I received a text message on one of my bus journeys from Lilongwe to Salima—the brother of a friend of ours had just died in Lilongwe. I immediately knew that I should return to Lilongwe to pay respects to the family, but I had a lot of work to do in Salima. Going back to Lilongwe would mean more time spent away from my family, more money spent on transport, and most of a day wasted in a couple of crowded buses. In the end, I got off of one bus at the Salima bus depot and got on the next bus back to Lilongwe. And yes, it felt to my American heart like a waste, going back to attend the preparations for the funeral of a man who I had never met. But I also knew that for a Malawian there would be no question that this was the right course of action.

At this point, one might be tempted to admire me for my cultural sensitivity and self-sacrifice. But that admiration would be ill-placed, because of the way I myself was admiring my cultural sensitivity and self-sacrifice, thinking how impressed people would be at the funeral if they discovered that I had spent all morning traveling to Salima only to turn around and come back to sit with them and mourn for this man I didn’t even know. It’s sickening to think how twisted my heart is sometimes.

And now I’m questioning whether I’m telling you about this just out of vain conceit, hoping you’ll see how culturally sensitive and self-sacrificing I am, while at the same time I have the humility and maturity to allow myself to be vulnerable.