Sometimes I feel surrounded by suffering. While there is some suffering that we encounter personally, most of it is those we love suffering in our midst. I cry so many tears for this community: for individual children, for vulnerable women, for seemingly hopeless situations. For poverty, for abuse, for addiction, for loneliness.

There was a point a few years ago where I needed to learn to mourn for these things: to let myself cry, to let myself hurt deeply; to see that I am mourning with God, for things that hurt him even more. This has taken many forms: writing, worship, meditating; most recently, it took the form of a jar. My sister gave me the sweet gift of a Bottle of Tears jar. It became a physical way to write down griefs and losses in our lives and community, and really, to release them. To drop them into a bottle, where they are not forgotten—they are recorded, literally, and yet no longer mine to carry.

It filled quickly over the past few months. There were a few days, a few events, where I would simply walk out of the community, overwhelmed, to write things down and drop them in the bottle. And while it was a beautiful way to mourn, to record, to recognize suffering and pain: sometimes I didn’t want to go back into it again. I didn’t want to return into the community, the community center.

Ever.

And yet I can’t really avoid it: it’s my house, my kitchen, and honestly, my life. I’m there all the time.

But you can be present somewhere and not be there. And so I was.

Quite a few painful encounters happened over Breakfast Club hours. It has naturally brought the community together and brought ailments and sorrows and requests. So while I kept popping in, I stopped sitting with the kids; I stopped chatting with the parents. And while it is Thida’s job and she doesn’t need me, and all the other million excuses I could use, I know that I was hiding when I could.

During Playhouse, my goal is to engage with the kids. To play games with them, to ask about their days and families; to learn who likes who and who passed their exams. And sometime in recent weeks, I noticed I was playing the rock game everyday—a game I can focus on; a game I can play and not chat; a game that looks engaged when I know I’m not. I’m using it to hide amidst forty children. (A feat, nonetheless.)

Flour & Flowers has also been difficult as of late. I had some interesting encounters with one of the ladies, and they were painful. She was frustrated with me and handled it somewhat elementary—imagine a junior high cafeteria scenario, and then play it out in your kitchen and street. I was exhausted of the work we’ve put in, the sacrifices we’ve made, only to be hurt. I started wishing it would end; that business would dry up; that this business endeavor could be over. I was tired of all my Fridays being consumed.

And as you can see: I lost joy in the work, which is also our whole life and our house. It’s so hard to escape.

But it’s also so much more than I can bear: too many problems to fix, to hear, to carry. Too many to even write down and drop in a jar.

And while I tried to keep mourning each piece of sorrow, it became easier to avoid it. To hide. Mourning defined my heart more than anything else. And while I still believe that God carries those tears and sufferings—and I’m thankful he’ll continue to, because they come day after day—I can’t stop there. I can’t let that hide my hope, my salvation, the joy of the Lord.

And if I’m hiding from my life, from my best friends, from my ministry: I don’t look much like Christ.

If I’m exasperated at the first call or frustrated that someone is sick again: I don’t look much like Christ.

Friedrich Nietzsche once said of Christians he knew, “I would believe in their salvation if they looked a little more like people who have been saved.”

How do I show my salvation? How do I show the goodness of God? How do I show his joy? How do I find pleasure in my toil?

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I was listening to a podcast recently on celebration (an excellent one, if I may say: Upside Down Podcast, episode 26: Commitment to Celebration). They referenced the story of Esther, where she fasted, along with all the Jews, for three days and three nights before approaching the king.

The task was too big for her; for all of them. She was in over her head, and so they fasted.

He had heard their cries; he rescued them. In their inadequacy, he took care of them. So then they celebrated all that God had done.

Esther 8 says that the city “shouted and rejoiced. The Jews had light and gladness and joy and honor. And in every province and in every city, wherever the king’s command and his edict reached, there was gladness and joy among the Jews, a feast and a holiday.”

I see a parallel in the feeding of the 5,000+, where Jesus tells his disciples to feed the crowd. It’s quickly apparent they are inadequate to do so: to provide the food or even the money for such a crowd. It is too big for them. But in their inadequacy, he took care of them. And then they feasted.

And here, this is where we sit: we are inadequate for this neighborhood. We are way in over our heads (and have been for years) to handle the language, the lifestyle, the suffering, the needs, the poverty, the problems.

We can’t fix so many of them. It’s like saving an entire people group or feeding a host of families with a few loaves of bread and fish.

But in our inadequacy, he will take care of us.

And we must celebrate that.

Enter our weekly celebrations! We’re now taking once a week to fast, followed by a small “feast”–really just something fun for Mae Sot, whether that’s a homemade pizza or ordered in Indian food or a homemade funfetti cake!–whatever feels like a “feast” to us! We’re setting up a little party.

In the podcast, they referenced this organization‘s Commitment to Celebration, and there are two pieces of it we are using as a form of liturgy for our weekly feast. The first is this:

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.

Just a couple weeks in, it’s been incredible to dwell on this. Each week we’ve been sharing the little ways we saw the kingdom come this week; the little joys; the littlest steps forward. And some weeks, we are just celebrating the fact that this is not the end, and HE WINS. Sometimes we are just choosing persistent celebration.

But we’re finding that’s a powerful thing.

I’ll end with the second piece of liturgy we are using at our weekly shindig. This has been one of the warmest concepts to me lately, and I’ve been wrapping it around me:

I will celebrate
the light of Christ in a world of darkness,
the life of Christ in a culture of death,
the liberty of Christ in a kingdom of captivity,
and the hope of Christ in an age of despair.
I will rejoice always & in everything give thanks.

I’ve been ruminating, somewhat stuck, on the wise words of Ecclesiastes 3.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.

What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil–this is God’s gift to man. 

I perceived that whatever God does endures forever; nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it. God has done it, so that people fear before him. That which is, already has been; that which is to be, already has been; and God seeks what has been driven away. 

It’s been a season of keeping silence. Silence here, in written word; somewhat silence between friends and family; sometimes even Stephen & I. I’m a bit out of words. Or perhaps they just don’t seem to be helping.

It’s been a season of healing, literally. I’ve faced a number of random physical ailments, one after another since July, from dengue fever to dog bites that become infected and full rounds of rabies vaccinations; rashes and ear infections; to lymph node infections that become abscessed and require surgery.

And while said surgery was done well, kept clean, and an overall good experience here in this lovely little border town, it was painful. It seems they are still working on lidocaine usage, and when asked if it was painful, our conversation went like this, as he was cutting,
“Pain?”
“Yes, pain.”
“Pain?”
“Yes. Pain.”
“I think no pain. Just fear.”
“Yes, pain. Sharp pain. SHARP PAIN. VERY SHARP PAIN.”

By the time I got home, my entire arm was numb, and the left side of my face. My face stayed a bit numb for 48 hours. So, y’know. There was healing needed.

There’s been mourning. Mourning for the pace of our adoption, for the suffering of the community around us, for the unknowns of the season ahead. Mourning for hunger and sickness and abuse and poverty. Mourning for our host country, which also mourns deeply, fears deeply.

There has been so much planting. Sometimes it feels like we spend every day planting tiny little seeds and hoping, hoping, hoping that something falls on good soil.

There’s been seeking: for dancing, for laughter, for peace.

And as we look to adopt, or not; as we look to stay in this community, or find them all returning to their home country; as we look to new seasons…whatever God does endures forever; nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it.

And in all my questions…he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.

And as we look forward: there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil–this is God’s gift to man. 

Seeking to find pleasure in this again. In the many loaves of baked bread, in the many bouquets of flowers, in the many conversations over breakfast and a game of Sorry, in the many vulnerable children, in the many sicknesses, in the many drunken brawls: to find pleasure in all the toil. To be joyful. To do good.

To walk humbly, to love mercy, and to act justly, in all seasons.

It was our weekly Sabbath.

Thida was already cooking when I slipped out the door for an early morning bike ride; and Stephen slept a bit longer than 5:30am. Because we Sabbath differently.

When I got back just after seven, I sat with a few of the moms and kids, just chatting a few minutes. With news of an arrest last night and the community gathering thousands of baht to get him out of prison; the reality that this is only the beginning of more arrests and more pushes and pulls to this little neighborhood…I was ready to call it a Sabbath on the other side of the doorway and let Thida do her thing.

Then we heard shouting in the front and went to see. It was one of our little friends who is six years old, with one of the hardest lives and living situations, now crying and facing his aunt–a teenager with a baby of her own now–and she’s wielding a stick. Not a normal stick, mind you: many of the parents use small sticks in their discipline, and whether I fully agree with it or not, I can see it is cultural. I can see it as different strokes for different folks.

But this, this is a very thick wooden broom handle.

I try to calmly intervene; ask what has happened. He’s naughty, she says. He took something from another boy.

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I’ll interject here to just say I ache for this little guy. At six he has faced more hardship and horrors than he should ever experience, and he’s still the sweetest. He comes bearing the biggest smiles every morning, politely says thank you, and really, if he knows he shouldn’t, he doesn’t. He just doesn’t always know yet.

Just Thursday he bit another boy on the cheek. It was shockingly aggressive; left a large mark and just felt surprisingly vicious. And since he was at our housing playing, I  took him outside to handle it.

When I asked what happened, he matter-of-factly explained that the boy had taken his train.

He was confused where the problem was: a train taken out of his hand and a bite on the cheek seemed fair enough.

I explained to him that at our house, that’s not how we respond when we are angry. It’s ok to be angry, but we use our words here to say we are angry. We can to ask someone not to do something, or even ask an adult for help. We don’t hit, fight, or bite here.

He nodded and apologized.

I love this kid to pieces. His heart is beautiful. And his innocence is beautiful, despite coming out of all the stories you don’t want to hear: living with his grandparents through a split; his adolescent aunts caring for him in the early years of his life while his parents were in prison for some drug involvement; his aunt leaving him to move to Bangkok as a teenager; his other aunt pregnant as an unwed teenager; his parents returning when he’s three and doesn’t know them; his dad having TB and the newly-reunited family being moved into isolation hours away; his grandfathers second wife leaving and then returning; with endless drunkenness and rage and beatings in the middle. His mother just left the family three weeks ago, only two weeks after we finally arranged to get him into school and started feeding him breakfast five days a week.

Endless brokenness.

And this kid, guys: he just keeps smiling. He’s so incredibly resilient. He shows up every morning, excited for breakfast and throwing thankfulness all over the room; asking, again, if we are playing at 4 o’clock.

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As I watch her threaten him with the oversized stick, I’m skeptical he’s really that naughty.

But like countless other times in this community, sometimes it’s hard to know what to do. If I was in the parent | guardian position, I wouldn’t want to be told how to parent my child. I wouldn’t want to be told—particularly by a white lady that doesn’t even have children!—how I should handle this.

Sometimes it’s enough to just having someone else present and aware. Diffusing the situation for even just a split second—it allows for reconsideration. It gives a moment for them to ask themselves if they should continue; to consider if the punishment fits the crime.

And from past experience, usually a moment’s consideration or a few onlookers is enough to calm things to words.

Of course that wasn’t the case here. As I turned back toward the house I heard the crack of the stick on something.

Replay #1 as I try to sort that out, wishing I hadn’t turned around; wishing I knew what I should have done; wishing I knew if she actually hit him then or hit the ground in threat.

I turned back around in a hurry. And from there, here’s what I think happened, amidst the chaos in another language: I think I told her no, not here. Here, at our house, it is not okay to hit him. She can choose what she does at her house, but not here. We do not hit here at our house.

She said something about him not moving, and I shrugged. I said I didn’t care; she would not be hitting him here.

Let’s just say it was loud enough that others around heard, and they now know our stance on hitting kids with big sticks.

I knew I had to walk away at that point; I was shaking horribly and tried to pull myself together over a glass of water. Thida apologized in the kitchen, and I tried to mumble something about how we don’t do that in America/I don’t experience these things in America and I’m not sure what to do.  She could tell I was losing it, and so could I.

I stumbled into our bedroom and woke Stephen up through tears and trying to explain I didn’t know what to do. I can’t go out there now, because I’m crying. You can’t cry in Burmese communities, not visibly. And yet I can’t let him get hit. I didn’t know what to do.

Stephen kindly stumbles out of bed and spends the next hour, with the help of two other kind friends in the community, taking the stick away, calming everyone down, and checking on this little guy.

He’s bawling as I bandage up a couple cuts, evaluate some welps. He gulps down a cup of chocolate milk as we tell him he’s going to be alright.

I tell him again how we love Jesus and we don’t hit here. I tell him we love him, and that we use our words when we’re angry, not fighting, not biting, and not hitting: just like I said the other day. I explain we need to be nice, to obey, and to be a good kid, but that that isn’t okay. Stephen tells him if he’s ever scared to run, RUN, as fast as he can to our house.

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I just keep replaying it over and over again. What I said to her; what I said to him. What I saw and what I did. What I should have done or shouldn’t have.

How I got here in the first place.

I wonder if I actually said what I said. I wonder that often anyway, but especially when I’m frustrated or scared or stressed. Did I even make sense? Was it all laughable? Or was it just downright not what I meant to say?

Was it true? Was it kind?

How do I know if it honored the Lord if I’m not even positive I said it?

How do you love someone in another language? How do you love across cultures? How do you not just mess up one thing after another?

It’s a shame the replays don’t answer questions.

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He came back the next day for breakfast.

Same beautiful smile. Same hungry belly.

He ate two platefuls and then asked for a new Band-Aid on his way out the door. I bandaged up his hand again and asked if he was okay.

Are you alright? Yep!
Are you full? Yep!
Are you happy? Yep!
Are you coming to play today at 4? Yep!

He told me thank you. I told him he was a good kid, and he tumbled out the door. And then he tumbled back in a few minutes later because he forgot his rice tin for lunch.

And then tumbled back out, while I tumble through another day and another replay.