I was working on some Burmese homework on Saturday, and I heard two kids come to the door. The younger boy called my name and started to open the door; his cousin and caretaker shut the door and snapped at him–we were working and shouldn’t be bothered.  He ran away crying. She sighed.

I heard them return within ten minutes or so with a whole group of kids. They were playing together outside when the same young boy started crying, loudly. It was a real cry, so I went outside to make sure he was okay and saw his cousin lifting him onto the bench. She wiped his tears as she snapped at him, angrily.

I went over to both of them and asked what had happened. Was he okay? And she started to cry.

Now they were both crying, and the rest of the crew were staring.

And for whatever reason, I could just see it so clearly: all their needs. They had reached their breaking points.

They were tired and hungry, because they spend most days tired and hungry. And it’s raining, again, because right now it is raining every day. She is watching him, again, because that is her job. And he’s crying, again, because life is hard being raised by your grandmother and cousin in a shack.

He just wanted to play with her; and when he fell, he wanted to be comforted. He’s just 4.

She just wanted to play and be with her friends, and for him to stop following her, stop crying for her, and stop needing to be comforted. She’s just 11, and doesn’t really want to be a mother. But meanwhile, she really loves him, and has a momma’s heart. I could instantly see that she felt bad for yelling at him, but didn’t really know how not to.

Because she’s 11. And he’s 4. And they were reaching their breaking points.

I can’t make it all go away, but I can be a buffer. So I pulled out some tortilla chips, crackers, and a bowl of salsa. We all sat around our table outside and munched on some snacks while the tension eased away.

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This week has found me reaching my breaking point a few times over, too. It was simply a number of circumstances piling together in just a precise way and pushing me over my capacity. It sometimes led to tears, sometimes to frustrated words to Stephen, and sometimes to silence.

And I’m 28. I still struggle at my breaking points to not yell at the wrong person or break down in failure. Some days the little things get to me, too, and I can’t remember how to love the people I love most.

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Fast forward a few hours. Our house is open for the community center: there are two kids on the computers and about twenty on the floor, playing games and reading books and building train tracks. He’s asking me for a snack.

I tell him no; partially because I think he’s getting into a habit of asking and I think the mouse-and-cookie routine could go on forever; partially because there are thirty kids in my house and I’m confident I don’t have twenty snacks in my kitchen.

He asks me again, and again. I ask him if he’s eaten rice, and he says no.

I’m worried now, so I go to talk to to his cousin. Here’s the trick: the phrase used is, Have you eaten cooked rice?, and this is if you have had a “meal”–which is only a meal if you’ve had rice. A snack is different; and sometimes the line is confusing for those of us who don’t base our meals or lives around “rice” itself.

I ask her, Have you eaten rice today? Has he eaten rice today?
She says no; it ran out at lunch.
Do you have rice? Is there rice in your house?
No, no [cooked] rice.
So there is no rice? Will anyone cook rice for dinner? Will someone cook in an hour or so?
Yes, someone will cook. There will be cooked rice tonight.

I’m still unsure. I tell her to please tell us if they don’t have rice. If they ever do not have rice, please come tell us. And then I chat with Stephen, and we decide we should risk it. We give the little boy a snack in the kitchen, he eats a cucumber and Burmese salad.

While he’s sitting on the counter scarfing it down, another little girl comes in to use the bathroom. She eyes it, and I know instantly she’s hungry, too. I know her family; I know even a little bit of their story–I know she’s hungry. So I tell her she can eat, too.

So they share a snack together and then came to sit down for bible study.

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We have been to the hospital or clinic every day from Tuesday to Sunday. Friday alone we went three times–that’s thirty minutes each way–and I made Flour & Flower deliveries for four hours. Seven hours of driving is quite a bit to end up right back at your own house.

Today I told Stephen through tears I just couldn’t take it any more: I can’t handle hungry kids and broken families and parents asking for loans. I can’t handle more trips to the hospital. I can’t buy another $60 worth of medicine to counteract living in dirt and trash.

Because this is my breaking point.

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I don’t even have a happy ending, other than tomorrow is our Sabbath day and I’m thankful. I need rest; and really I’m just hoping for a day free from the clinic.

There is the happy ending that my husband is kind and gracious. He has been good to me this week in all my breaking; he took me out to a beautiful view and play worship songs on his guitar. He made many of the trips to the hospital. He ate half-meals at 9pm and didn’t complain at all.

Really, I don’t write for happy endings. I write because I want the whole story to be known. God is a good, good Father, but sometimes in very dark places. Behind the many people going to church with us, there is a chance they are all going for the free meal, because they are hungry. Behind the success of Flour & Flowers, there are also loans and learning savings and trying to teach budgeting. Behind the beautiful faces of kids on a computer and learning math, there are hungry bellies. Behind the many things growing and growing here, there are tears, too. There’s a couple holding each other while they cry for kids that aren’t theirs.

And behind that couple, there is a good, good Father, whispering in their ears that He is good and He is God.

This morning, I set out for a run.

I love exercise. In the hardest seasons of living here, I have discovered that if I can get out and move, most things will be okay. In the most challenging seasons of depression, daily movement has helped me in more ways than one.

So sometimes I run.

And sometimes we ride bicycles. Stephen just gifted me a new bicycle for my birthday–my first mountain bike here in Mae Sot!–and it’s amazing. Some of my favorite times with Stephen in Mae Sot are long mornings and evenings cycling around our city, into surrounding villages. We have so many memories of cycling through the rain and across ridiculous roads and running into cows. There was that one time I got a flat tire at the furthest point from humanity we were riding, and we had to walk our bicycles back about 5 kilometers before we found a man in a little random shop of antiques (not an antique shop, mind you, just a shop of antique things) where he found a tire patch and sorted us out. And he looked just like a Burmese version of Harrison Ford, which of course we didn’t know existed. Now we do, thanks to our bicycle adventures.

Most days of the week, we head to the pool to swim laps. It’s our favorite, as our temperatures rarely go below 80 around here and often are up over 100 degrees. Stephen swims about 4000 meters a week these days, and I trail behind at about 3600m.

Exercise has been such a gift since we got here. It benefits our mental, social, emotional, & physical health.

To our neighbors, it is absurd that we go to the pool as often as we do. They know our pool bag, and look shocked when we go in the morning, because it is too cold. They are shocked when we go in the middle of the day, because we will be in the sun and get darker. They are shocked when we go at night, because we will get sick. And really, they are just baffled that we will spend that much time going back and forth in water, turning browner and redder.

And when we bike, they ask where we are going: why would leave now, at 6pm? You are just going to bicycle out there and then…come back? Why? That is the longest possible way to get…nowhere. For their lives, bicycles are their main transport. They bike slowly and steadily to get to work, the market, doctors, and more; sometimes carrying their families along. Every day, every month, and every year.

And when I go for a run as I did this morning, I am the only one. They now know where I go and why. They ask about my watch that measures the distance, and they listen in on my music while I tie my shoes. They are amazed when I return dripping with sweat, and the kids wipe it off my arm and face, perhaps to “help” and perhaps just in pure curiosity.

Exercise is weird to them, and I know that. That was obvious from the first time I went for a ran and received countless stares, and it continued today as I received countless stares. The hotel staff are even baffled that we’d swim as often as we do; the Burmese Harrison Ford didn’t understand what we were doing in the middle of nowhere sweaty and tired.

But the more you spend time in higher classes, the more exercise is normal. If you run in other parts of town, you get thumbs up and “Good job!”

I have been struck so often of the privilege exercise is. It is an activity of wealth. I can run because I have shoes, and the watch & music make it pretty enjoyable. I can bike because I have a bicycle, and one great enough that I enjoy being on it for a few hours. I can swim because I have a swimsuit and goggles, and because I pay a membership at this pretty amazing pool, where I can swim laps or sit and read or even shower when I am out of water.

Even further, I have the time in the day to exercise. I know for those with kids, that might not be true. But most of us do have so much that adds more time into our days: I have a washing machine that allows me to not wash my clothes by hand; I have a job that is flexible; I have a fridge that allows me to store for more than just a day (and thus go to the shop daily); I have a rice cooker and crock pot and all sorts of ease-inducing kitchen tools. I even have a shower, so once I do exercise, I can be clean without dragging up buckets of well water. Oh, and due to that handy washing machine, I can throw my sweaty clothes in the wash and put on new clothes without a second thought. Because I also have a shelf of clothing to spare.

Exercise requires abundance; it requires excess.

And today, I as ran, I realized yet another form where exercise requires excess. Exercise requires excess calories, too.

In the simplest form, I exercise so that I can continue to fit in the pair of jeans I can only buy in America. If you only come with one size of jeans in your bag, you’ve got to stay in them. If I stop exercising for too long, I’ll gain weight. And because of this, I can conclude the simple fact that I am intaking more than I am utilizing. So I must utilize more to keep off weight.

This is a fact in my life: I eat more than I use. So I run|swim|bike. I exercise out of my excess calories.

Meanwhile, our neighbors struggle to gain weight. They struggle to eat enough to cover their energy uses: the energy needed to bike to work and build a house in the sun; the energy to shower and wash clothes by hand using bucket after bucket of water pulled up from a well; the energy to get to the store for their daily food items.

And the kids, simply walking down the street to sit in classes at school? They are fighting malnutrition. They are struggling to eat enough to counteract their sitting in class. So while I exercise away my excess, they eat away starvation.

I am so often struck at how much excess is a part of me. Privilege is a part of me.

I might exercise so I can be healthy, or eat a salad because the vegetables are good for me. I might read a book to improve my mind, soul, or marriage. I might learn a new task to expand my skills and mind. I might listen to music and appreciate art; or paint a picture. I might set a new goal. All of this out of privilege.

Those trips to the museum? Those books I read last year? Those New Year’s resolutions? They were out of privilege.

It is because I have been taught to always be improving and to always be learning. I have the extra brain space and budget space and time space to do all of these things. Even in all of our comments to one another of how busy we are and all the things we have going on, so much of it is out of excess.

And I just keep pondering this. I have so many questions about why me and why them. But mostly, those questions can’t be answered right now, while I only see in part. Sometimes I have guilt, but I don’t think that gets us very far. Sometimes I am called to make changes and sacrifices.

Mostly, I think its vital for me to know–to know my privilege, to know my excess, and know the abundance I walk in. I just want to go forward in awareness, that I might not take it for granted. So much of me wants to go forward with such gratefulness, where I don’t put on my tennis shoes or pound the pavement or turn in the pool or start my washer or renew my passport without utter gratefulness.