We had an epic Flour & Flowers day on Friday. So epic, in fact, I was up before 5am, and met the ladies at 5:30am to begin. And because it was such a full week of orders, I helped them pretty consistently through the day to help with details and be an extra set of hands.
Our two ovens were on constantly from 6am to 4pm.
We used about 30 kilograms of flour.
We made 35 loaves of bread.
Nyein Nyein rolled out 170 tortillas, because that’s her specialty.
We made 30 pans of cinnamon rolls.
We delivered to 33 customers around town.
Nyein Nyein & Pyint Pyu Hey had to finish baking while Pyo Pyo and I showered and headed off to make deliveries. We came back to pick up the rest mid-way through. For Pyo Pyo and I, we finished deliveries and finances about 6:45pm.
It was such long day, but also so very good. They were optimistic about the sales, and they made quite a bit of extra money to reward them for their early morning and late day. They also put a large portion into their savings account for the end of the year, which is exciting! To be able to reward them both the day of and in the future seems like a win!
We also had good conversations and laughter. There are great things about having a tiny little kitchen filled with four people (five during The Breakfast Club hours!) to run into each other and step over each other and laugh together.
There were so many good things about the day.
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At one point the conversation turned to our husbands. They commented that Stephen & I don’t fight; ironically, we had just had quite the argument the previous morning, during The Breakfast Club, which I was sure at least some of them had heard or been aware of. But the conversation, loosely translated, when like this:
You and Stephen never fight.
We do fight sometimes.
But we don’t hear it. When my husband and I fight everyone can hear it and everyone knows!
Well, we fight, but you might not hear it. And Stephen doesn’t hit me.
Because in America men don’t hit their wives, right?
Well, in America, men can be arrested for hitting their wives. But also, Christians mostly don’t hit their wives, because of what the Bible says. Stephen doesn’t hit me because he loves God and doesn’t think that is okay.
Yeah, Stephen doesn’t like it when men hit women. He really doesn’t like that. And he loves you. You love each other.
Yes, and because he loves me. We do love each other. And yes, Stephen doesn’t like men hitting their wives or other women.
He always comes out and stops them! So I’m not worried when you are here. I can come here or Stephen will come stop my husband.
Do your husbands hit you?
– One time. He hit me one time. Our son didn’t like it and said, ‘Don’t do that! Don’t hurt mommy! She doesn’t like it!’
– Sometimes. Have you ever seen the marks on me? It hasn’t happened for a long time. The worst time was when you were in America. I had marks all over me; my face, my arms, my legs. He was really mad and hit me a lot. Until his brother came to pull him off me and told him to stop. But everyone heard and saw it.
You weren’t here so I didn’t know what to do. But I don’t worry if you are here, I know Stephen will come! My husband is so much bigger than me, there isn’t anything I can do. But Stephen will come.
Was he drunk when he hit you?
Yeah. He drank to much and came home; I hadn’t finished the rice yet and he was really angry. My daughter was so scared and kept shouting, “Daddy, don’t do that! Mommy is hurt! Daddy, DON’T!” But it hasn’t happened for a long time now.
I was processing all this, and that was obvious. I love these women, and their kids, and their husbands. And honestly, in this context, they are pretty healthy families, all things considered. My mind was swimming: the father of that little girl? They actually have a really sweet, beautiful relationship. The brother that pulled the husband off? He’s a Reinforcer. He’s in high school.
It’s true, Stephen will come if he can.
It’s true, he doesn’t like men hitting women; husbands hitting their wives. And in his words, “If that’s what they remember me by–the crazy American who didn’t like men hitting their wives–I’m okay with that!”
The ladies were watching me, and asked, It makes you sad, doesn’t it?
Yeah, it makes me really sad.
Sometimes there is so much we want to change in this neighborhood. I want them to have more education and more opportunities: to learn English and to learn how to use computers; to learn guitar and Thai and literacy. I want them to have a job where they manage the books and count the money; where they learn more reading and writing Burmese and doing math; where they learn to manage their time and do their best: so we sell bread and flowers every week to do that. We make jewelry and sew bags.
I want the kids to love books and play safely. I want the kids to go to school, not to work or be sent off to who-knows-where. I want them to learn to save money. I want them to eat healthy and have enough to eat. I want them to go to the doctor and receive treatment. I want their babies to be born with paperwork. I want them to have access to safe, clean water. I want them to have a safe place to ask for help when it floods or they lose their jobs or someone gets really sick.
I want them to see their value. I want them to have confidence. I want them to know how much God loves them–so much that he sent this young married couple halfway around the world, to this seemingly random street, to fall in love with this neighborhood. To struggle miserably at language, but keep on trying. To struggle miserably with learning to love here, but to keep on trying. I want them to see that God really, really loves them, and he can show them mansions of his goodness that I haven’t figured out yet, but I believe is there. And I believe it’s good.
But yes, I also want them to learn that husbands hitting their wives isn’t a normal, and that its okay to expect something else. I want them to see how to stick up for each other. I want them feel loved when someone else does stick up for them.
There are so many things we want to change; and it feels overwhelming.
But I have committed: “I will listen for the echo of rejoicing in heaven when those I minister among step into the light or even take a small step forward, and will remind myself that persistent celebration rolls back the power of the enemy.”
And somewhere, in that sad conversation, there was an echo of rejoicing.
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It was just hours before this conversation became more real. We were about to leave for dinner, but instead, the evening found us outside standing next to these same ladies, while we all tried to determine if another woman in the community was safe. It was a fight; a loud argument. But it has turned violent before, so we waited; prayerfully and carefully trying to determine when it’s preventing violence and when it’s prying.
Stephen went over to ask if everything was alright, and the mother said she was okay.
As we waited not too far away, her little boy came over within ten minutes, “My mom said to come call you now. She said to go call Stephen.”
So Stephen went to get the mother; and I went inside with the little boy. He had tears in his eyes as I sat to talk with him.
He and Stephen played MarioKart and Donkey Kong; and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles–which took so long to understand: The men, different colors, with the knives, cutting down…grass? What? Oh, turtles? No, frogs? With knives? What?”
I sat with the mother while she cried and calmed down. She told me she didn’t want her baby–the one arriving in just a month or two; and didn’t know how to take care of her kids. Would we take them?
Oh, the painful irony, folks: of being in a slower adoption process than we hoped, while being offered children–A little boy you already love and know! Newborn babies about to arrive across your street!–and know they are paperless; knowing the line between trafficking and adoption is so grey here; knowing that she needs to be equipped to care for her kids, not have them taken away. So we talked about this little baby that she would soon love so much. That she would look into his eyes and love him. How her son needs his mother and they love each other so much. They can stick together. He’s going to be such a great young man someday…
We talked about options, too: how we can help, how we can get outside help. How this isn’t the end of the story.
But as the story continues, it is not lost on me, as Stephen played video games with a little boy over a bowl of Mama noodles in front of the prayer painted on our wall:
May God bless us with discomfort
At easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships
So that we may live from deep within our hearts.
May God bless us with anger
At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of God’s creations
So that we may work for justice, freedom, and peace.
May God bless us with tears
To shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger, and war,
So that we may reach out our hands to comfort them and
To turn their pain into joy.
And may God bless us with just enough foolishness
To believe that we can make a difference in the world,
So that we can do what others claim cannot be done:
To bring justice and kindness to all our children and all our neighbors who are poor.
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I have been thinking more recently that this blog is on it’s way out; because who would want to read this? I’m sure there are rules out there about how many words I’m supposed to write; and this has to be way over that! It’s quite sad, and I know it. You might even think I need to pursue more counseling (than I already am!).
Can I just tell you: there are so many good things in our lives. I love how many jobs are created in our home; that women able to work safely and be paid fairly with their kids nearby. I love that they are given opportunities for more education in a variety of ways. I love that the youth have a safe place to be and learn. I love that the kids know we won’t hit them. I love that the parents know Stephen doesn’t hit me. I love that the littles come calling for Auntie Kelli and Uncle Stephen; and they’ll always find a hug, a smile, and safety. I love that we are in the neighborhood and culture; but also bringing in a new perspective. I love that we have so much to learn and so much to teach. I love that the kids teach pretend school on our porch; I love that they no longer dig through our trash. I love hearing English songs sung on our porch, whether the words are right or not. I love seeing the kids bring books to Thida to be read to. I love that the kids know to say thank you at our house, while the parents are amazed. I love that I can see kids on their way to school in the morning, put bandages on their cuts, and send them out the door after a steaming bowl of rice, vegetables, and meat.
I cannot believe what God has allowed to happen here. I cannot believe that he has been so gracious to us; for something so much bigger than a couple that didn’t know what they were getting into.
But while the goodness continues, every single day, I feel like I must also write about the sadness, because it’s true. It’s real, around the world, including this seemingly random street; and yours, too. It’s in your country of residence just as much as mine.
I recently read in Jim Wallis’ America’s Original Sin book, “Are we hiding behind untruths that help make us feel more comfortable, or are we willing to seek the truth, even if that is uncomfortable? [John 8:32] is telling us that only by seeking the truth are we made free, and that hanging on to untruths can keep us captive to comfortable illusions.”
All the conversations yesterday, the fighting: it made me uncomfortable. Honestly, even the 5am wake up and endless baking made me fairly uncomfortable! But I also encountered truth. And for this little neighborhood, the truth is that God both hurts for them and loves them more than we ever will. And that this is precisely why we’re here: to let the truth set us all free.
This is beautiful!
Loved, loved this.