The House Collective

languages schlanguages: the other side.

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While I wish I could say every day goes as splendidly as these stories, it just isn’t true. There is another side, which mostly involves the simple fact that we are still studying.

This was yesterday’s test: I went to the hospital to pick up the previous evening’s drop off, and on the way back was quizzed by the passengers. The setting: I’m driving in a country where laws and lanes are suggestions while there are three people all speaking to me simultaneously in two languages in a car that sounds like it has a jet engine (and yet runs more like a go-cart…).

I told Stephen, “They then decided to quiz me the entire way home, in both Burmese and Karen! While I’m driving, which they have no idea how to do. I need to learn how to say “I am not a good multi-tasker” in Burmese.”

“So how’d you do?”

“Well, it wasn’t my worst. And it wasn’t my best. Unfortunately it was closer to my worst…”

————————

Also this week, one of the kids came to tell us a little girl was climbing on the motorbike, which one of our few rules outside.

{No fighting. No money. No motorbike.}

I then shouted over to the little girl, in Burmese: No motorbike! Don’t play on the motorbike. Don’t touch it.

Unfortunately, I exchanged “touch” for “see”–which, in my defense, rhyme in Burmese–and in essence said, Don’t see the motorbike!

This resulted in belly laughs from the nine-year-old who had come to the door. “No, Kelli! TOUCH not SEE. Don’t touch the motorbike. You said, Don’t see the motorbike! Don’t see!?” More belly laughs.

Nothing like having a nine-year-old roll with laughter at your language skills to encourage you!

So you win some & you lose some; and yet you still get up and go to class! Here’s to hoping there are more wins on the horizon.

youth game night.

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Later last year, Stephen and I felt like God put the “youth” of the community on our minds. We have so many opportunities to get to know the kids–our doors are always open, and their schedules often are, too. We have lots of toys the kids like to play with, they have no reserve for invading our home, and we have just about their level of vocabulary. It was a destined success.

And we’ve watched our opportunities with adults in the community increase, through tea shop visits, market trips, small business ventures, and adult bingo nights. And while these are good, growing relationships, they are often messy and complicated, too.

But we found there was a group in the middle: the kids too old for playing in our house and yet not quite old enough for business ventures. They often get left out of events we hold as they are left with responsibility for the younger children, laundry, or making meals. Or if they do get to come along to bingo or house church, they bring crying children. They often have to leave in the middle to get a bottle or new pants.

And we often found this group was a pretty vulnerable one. They are vulnerable to huge responsibility in the family: they are old enough to care for needs of younger siblings, help with business, and take care of household responsibilities. It helps that they are often sober, and thus even more capable. If they are too capable, they often find themselves pulled out of school and loaded with even more responsibility, sometimes a full time job.

Meanwhile, others in this group aren’t given enough responsibility and manage to find themselves with free time to drive motorbikes without a license or helmet, drink & smoke with their friends, and other generically destructive habits.

We just felt there was a need for a safe place. For some, a place for safe, positive fun. For others, a place of fun and freedom, safe from responsibility and younger siblings and more work.

We just aren’t really sure how to create that, but we’re trying.

This week we hosted our first youth game night. We haven’t miraculously solved the problems of local youth, but it was a start. And they loved it.

LOVED IT.

unspecifiedWe included kids aged 13-18 years old. After we saw who entered, we know it should have been 14 at least, and we had one mom with a baby join, so we probably should have capped it at 17…

Video Games 2They loved the old-school Nintendo games Stephen set up on our projector. He had Street Fighter & Rush 2 for them to play. We laughed as they kept choosing the truck to race with and then driving on the opposite side of the road, even when the game would place them on the right.

unspecified-2We attempted to teach Uno, Pass the Pigs, Sorry, Dutch Blitz and Sequence. Sorry was a huge hit; and Pass the Pigs brought a lot of laughter for some reason. Sequence was declared too difficult and turned into a gambling game; I didn’t think of the cards and three colors of chips setting them up perfectly. Thankfully, we’ve already addressed this on countless occasions and we have an official stance on gambling: it is not in the act itself, but the money involved. The kids are allowed to “gamble” with rocks, paper, and whatever other little pieces they wish, but “no money, no money.” (This is repeated by the kids often, similarly to “No fighting, no fighting.”)

img 2The biggest hit of the evening might have been our stool that spins, rises, and falls. Y’know the 90’s desk chairs that fall when you lift the lever? It’s like that, and apparently thrilling. They’d come to us over and over, “It’s broken! It’s not working!” We’d simply have to sit on it ourselves, because even these teenagers don’t weigh enough to make it work. We kept telling them, “No, it’s not broken. You have to be fat. See?”

unspecified-3The younger siblings still couldn’t be completely left out, so they propped themselves up on barrels in our yard to see in and watch the games on the projector.

We had snacks, and I know next time not to include fruit with seeds as they were discovered everywhere for days. I also know not to wash the couch cover the week before: it’s simply discouraging.

Otherwise, it will be happening again!

languages schlanguages: this is life.

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Stephen and I had a conversation the other day about language in our lives. It is so much of our day to day. He attends private lessons 4.5 hours a week and I attend 3 hours. We each study daily in some way: Stephen reviews flash cards for 30 minutes to an hour depending on the set, and I write three sentences in three languages for review. We rarely go a day without using Burmese, and some days we use some Thai and Karen. We had a conversation last week about the words abortion and miscarriage in Burmese, and what it tells you about the culture. We discussed a word that didn’t exist in English and why it doesn’t; we are even reading articles and books about language and discussing them. Language has become our life.

Meanwhile, our friends and families just communicate. They don’t study another language every day or discuss how to say something in another language. They don’t even know what “language sweats” are, and that is a very real thing.

One thing we have learned is that we learn very differently. There is a specific reason that Stephen does flash cards every day on the computer and I write my sentences out on paper. He is an incredible typer–he can type in Burmese faster than English these days!–and I am the writer. He organizes his notes and I hoard them. Stephen will only speak once he knows it absolutely perfectly, so everyone believes him to be a genius. He speaks in proper grammar, full sentences, and beautiful pronunciation; but he won’t speak until then. I, on the other hand, will spit out words and phrases that receive correction after correction or blank stare after blank stare.

As our teacher tells me, “Stephen is very systematic. You…are not systematic.”

But, alas–while we are studying language very differently, we are learning it–as in, it’s working! Recently, we had a few tests to our skills. For obvious reasons, I’m only sharing (and remembering) the wins.

I went to get a pedicure recently, and most of the staff are Burmese. I usually speak to them in Burmese to be kind, but just little words here and there. After they had gotten started and been chatting to each other for about thirty minutes, I decided I wanted to change the color I had chosen. I thought about it for quite sometime to attempt to say it correctly (although certainly not to Stephen’s perfection) and then said, “I’m sorry. I’d like to change the color. I don’t want this one, but I’d like that one. The red one.” The sweet girl stared at me in disbelief, and then slowly got up to get the red I’d indicated. I think she then reviewed the entirety of she & her friend’s Burmese conversation to see what I might have understood. WIN.

Our drinking water is delivered to the house, and the delivery men are all Burmese. They pull up, ask if we’d like water, and we shout out how many bottles we’d like. Last week they had a new worker with them. When the others spoke to Stephen in Burmese, he looked at them skeptically, assuming Stephen didn’t understand. And then he created his own test. He started asking questions in Burmese, and at each response, would ooh and ahh at Stephen’s sensible responses. WIN.

At a restaurant, Stephen walked up to order four samosas for take-away. Burmese uses classifiers when counting (cats, two animals; teaspoon, 3 spoons), and he used the classifier he thought would be correct, in essence saying, “Samosas, four ku.” The worker corrected him, “Samosas, four loun.” As he put them in the bag, Stephen continued chatting, “Thank you, four loun. I thought it was ku.” The guy then stopped and thought, “Four loun, four ku…Yes, it can be either. You’re right.” WIN. For the record, ku is a classifier for small things or machines; loun is a classifier for round things, electronic devices, and hats. Just so we’re all clear about how great classifiers are. You can also read about Karen classifiers here, because this isn’t our first rodeo.

And last, I spend a lot of time in the kitchen using Burmese while we bake bread, roll out tortillas, and even cooking with the kids. This week–twice!–I was able to listen in on conversations between Pyo Pyo & Nyein Nyein while I was busy doing other tasks. (Unless you’ve learned another language, I can’t really explain how epic this is. Being able to multitask in secondary languages is not to be taken lightly.) While I was coming back and forth getting water for the kids, I heard them discussing the ingredients they were putting into the bread. Nyein Nyein was arguing she had already put salt in, and Pyo Pyo was arguing that she hadn’t finished. Nyein Nyein argued she had put one spoon in, and Pyo Pyo argued that in the French bread recipe she needed one tablespoon, not one teaspoon. Nyein Nyein conceded, but then wasn’t sure what to do now. Should she start over? I casually added that 3 teaspoons was equal to one tablespoon, to which Nyein Nyein looked over and–in essence–rolled her eyes at, thinking I wasn’t making sense (which is fair; I don’t always make sense in Burmese). But I watched her face, as she realized I did make sense: I had understood their conversation and solved the problem. And seamlessly, I might add. The face she then gave me: WIN.

And again, as I took clothes out of the washer, they were discussing where to find the wheat flour. Nyein pointed to the fridge, but we had used that bag; Pyo Pyo said to check here on this shelf. I interjected that it was in the cupboard underneath them. Again, they discussed among themselves to check on the shelf, thinking I didn’t understand what they were talking about, or perhaps that they didn’t know what I was talking about. I made it a complete statement: The wheat flour is in the cabinet underneath. Again, the face: WIN.

Someday, someday, we’ll know this language. Because it is our life.

adults are messy.

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Our life in this community started with the children. It started with football matches in the street and Memory games on the porch. When we let the kids into our home, I always knew it would be messy. I knew they’d come into our house and put things back in all the wrong places, or not put them back at all. I learned pretty quickly they usually come with Mama noodles or fruit, and that they would use our walls as napkins. I learned that kids usually come along with younger kids, who pee on the floor.

And while I wasn’t expecting the vomited sprinkles that one day, I was expecting a mess.

In recent years, we have found more ways to connect with the adults in our community. In many ways this was because of language: while kids are more patient with hand gestures and silence, adults are not.

Instead, they are more receptive to practical needs being met: a desperate need for medical help or a helpful trip to the market. And as language continued to grow, even more opportunities presented themselves–opportunities to work together, whether it be temporary building projects around the house & community or long-term small business endeavors; opportunities for simple conversations over coffee or at the tea shop.

So we’ve watched our relationships with adults in the community grow exponentially and in countless ways. We’ve watched conversations unfold we never expected; we’ve welcomed people into our home we’ve never expected. We’ve had influence into homes and lives in the community in ways we’ve never expected.

But this has come with an unexpected: adults are messy.

Far messier than kids, I dare say.

Adults come with debts and addictions, loss and heartache. They come with abuse stories and lost siblings. They come with wounds from landmines. They come with deep pain and deep struggles worn on their faces and hands and smiles.

So while we have more relationships with the adults, we have more friends asking for far more than Memory cards. We have people with far greater wounds than a stubbed toe. We have conversations about much more than school. It’s getting messier and messier.

I created ledgers this week: two for two friends who owe us money back and one for a friend keeping her savings here at the house, where either her husband can’t gamble it or her friends can’t ask for it–both are rampant; we’re not sure. As if our own budget isn’t enough to keep balanced between two currencies, we’ve now added the community fund, the bread business, two loans, and a savings plan.

We’re muddling through this mess of small business, trying to help in real, tangible ways, while I have a realization every week that there is a very real, tangible reason I bailed on business as a major in college.

In the past few months we’ve bought our first community breast pump, physically separated a domestic dispute over if it was his baby or not, wiped up blood from another domestic situation, and spent the night at the hospital with a woman fearing she was having a miscarriage.

We’ve officially graduated into community adulthood, and I hope we can survive the mess: it runs far deeper than pee on the floor and pencil marks on the wall.

no place i would rather be.

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I was in my room putting on mascara to go while two girls played Memory at the front door. I stopped to listen and called Stephen over; I was pretty sure I knew the song Musana was singing. In attempted English, we heard,

No place I would rather be
No place I would rather be
Than here in your love
Here in your love

We sang this at our last OneHouse worship night two weeks ago, and perhaps a few times before. We don’t have it on iTunes, so she’s only heard it from Stephen.

And she’s learned it! It’s coming to her mind and she’s singing it out.

And as I stood there listening to her, I couldn’t agree more. There’s no place I’d rather be than among the love of Christ in this community.

no fighting!

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We are always aware of the impression we are leaving on the community. They watch our every move and comment on most of them. The subtleties are even more evident with the kids, who repeat everything you say, revealing the words you use most often: “one minute,” “outside,” and “See you tomorrow!” We also often say, “No fighting!” because that is a rule: no fighting at our house, inside or out.

Last week there was a domestic dispute the community. The next day, Pyo Pyo told us they were in their house and unavoidably listening to it, while her four-year-old Pyint Soe kept repeating: “No fighting! No fighting!”

She was laughing that the only English he uses is “OK” and “no fighting!” At least we’re creating little peace makers in the neighborhood!

what a weekend.

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It was one of those weeks in the community, and this past weekend found us needing space–a place where nobody knew our names. So we found this:IMG_0653Which was a lovely, restful place, until our motorbike died on the way back from dinner, and we were now stranded in this lovely place where nobody knew our names.

Kelvin & Laura came to our rescue on Saturday and we took our motorbike to the shop, but we were overall less rested than we hoped.

But better things were coming. On our way through the market, we found that it was bunny season again! And my husband oh-so-sweetly agreed to another one.

IMG_0387Just for me, really. He plays along because he knows I love them!IMG_0664So meet Yoyo. Our previous little bunny was named Kayak, but this caused some confusion among the kids. We noticed that some of the kids thought “kayak” was English for “bunny”–and actually still do, because they still call this little guy Kayak..whoops. So in Burmese, bunny is “youn” with an emphasis on on the beginning, so “yoyo” is really just “bunny bunny” for the kids.

And, as a side note, also happens to be the name of one of the kids in the community.IMG_0404Yoyo is a big hit among the kids, of course. He is currently housed in the community space, and it kind of feels like we have a class pet!

IMG_0013Sunday morning found us up early for a race in town. There was a 5k and 12k, so I signed up for the 5k. I really haven’t been running much at all lately since we’ve mostly been swimming and biking together. But, I’m too embarrassed to stop in races, so I’ll keep going and push myself more than I will just running down the street. I thought it was an easy way to get a good run in.

IMG_0003These friends all ran the 12k because they are actual athletes.

IMG_0029I chugged along and made pretty horrible time, about 13 minutes per mile. It was amidst a hoard of teenagers, because they get extra credit at school for participating. And then the few of us who came because we believe in running. I think there were only 9 in my age bracket, and five of us got medals.

So basically, the medal says much more about my competition–or lack thereof–than anything of my ability.

IMG_0046But–a very big but–it was pretty fun. Who wouldn’t take someone cheering them on with a ridiculously oversized medal? I kind of want to sign myself up for every other race I come across, and maybe even begin to try. First feels within reach for the first time in my slow-paced, unathletic life!

IMG_0388I’m still not sure what to do with the trophy, though. It’s absolutely huge, and I can’t stick it away in a closet that I don’t have. I’m also slightly embarrassed to tell people what it’s actually for, so I’m tempted to hand it off to a child that will proudly put it in their house. We could even have our own little competition in the neighborhood and re-award it!

It does seem like the perfect story to tell someday, though. Can’t you just see the huge trophy coming out a box, awaiting a glorious tale, and really it’s just the slowest 5k anyone’s ever run in a race where they didn’t even understand “Go!”

And then we woke up early again on Monday morning, and opened our doors at 6am. A friend in town had a sling box back in the States, allowing us to project the Superbowl onto the big screen, complete with US commercials!

SuperbowlWe had a whole lot of people in our little house and served up about fifty homemade cinnamon rolls. {Photo credit to our friend Jamie.}

What a weekend!

it’s still cold.

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It’s still cold here. This is the longest cold season we’ve had since we moved. It’s been chilly since before Christmas and still went down below 50 degrees Fahrenheit last night.

This morning I went to the clinic wearing two layers on the bottom & three layers on top. My hair was up so I could avoid an icy shower, and I was enjoying the car’s greenhouse effect, making it the only warm-able place.

Where am I?!

We gave out coffee and Ovaltine this morning while the community warmed up by the fire. I was making some tea for myself and just thought we might as well share, since we can! As I went in and out of the house heating up water and such, I would return to three-year-old Zen Yaw wearing my shoes. I teased him the first few times for taking my shoes. Then I wondered if his shoe-less, sock-less feet might just be really cold, and maybe he just wanted to be off of the tile & concrete.

“Do you want my shoes, buddy?”
“Yes. Want.”

So off he went in shoes a few sizes too large, and then promptly spilled his hot sticky Ovaltine all over them a few minutes later!

sight for aung moe.

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This will require some back story for those who might not know Aung Moe.

Three years ago, Aung Moe was brought to our house unconscious, and we rushed him to the hospital. He was diagnosed with meningeal encephalitis, and the doctors were pretty certain he was going to die. They asked us to choose how he would have liked to be cremated.

We requested that we wait until he actually died. And then we called a pastor friend of ours, who came and prayed for him in the midst of all of his friends.

IMG_1954 copy

And Aung Moe got better! It was quite the recovery, both miraculous and difficult. We eventually picked him up from the hospital still unable to walk and unable to see, and with a bill we certainly didn’t have the ability to pay. The hospital was actually grateful to have him out of their responsibility since he required so much care, and accepted less than 5% of the bill.

We got him back to his house, where he lived alone. His friends helped him with basic tasks and we provided food and things that he needed. He was able to walk again and could care for himself more and more, and now we only buy his food and basic needs week to week. A friend still makes his meals for him and many different people in the community look after him.

We are constantly trying to find new ways to try to help him–we’ve just recently ordered him a crank radio so he can listen through the day; we try to anticipate his needs of clothing or blankets for changing weather. He has gotten braver to ask for specific things, and it all gets easier as we learn more and more Burmese.

He has been diagnosed with cortical blindness. His eyes are functioning normally, but aren’t properly connecting to his brain. This can heal over time, but usually does within the first few months to a year, which we have long past. In recent visits to the eye doctor, they have told us he’s done healing and this is as good as it will get.

However, it continues to improve. Even in the last six months, he has begun to be able to see long distances, but still is unable to see nearer to him. Recently, we started encouraging the kids to pray for Aung Moe and they have really begun to be excited about it. Someone mentions him every week when ask for prayer requests, and we are all praying for his sight to return, particularly his near-sight, so that he might be able to work again some day.

This has been surprisingly complicated. I find myself hesitant to “get the kids hopes up”–a fancy way to say I’m skeptical and struggling to believe. I want them so badly to see Jesus–to see that He loves them and sees them, this little community right here on Samaksuppakan Road.

More and more in our time here, I struggle to believe his goodness. There are so many things we have prayed for that he has chosen not to fulfill. Or perhaps he is another way we can’t see–but again, this is fancy way to say it doesn’t look like it.

I struggle to understand that just because he CAN heal Aung Moe, that he might choose not to.

And it’s true, he might choose not to.

But I think we’re still called to pray, and even to pray for big things. Perhaps we’ll be the little widow in Luke 18, and our Good King will give justice speedily.

So while we pray together here, we wanted to ask you to join us. Please pray for Aung Moe’s sight, and even for work for him. We have it posted on our wall, and maybe you’d post it on yours? Print this picture of him or write his name somewhere, and pray with us.

When the Son of Man comes, may he find faith on earth! (Luke 18:8)

good, good father.

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We had our monthly OneHouse worship night last night.

The very first one I sat down amidst everyone else to sing, but it became clear that wasn’t going to work. Every time since then, I find myself by the door, seated with a large group of kids and some adults, attempting to follow along. Or shouting in Burmese in the middle of a prayer, “Jor GEE! We’re PRAYING!”

Sometimes they are loud and I have to get on to them; sometimes I feel bad for the other expats, because I want to give them space to worship freely and not be watched. Sometimes I feel bad for Stephen if the kids are distracting.

Sometimes I even feel bad for myself, because I just want the space to close my eyes and not be watched myself. I don’t want what they see of me to define what they know of Christ.

But most the time, I love it. I love that they are curious. I love that they get to see us love Jesus any way we know how. I love that they sing along.

Last night, They They sat next to me, asking me over and over, “Where? Where?” When I’d show her, she’d read along and sing–granted, reading was quite a challenge for her, so following along with words and tune is just too much. It wasn’t beautiful to the ears, technically.

But, oh, it was beautiful to the ears. She followed along through the entire hour of worship, singing to each song. The other kids could pick up on the repeated choruses if they were simple enough.

My favorite was Chris Tomlin’s Good, Good Father. They all understood enough of the words–good, father, love, you, me. So they sang along to the chorus:

You’re a good, good Father
It’s who you are, it’s who you are, it’s who you are
And I’m loved by you
It’s who I am, it’s who I am, it’s who I am

Oh, golly, it made my eyes fill with tears. He is a good, good Father. And they have seen some not as good, good fathers. Knowing their stories, knowing their fathers; even hurting for and loving their fathers. Just last Sunday we stopped along the road to help one of these little girls, who was helping her drunken father to get home. We picked up the other little girls’ father at the bus station in November, when he came for a couple days, dropped off her little brother with the grandparents, and then left to return to Bangkok.

But there is a good, good Father. And he does love them, so we sang that loudly together.