I grew up in one world and watched it change. Now I’m living part time in another. I’ve little  experience here, this is only our third trip to Sint Maarten. 

Today, we went to church and once again we were the only snow white people there – I loved it! Something inside me makes me curious. I like to weave the threads of human experiences and ponder the echos of faith, culture, worth, and folly.  But at this church I mostly experience joy.

I can’t say definitely that one place is better than another, Sint Maarten  or Polebridge Montana   But it is true the people in both places are all God’s creation,  made in His image.

“Cosmopolitan” one could call our life, in many ways it is,  in many ways it is not. Our experience is that we live and enjoy life mostly within cultural and ethnic boundaries. So on the one hand I enjoy the sweet and sour fruits  of universal humanity, but on the other, a sort of tribal existance with borders that don’t require assimilation is nice too.

I’ll explain this dilemma like this: I like eating goat and pot roast. In other words, diversity and tradition are both good, but we do not feel like we have an ethical responsibility to advocate for refugees, sustainable trade, or cross-cultural dialogue. I am not a citizen of this world. This is why globalism does not appeal to me. I have State and cultural loyalties, and I enjoy life best learning and exploring how the rest of us live.

Some think to achieve perpetual peace and worldy unity that immigration polices should be forced upon us. I don’t. If it happens,  it should happen slowly.

It has been a glorious experience being here and freely attending our Sint Maarten  Church. The people here don’t know how to converse with us nor we to them. It’s almost hilarious. We’re tourists to them. Still, they are sweet and kind people to us. And I like the challenge to go further and deeper.

Yes, we’re  making friends  slowly, as we should. Island culture and their traditions are different.  Here is a fun story.

After church we walked down the street a bit where people were gathered in what looked like a run down old island house,  but it was sort of a bar and home barbecue joint. No cash register and definitely no credit card machines. There were about 15-20 people  gathered there. The vibe was caribbean and Mexican.  I guess there is an immigration issue here too, but the people there looked black and caribbean, not Spanish.

  They had some great music blasting with heart pounding bass and the whole neighborhood could hear it. A few people were at the outdoor porch counter drinking beer.  In another inside room people were chatting away in no language we could understand. On the sidewalk a man was cooking chicken and ribs on a homemade grill made from a used propane tank. The air was sweet and smokey. As we walked up, dressed in our Sunday best we got a few looks, not of contempt,  but of curiosity. I supposed people from church don’t wander over to such places after church in this neighborhood,  lol.  A middle aged plump black woman was sitting front and center as we climbed the steps onto the porch. She was very gracious and asked how she could help us?  I replied loudly to get above the music, “We’d like some chicken and ribs.” She then pointed me to a doorway where inside a couple ladies were busy preparing food. I told them our wishes and they stopped everything and began chopping up our order. You see, they use a cleaver to hack the chicken thighs into pieces and separate the rib slab into individual bites. In a few short minutes she handed us two full containers and I asked, “How much?” Did they see us coming, I thought, as she crunched the numbers in her head. She blurted out a numer that sounded like $40 dollars. I looked at Jackie,  then turned again to the woman and said, “Excuse me, how much?” For one thigh and a small rack of ribs I thought for a second we were screwed! Then she said, as best she could, “Forteen dolla’s.”  We hadn’t heard her right the first time, thank God!

Her accent was rich in tradition and hard for us to understand. I smiled! “I’m glad I heard you right this time.” She laughed, and seemed to understood our confusion and our words just fine. I handed her a $20 and she gave me change. As we left I gave her back the $5 and the cook at the barbecue the buck from our change. Oh, ya. The whole time we were there a medium sized short haired pit bull-ish dog seemed to be scratching itself to the beat of the music. 

We loved the whole scene the people and the fact that we were different, white, and believers. This was very different from going into the south side of Chicago ghetto.