You go through phases as you live abroad.  When you first get there, all you can see are the differences.  First it's just the obvious differences of language, lifestyles, and quality of life.  Then it's the differences in cultures and customs, and slowly that starts to reveal thought processes and worldviews; the deeper stuff that underlies all of those bigger differences.  Around that time I think you begin to see the similarities between your home culture and new culture as well.  The differences aren't so imposing and the similarities make it all welcoming.

One way you notice differences and similarities is by looking at how people do their jobs.  Every culture has teachers, politicians, policemen, grocery store clerks, doctors and so on.  Observing those shared professions help give you insight into the larger culture as well.

Then, sometimes, something happens and you're reminded of just how different it is.

About a month ago one of the elders of the church here died.  It was a little sudden though not unexpected.  He had been at the church for a long time, it was like his second family, and from what I understand he was dearly loved by the congregation.

The pastor of our church is a great guy; hugely generous, caring, and passionate.  Part of the Monoglian/Buddhist tradition is that, when someone dies, everyone visits the family's house to share food and mourn.  This happens for a period of days (if not longer).  So, as the pastor, he was at the family's house to comfort and counsel.  In the midst of his own grief over the loss of his friend, he ministered to his friend's' family through that mourning period.

Then, not only did he have to officiate his friend's funeral, but because he was his friend and pastor, he helped dig the grave.  How many pastors, or people in general for that matter, have dug their friend's grave back home?  More so, in M*ngolia it gets so cold that the ground freezes completely solid.  It might as well be concrete.  So, in the below freezing, sub-Siberian winter, our pastor dug his friend's grave with a jackhammer.

I've been fortunate to not have been around very much death in my life, but from what I've seen in America it is usually a pretty sterile thing.  Here is this man, this friend, this pastor sinking his hands into muck of life and death.  Who, in the midst of his own grief, comforts and consoles, and who not only braves temperatures you only see on Planet Earth to dig the hole in the ground for his friend's body, but he does it with a jackhammer.  The he climbs out, dusts himself off, and says goodbye to his friend by doing the funeral.

It's the little differences that you see like that, that are humbling and inspiring; and for which I'm truly grateful to be here to see.