd here, not so much because I am a bald white man, but because I was surrounded by people who were very interested in why a bald white man would come to the city square in Pulandian. They were curious why I would be curious about something as simple as their “small” town.
They had a point, at least a partial one if there is such a thing. As far as cities go, Pulandian is one of the dirtier ones I have been in. There are some areas that are strewn with rubbish, just like any city, but Pulandian is covered in a layer of dust. Everything is dusty from the 30 plus days they have gone without rain. Add to that the never ceasing construction and the factories dispersed around the city and you have a city that is under a constant haze.
But within the city, when you cut through the dust and smog, there are the faces of beautiful people. The older men and women have faces that are filled with laugh lines and the corners of their eyes hold the tell tale signs of a quick wit, despite the years of war, revolution, famine, and poverty.
The children are filled with the innocence of ignorance. Their laughter and noise echoes off the buildings as they walk home from school. It is like a flock of jolly migratory birds. The boys hoot and laugh, pushing and shoving each other as boys are want to do. The girls walk arm-in-arm, giggling and whispering to each other.
In the middle of these two age groups are the faces that carry all of the doubt and fear. The faces of the fathers and mothers, who are also sons and daughters, are filled with a sense of burden, as though they are carrying too much on their backs and cannot find relief, even when they sleep.
My colleague, tour guide, and interpreter Joe has one of those faces. He allows smiles and laughter to break through on occasion, but when the moment is gone, it reverts to a look of worry. Joe is one of the “one child policy” generation. He is an only child, as are most of his peers, as a result of government policy to limit citizens to one child each (unless you have the boatload of cash to pay the “fine”). His wife is also an only child. Together they will only have one child. And together they will care for their four aging parents. Joe has responsibility for 6 people riding on his shoulders and his alone. He admits it is quite a burden and he doesn’t know quite how to handle it.
Another colleague, Maggie, also has a face full of worry, but her face also carries a sadness that fills in any laugh lines that may be trying to form. She is also an only child. She proudly told me her “Papa” and “Mama” both work in the aerospace industry. She does not worry so much about taking care of her parents; she feels it is her duty. She does worry that she will never find love. In a country where men out number women by a significant majority, I callously scoffed at the idea when she proposed it. I told her she could have her pick, line them up and pick the one you want. Her face grew sadder, reflecting a lifetime of being considered the lesser because she was a girl. She told me how parents are disappointed when they have a girl. “If they know it is a girl, they will not let it be born. They only want boys.”
In their lifetimes, Maggie and Joe will experience more loss than life. Joe will experience the loss of four loved ones when his parents and in-laws pass away, but will experience the joy of adding to the family only once, a four to one ratio. I wonder how this imbalance will affect the psyches of an entire generation. I wonder how they will cope with the loss. I see the tinges of hopelessness in their eyes. I wonder if they will ever discover the only hope that will sustain them, the hope of Jesus Christ.
What I liked about the job was that I got to be the hero on occasion. Every once in a while, someone wanted to add a map of Thessalonica, a picture of the Masada (the fortress, not the gun), or a song they heard on the radio. I would spring into action with my cape flying, using my iPhone to download it, then synching it to the church laptop using my handy-dandy phone synch cord which I kept in my AV accessory belt, formatting it, and then adding it to the presentation with seconds to spare before the start of the service. The not-so tech savvy would be awed at my abilities and technical prowess. “Good thing we have Dave back there. What would we do without him? Who would get us that obscure version of “How Great Thou Art” by El Vez? 
