Rejoice with those who rejoice, Weep with those who weep

In spite of new roads, new politicians, new technologies, and a rising standard of living, some parts of life here are more impervious to change.  I'm talking about traditions revolving around major milestones in life like engagements, weddings, funerals, and the birth of new children.

Though we've been moved into our village home for only a month, we are getting a quick initiation into the ebb and flow of the culture in ways that we didn't experience living in Tirana, where folks live practically stacked on top of each other but might as well live miles kilometers apart.

Two days ago I was startled by a horrible wail out in the street.  It was the middle of the afternoon, a time of day my introverted self has come to relish for it's peacefulness.

The afternoons are almost sacredly silent here once summer arrives.  After lunch everyone goes inside and passes out in front of the ventilator (fan) to escape the heat. There are few shade trees in our part of the village, just the occasional fruit or olive tree. Some of our neighbors have artfully crafted frameworks of grape arbors to provide patches of respite from harsh rays in their front courtyards.

As the sun creeps lower towards the horizon, activity on our street picks up. The cool of the evening invites everyone out of the brick ovens of their concrete homes to fellowship with their neighbors and savor cool breezes.  Supper is eaten around 10 or 11PM and sleep comes again around midnight, before everyone wakes at dawn to get some work in before the heat descends again.

They say in the summer, they get two days for every one.

It didn't take long to figure out the cause of the mid-afternoon disruption.  Before long, our street was lined with vehicles, all seemingly centered around our neighbor's home, two doors up. There was a constant stream of visitors coming and going, all dressed in black.  The house that had been the center of a wedding celebration last week was now host to a pall of sadness.  Grandmother had passed away.

Yesterday morning, less than 24 hours her passing, a motorcade of vehicles (carrying all of the men) followed her body over to the village cemetery.  The women followed behind on foot.  It was 95 degrees.

The remainder of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday the family will gather and host guests -- mostly neighbors, but also friends from other communities.  They will be served coffee and cookies, and before leaving, the friend will leave a 500 lek bill (about $5) under the cup as a token gesture to help with funeral and burial expenses.  It's sort of a community life insurance policy.

I happen to know two of Grandmother's daughters-in-law.  Nathan decided to stay home with the children since we didn't know the protocol for visitation.  I decided to go to the home of the daughter who had married Grandmother's youngest son.  It was in their house that she had lived and in their house she had died.  (The elderly always live with their youngest son).  When I arrived I was shown into a sitting room lined with ladies dressed in black.  I expected the mood to be somber, but the women were chatting cordially and I was greeted with smiles (I was relieved because I wasn't sure what to expect from a culture that wears its emotions on its sleeve).  It had been almost 48 hours at this point and while her death was unexpected, Grandmother had lived a long, full life.

Introductions were made around as I met sisters-in-law, cousins, and friends of relatives who happened to already be in Albania visiting for pushim.  I was shown a seat and a young woman I didn't recognize walked to me with a tray holding a tiny cup of Turkish coffee on a saucer with a cookie. When my hostess introduced me, my children's heritage was immediately shared and to assuage curiosity, I pulled out my cell phone to show photos. When fluency fails, show photos.

Before long, I realized there were no men present.  When I asked, "Ku jane burrat?" I was told they were gathered at the home which hosted wedding dancing a week ago.  I wondered who was making and serving their coffee?

After staying about 25 minutes as if by some unspoken cue, the visitors in the room stood up at once to leave.  I followed suit, hugging and kissing my hostess and her family goodbye.  It was a conflicting moment, unable to (yet!) offer words beyond an "I'm sorry".

Tonight we visit another village home, this time to celebrate the marriage of a beloved daughter.  Ellie is excited to see a bride and wants to personally deliver our gift. The contrast of today's occasions can't be more stark, and I can't help but bring think of Paul's words from Romans 12:15, "Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep." What a privilege to live them out here.