it was a cloudy, overcast morning. chilly, gray clouds seeping into the mountains, into the grass, under our sweaters and jackets and scarves. a mist that somehow seemed fitting in this village of dirt paths and wooden fences and roaming goats. it fit the story of huddled gers and smoky stove fires and jumbled Mongolian sentences falling out from the homes and into the air.
we blew up balloons. dashka and underaama put on clown costumes. bayara grabbed his guitar.
we trailed along after each other, the strumming of the guitar keeping time as we wandered about the pathways, looking for children to invite, to gather up, to (quite simply) herd into our growing crowd.
we sang. we laughed. we were silly.
the balloons found hands to hold them. the guitar found little pairs of legs to follow after its rhythm. the clowns found willing recipients of their jostling, chasing fun.
and we found the beginning of a beautiful week in a parade of people in the early gray of a Tuesday morning on dirt paths with balloons and a guitar, singing "If You're Happy and You Know It" in Mongolian.
My heart says of you, "Seek his face!" Your face, Lord, I will seek.
-Psalm 27:8
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