In a world that's always rushing, there's a calmness in Aunt Hua's voice. It's like a tree in the middle of a storm, strong and steady. When she calls, it's not just a lesson in Chinese; it's a lesson in life. Her voice, coming through the phone, is like a shade giving rest to a tired traveler.
Aunt Hua is like that tree, always giving, never asking for anything in return. She calls each one of us, a dozen kids, all trying to find our way in a world that sometimes feels too big and too confusing. With each call, she gives a part of herself, her time, her wisdom, her patience.
Every time her number flashes on the phone, I know I'm about to embark on a journey. A journey through the pages of "Zhuan Falun," yes, but also a journey through myself. She guides me through the winding roads of Chinese characters, each one a stepping stone to understanding something bigger, something deeper.
Aunt Hua, she's always smiling. It's a smile that says, "You can do it," even when I feel like I can't. It's a smile that lights up the darkest corners of doubt and fills them with hope. When she smiles, it's like the sun breaking through the clouds, bright and warm.
She never seems tired, never seems like she's giving too much. Her kindness is as natural as breathing. She listens to me, really listens, like I'm the most important person in the world. When I stumble over words, she waits, her patience a gentle reminder that it's okay to be slow, to be careful.
Aunt Hua's visits are rare, but when she comes, it's like a festival. She brings snacks and little surprises that taste like happiness. Her presence is a gift, a reminder that some of the best things in life are not things but moments, moments of connection, of understanding, of being seen.
Her unselfishness is like a lesson woven into every conversation and every story she shares. She teaches not just with words, but with actions. She shows us what it means to give without expecting anything in return. She's a living example of the values she teaches: truthfulness, compassion, forbearance.
Aunt Hua's influence reaches beyond the phone calls, beyond the lessons in language. She's shaping us, a dozen children, into better human beings. We're like plants in her garden, each growing at our own pace, each nurtured by her care.
And the proof of her giving, her unselfish nature? It's in her sons. One, a lawyer, standing up for justice, his words a reflection of the truth he was taught. The other, a violinist, creating music that speaks of beauty and discipline, a melody born from the values instilled in him.
In Aunt Hua, I see what I want to be. Not just good at Chinese or good at school, but good at life. She's teaching us to be like her, to be giving trees in a world that often takes more than it gives.
So, Aunt Hua, thank you. Thank you for being our tree, for giving us shade, for teaching us the beauty of unselfishness. In your voice, in your smile, in your lessons, we find the strength to grow, to be better, to be kinder. You're more than a teacher; you're a guiding light, a giver of hope, a maker of futures.
In the shade of Aunt Hua's tree, we learn, we grow, we dream. And one day, we too will be trees, giving shade to others, continuing the legacy of kindness and truth you've planted in us.