It almost always begins as a normal evening, but before you know it a child is throwing up on your porch.

I had thought that these children not actually being mine could prevent me from the encounter with bodily fluids of any kind. But this event–as well as the children urinating behind our house daily–proves this inaccurate.

I took some disinfectant (or at least I think so; it says 99.9% something…) and paper towels out to clean it up. In simply seeing the paper towels, the kids starting yelling, “One! One!”

I wasn’t really sure why they wanted them, but in the grand scheme of picking your battles, I thought I could afford to give away a few paper towels. So I gave each child one.

But they didn’t know why they wanted them either. This was immediately apparent as they stood around each other, holding their paper towel out in front of them, and speaking a few words between themselves.

They stood there for quite awhile before they ran home, presumably to find something to wipe up or wrap up.

Yuh Meh Oo came back a couple hours later for a hug. She comes by most nights–she just likes to get a couple extra hugs and smiles, then we say our goodbyes and blow kisses to each other as she walks home for bed.  This time she came back with her paper towel in tow, folded into quarters and held to her chest, as if it meant the world to her.

We had some left over fried chicken and rice from a potluck last night. And though I’m aware this sounds a little pretentious, I don’t really care for leftover & reheated fried…anything.

So I thought I’d share it with the kids!

I reheated it today and shared it with a small group of girls. They were ecstatic. At first I think they thought I just brought my lunch out to eat it front of them, and then they just tried to feed me. Once I told them they could have it, their eyes lit up and they dove in.

But apparently fried chicken makes you very thirsty, because when you give a child fried chicken, she’ll ask for a cup of water. And then twelve more.

 

Over a month ago, our Thai landlord came to our house while we were out and trimmed our banana trees.

This wasn’t really a big deal to us. The trees weren’t as pretty without the huge overhanging branches, but I didn’t have a strong opinion. However, our Karen and Burmese neighbors, who we had told they could have the banana bunches when they ripened, were quite upset about it. They felt that this ruined the trees.

The Karen woman we talk to quite often, Mong Ey, was really, really upset by the whole scenario. We spent about an hour outside, attempting to calm her and reassure her that the bananas would still grow. She did end up hacking one whole tree to the ground in anger, and they had the banana stalk for dinner.

And then weeks went by, and I didn’t think much more of it.

Until yesterday. We had some friends over for dinner, a few of whom are learning Burmese. One of the girls greeted Mong Ey in Burmese and they began to talk in Burmese for quite awhile.

My friend then came in to tell us that she had been told the whole banana tree story, and Mong Ey was apparently still very, very upset.

This I feel quite bad about.

However, in the recounting of the story, Mong Ey told our friend that she came over to talk to the Thai man, shouting at him that he couldn’t cut the trees because we are her family and those were our trees.

…And I don’t remember much else of what she said. But she called us family.

And now, every crayon mark on the wall, the spilt soup on the couch, countless hours spent in a grungy hospital, and the Q-tip stuck to my wall, they are all worth it.

Because we’re family.

Mae Sot is a shady place.

There are countless stories and figures; there are plenty of things that we see day in and day out.

Today the topic was human trafficking.

We discussed the high prevalence of trafficking Burmese, how they often come through Mae Sot into other southeast Asian countries. And they are put on a ship in a container. 

And to go where?

California.

My country. They arrive in a container, to my country, for prostitution.

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I thought of Jon Foreman’s Equally Skilled:

How miserable I am
I feel like a fruit-picker 
Who arrived here
After the harvest
There’s nothing here at all
Nothing at all here 
That could placate my hunger
The godly people are all gone
There’s not one honest soul left alive
Here on the planet
We’re all murderers and thieves
Setting traps here 
For even our brothers

And both of our hands 
Are equally skilled
At doing evil, equally skilled
At bribing the judges 
Equally skilled
At perverting justice
Both of our hands
Both of our hands

They are no worse than I am; and this country is no worse than my own. 

We are all equally skilled. Equally evil.

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Last week in the office conversation came up about Christ coming back and if we were ready. It was posed as a challenge: Are we living in such a way that we are ready for Christ to return?

There is an implied response that we’re probably not living up to our potential, and we need to alter our lives to live in light of eternity.

…Per usual, I didn’t have the implied response.

Afraid to admit might thoughts to someone who might put me into counseling, I asked Stephen that night, “Is it bad that I am ready? Not because I think I have done enough or that I lived in such a way that I am ready to stand before the Lord. Instead, it’s simply that the idea of living all of life that is in front me with such darkness everywhere; it seems overwhelming.”

I know this appears like I need anti-depressants and counselors. Some of you might recommend I move home. But I genuinely believe those aren’t the solutions.

The groaning has simply become louder. Because we are all equally skilled.

And I don’t actually think this groaning should be ignored, because there is something to groan for. There is redemption coming.

No, don’t gloat over me
Though I fall, though I fall
I will rise again
Though I sit here in darkness
The Lord, the Lord alone
He will be my light
I will be patient 
As the Lord
Punishes me 
For the wrongs I’ve done
Against Him
After that 
He’ll take my case
Bringing me 
To light and the justice
For all I have suffered

And both of His hands
Are equally skilled
At ruining evil 
Equally skilled
At judging the judges 
Equally skilled
Administering justice
Both of His hands

Both of His hands
Are equally skilled
At showing me mercy 
Equally skilled
At loving the loveless 
Equally skilled
Administering justice
Both of His hands
Both of His hands