We live in this neighborhood of migrants in Mae Sot, and we live amongst poverty.

But we are not in poverty. We have this really cute little house that we can lock. We sleep on a bed at night and have electricity. We have nice clothes and a motorbike and a car!

Sometimes, our life in Mae Sot seems so easy. People imagine it so dramatically, when really, sometimes I feel spoiled. We have a Dairy Queen now, and sometimes, we go get ice cream. For cooking, I can now purchase nearly everything I could imagine in Mae Sot, including flax seed, rye flour, frozen spinach, and chocolate chips. Add that to spectacular mangoes, avocados, and strawberries, and sometimes I feel spoiled. My husband just put up these beautiful, unique shelves in our kitchen, and we purchased a bread maker from some friends that were moving back. He has this fun little set up in his studio, and we read books together in the evening. Our neighbor kids come over to play, and I help them put puzzles together and we pet our little cute bunny. It feel so idealistic, as if we live in this storybook of another country.

I wonder why I could ever want more. Why do I want more clothes and more things and more friends?  When Stephen and I go out to dinner or maybe I wear a nice dress to church, sometimes I feel guilty as the neighbors look on from their bamboo huts, ripped clothing, and bowls of rice. I don’t need new, nice things. I don’t need all that I have.

Sometimes I feel like the spoiled princess across the street.

________________________________

While we were in Chiang Mai last week, Stephen needed to run a few errands for my birthday. He dropped me off at one of three new malls in that huge city, and I wandered around while he ran off to find surprises.

I explored my latest favorite store, Uniqlo, which is simply the Japanese version of Gap. I tried on a lovely black dress, but then meandered through Chiang Mai’s new H&M and found about twelve more beautiful dresses. I then found the Jelly Bunny store, which was so Asian and wonderful. It’s an entire shop of jelly shoes in every color and style you could imagine. I found these great mint sandals that I really considered purchasing in argument that they’d be great for rainy season.

It was somewhere between these stores I really felt the tension–this odd collision of the many lives we lead.

I had brought my best clothes to Chiang Mai, as I always do. It’s a city, and everyone is so put together. I try to make sure I have real shoes that I can walk in and actually match my outfit, as opposed to Mae Sot where I simply need to get to my destination and my shoes will be left at the door. I could care less if they match while I ride the motorbike. In Chiang Mai I’ll wear dresses or nice shirts; I attempt to do my hair.

As I walked through the mall, I was so aware of this desire to be put together, to feel really lovely. I wanted to purchase dresses and have fun little shoes in a couple different colors. I wanted to feel like something in our lives were put together and ready for a photo.

It is similar to how I feel when we go back to the States. I want to feel like I fit and can blend into this entirely different society. I want to wear the right things and know the right trends and current events. I want it to not be obvious that for the other 330 days of the year, my life is so far from here.

And then I feel so small, so disconnected from this whole world out there. Somehow I went from feeling like a spoiled princess to feeling like I’m on the other side of the street, peeking over the gate.

________________________________

On my birthday, we were driving away from the hospital after dropping off a little ten-year-old boy to stay with the man that had been stabbed. We had given him two dollars for meals while he was there, and told him we’d be back tomorrow.

As we drove away from the hospital, we were talking about how to “save” the day, to make it feel like it was still a fun-happy-go-lucky birthday. The truck in front of us was full of Burmese migrants in the back, and suddenly one of them started vomiting out the back of the truck.

I know you’re wondering now why I’m telling you that little piece of information.

Because in that moment I thought how much I wanted out: just for a day I wanted to pretend that we didn’t live here. And then I realized that this was the same town–some days it feel so easy, and some days it feel so hard.

Somedays I make delicious Western food in my kitchen; I play with sweet kids; I take my laundry out of a machine and open a care package with treasures from America, and I feel spoiled. I feel like I owe a confessional to all of our friends and family that our lives really aren’t that hard! We aren’t brave, we aren’t doing anything special. Don’t send us undeserved care packages!

Then there are other days, when I just can’t catch a break. Somedays I clean up vomit and pee off the floor three times; I cry for the neighbors across the street; we pray for wisdom on what to do about more domestic violence, more drunkenness, and more brokenness. I study language for one more hour; I make dinner in 100 degree heat at 9pm at night when we get back from the hospital; and I’m just spent. And then I feel like I want to shout to our friends and family, Please come visit! Please send more care packages! Please pray! I don’t know what we got ourselves into–help!

And it collides again, because we are in the same town or the same country or the same life, and it is just one collision after the other.

________________________________

Though this might be an obvious statement, this entire stabbing incident has rocked me a bit. I’m sure it has something to do with the blood; it was so much blood, just standing at our front door and then in our car and…

There is a reason I’m not in the medical profession.

But beyond that, it was just a collision in and of itself. It was a collision of what I know–stories, research, and statistics about impoverished areas and domestic violence–and the people I love–this little family where we know the mother and father, we know the little six-year-old boy and three-year-old girl.

It was our cute little home suddenly invaded with blood. It was our sweet friends suddenly broken and hurting.

It was the little girl running up to the car with shouts of joy when we brought her dad home from the hospital.

And now, even after he’s home, it’s me changing his bandages each and every morning. His little girl comes with him and sits by him while I clean his stitched up knife wound. It’s a reminder of the brokenness.

________________________________

Tornadoes rolled through our hometown in Arkansas this week. I watched as photos filled social media of destroyed homes, neighborhoods, and communities. We saw photos of brokenness on that side of the world, too.

So when I think that maybe it will be easier to just go home, it won’t.

I don’t know when to just be quiet and be happy. I don’t know when to just buy a dress and shoes and that be okay. I don’t know when to stay and believe that good is coming from all of this. I don’t know when to say that we’re okay and we’re not that different. I don’t know when to say I’m not okay, and I need help; this life is weird and pulling me under. I don’t know when to pretend the collisions don’t exist, or when to admit that the gaps feel huge. I don’t know when to write what I really think and when to just post a photo of a cute kid in sepia tone.

It is so odd the things that remind you of home.

I will just be minding my own usual business of living in Mae Sot, and suddenly my heart is heavy with homesickness. You might not even know what hit you.

Two weeks ago, it was sitting outside of Labor & Delivery, waiting for a new little addition to the neighborhood. It was here that I realized that I may visit this department many times this year, but I wouldn’t be sitting outside of Labor & Delivery for any of the four babes our sisters will be having this year. I will miss the waiting rooms, the first looks, the tiny little newborn outfits; instead I will drive home this new little swaddled baby in our Suzuki. I will speak to her mother in a foreign language, not sure how to tell her congratulations, and I will be reminded of the weird life we live.

Last week, it was ranch dressing. A local restaurant was closing for the week of Songkran | Thingyan and were selling jars of their really wonderful homemade ranch dressing. We bought some, and ate way too much of it. There was something about dipping carrot sticks into ranch dressing that just made me want to be in America or sitting at my mom’s kitchen table.

This Saturday, the kids were outside of our door (by 7am, where else would they be?!) and playing with a new-to-them cell phone | toy | noisemaker-of-some-kind that plays a song. The song starts with a few measures of the Price Is Right intro music. Not only is this far better than The Little Mermaid soundtrack that the last noisemaker played, but it makes me want to curl up on an American couch to watch Price is Right, guess at prices I don’t know anymore and shout when they play Plinko!

A friend at work is always asking us how we have so many stories and how we run into just the oddest situations–even in the same town as her. How do all these things happen to us?

I don’t know.

Honestly, I don’t know. I used to just blend in and read books and be boring.

I think living in another country and culture changes some things. Disorganization always adds a little chaos, and choosing to laugh in the middle of a mess certainly creates some stories, but honestly: I just don’t know. It’s just our lives for now–for better or for worse.

And our lives struck again.

We had meetings scheduled in Chiang Mai on Monday, but they were moved back when we spent Saturday through Monday lying in bed sick.

We still managed to head out early Tuesday morning to make a quick trip up to Chiang Mai for our meetings. So: three sick days, six hours of driving, a short nap in the hotel room, and off to a meeting about 3pm on Tuesday. We then enjoyed dinner out and went to see a movie about 7pm.

Unfortunately, we learned in line that I failed to notice the small “T” beside the 7pm movie; the next English showing was two hours later. We spent two hours wandering the mall, had our two hours of Western entertainment, and headed back to our hotel around midnight.

As we pulled into the parking lot, the “security guard” began to motion wildly. I put security guard in quotes not to dishonor him–so thankful he had the job, and as you’ll see, he helped us out! However, whatever you’re imagining as a security guard isn’t what we were looking at. He was wearing a tshirt, sat at a table outside the hotel, and was watching something on his phone.

His motions told us he didn’t want us to park here, so I got out to try to explain that we were staying at the hotel. He kept telling me that they were closed and there were no rooms; I finally got my room key to show him we already had a room and our things were inside.

We got the car parked, and he settled back into his spot. We walked down the hall and noticed right away that our hotel door was open just a bit.

This is never good, particularly when your laptop and other valuable things are inside.

I nudged the door open but saw that the extra-security flip lock was pushed over, so even with a key we were locked out of room.

What? Did they give the room to someone else? Did they not notice our stuff sprawled all over? And what are we supposed to do at midnight when the front office is closed and we can’t get into the room?

Talk to the security guard.

All I said was “I’m sorry” over and over in Thai and motioned for him to follow me. He tried a few times to no avail. We did determine no one else was inside, so somehow we must of managed to shut the door and flip the lock behind us? No idea. Who else does this happen to?

He gave us the “one minute” motion and headed off. We thought he’d somehow break it off, as we were now observing how flimsy the whole contraption was. These are things you never look into closely when in a foreign country. What you don’t know you usually don’t want to.

We weren’t feeling overly safe at the idea of just popping off the lock with a simple tool, but alas–it was even worse.

Soon we hear the window open, as the security guard opens the window from outside in seconds and proceeds to climb onto the bed, walk across with with his shoes, and open the door for us.

He makes an “Aha!” noise, we say thank you, and he climbs back over our bed and out the window.

Oh, we’re feeling very safe now. Can’t wait to crawl into bed–now with shoe prints across it–and sleep tight between a crappy door and a crappier window!

We had a team visiting Mae Sot this week, and they came to our neighborhood on Thursday and Friday morning to provide a program for the kids. Despite the incredible heat, it was so much fun. We played with kids of all ages–from eighteen months to fifteen years–and enjoyed games, Bible stories, skits, stickers, snacks, and hygiene lessons.

Of course we loved spending the time with the kids, and it’s always a great opportunity to have them hear Bible stories–and with a translator!–and see a piece of why we are here and what we believe.

It was fun to see them understand pieces of it. Many of them are picked up by a local Burmese church on Saturday mornings and go to a Sunday School program each week. They know some songs in Burmese that we recognize, and they know some of the stories. It was fun to see a little six-year-old, Davy, putting stickers together and putting Jonah in the mouth of the fish, remembering and comprehending the story.

After a morning of Bible stories and songs, on Thursday night there was a Buddhist celebration on the road. The neighbors cleaned up the road, set up a platform, and invited three monks to come bless the new year. They had a loudspeaker and said who knows what. They asked to borrow our cups and bowls; they asked for Stephen to take a picture. In situations like this, we try to be supportive from a distance–we are fine to let them borrow things, but when invited we explain why we aren’t coming.

And while they bowed down to the monks just outside of our windows, Stephen was inside practicing worship songs for the Good Friday service we were hosting at our house.

_______________________________

As I sat beside Stephen, I could feel the weight, the closeness of faith. It’s so personal. And yet oddly enough, it’s our life, too–our business, if you will. And sometimes I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I know how I feel when I see them worshipping monks. I know how I feel when I see false hopes in gambling, alcohol, and karma. I know how I feel when I see lostness and false truths.

I also know how truth feels. I know how I feel about moving halfway around the world to try to love as Christ would love. I know how much I love and pray for this community; I know how a love given by God far exceeds whatever I could make up or create in just a few years.

Some days, I don’t know how I feel about sharing Bible stories or asking the kids to believe what I believe. Do they really, and is it for the right reasons? Do they really know truth, or do they want to be like us? Or do they want to worship anything that might give them a chance?

How do the parents feel? Do they want their kids to be raised Buddhist? Is Buddhism a life for them, the way my faith is for me, or is a ritual? Or a last-ditch-effort?

How would I feel if a Buddhist group or Islamic group came to tell stories to my children? Would I let them go?

I tell myself it’s different, because ours is truth. But how do they view it? How do we be respectful? How do we be loving?

And what really is loving? Is it loving to share truth, telling Bible stories, and sharing in games and snacks? Ultimately, is it more loving to perhaps step on social boundaries or cultural taboos in hopes of truth making an eternal impact, or is it love to be cautious of social boundaries and cultural taboos, but risk the truth not being communicated?

The questions seem endless, in part from the topic and in part from my own personal snare.

In some ways, it is okay for there to be questions, because it allows more space for the Holy Spirit. It allows more space for us to not know, for us to pray, for us to trust, and for us to have faith.

But it also shows me how personal it is.

It is our work and our life and our focus–and it’s personal. It’s confronting deep issues in the world right down into our little community; it’s confronting identities of hope from society right down to a single individual across from us.

I suppose I just suddenly felt the closeness of it; the friction of something so personal. The weight.

_______________________________

We awoke Friday morning to have more games and Bible stories and fun, then cleaned up our house for about twenty-five foreigners to come join us for a Good Friday service.

I’ll be honest, I’m not great at hosting things at our house. I love cooking, and I don’t mind the cleaning, but once people actually arrive I’m much less competent: how do I make everyone comfortable? Are there enough seats? (Resounding no.) Why do we only have two fans that are not helping in this heat?

The community of kids adds another complication to this. They get so excited about all the foreigners coming to visit; they point out the teacher they have seen at their school. They want hugs and so so much attention. And even once we get the foreigners inside, the kids are so curious: they want to hear the music, they want to try to sing along, they want to watch and see what we do and what we are about.

At the core, here is my struggle: I don’t want to close the doors on the entire purpose of our being here. This is it–not only our faith in general, but Good Friday & Easter–this is it. This encompasses the whole identity and truth of why we live here, and it seems so beautiful for the kids to see us singing, to hear truth, to get a glimpse into the fact that this is beyond Bible stories–this is real for us.

But at the same time, I want all of our foreign friends to be able to worship. We are here to worship together, and loud kids can be a distraction. Initially I thought we’d try to let some of the older kids come in and sit quietly to listen, and honestly, they did stunningly well. They were exceptionally quiet and very well behaved, even while a foreign family colored and played with what the neighbor kids would probably deem “their toys.”

Unfortunately, with older, quiet kids come younger siblings banging and crying at the door to be held. So after just a song or two I had the kids leave, and told them to be quiet in the yard.

They weren’t exceptionally quiet, but they tried.

They were still curious, so they often stood at the door watching, like a fish bowl.

I was torn throughout the service. How do I ensure that the neighbor kids aren’t a distraction to the worship? How do I try to not make all these foreigners feel like they are being watched and observed?

But how do I let the kids be a part of who we are? How do I let them feel safe and welcomed? Really, the only practical way to have semi-peace at our house is to close the gate and kick the kids out–fifteen or more kids of all ages naturally are loud, and Burmese culture is particularly prone to noise. Not only was this not a possibility because of the huge adult-sized holes in our gate, but it seemed blatantly counterintuitive to why we are here and what we were singing about.

_______________________________

There are two songs that have really captured me this Easter. One of the songs Stephen led us in was Amazing Love by Billy Foote,

Amazing love,
How can it be?
That you, my King, would die for me
Amazing love,
I know it’s true
And it’s my joy to honor You

I know it’s true. And I suppose that’s my prayer: that’s where it all comes together. That’s where we play games and bandage up bloody wounds and share meals. That’s where we live life together and the kids watch us and we watch them; where we let friction rub us raw. Because it’s true, and so it’s worth it.

The other song–Christ is Risen by Matt Maher–is one that first captured me last Easter. We were home on furlough, which now seems just ages ago. It shows me how long this year has been.

I remember the first time I heard it standing amongst a crowd in an American church service. We were in America, and that was clear: a good sound system, words written on ginormous screens, comfortable chairs, air conditioning, English everywhere, lovely dresses and trendy shoes. And then faces of our neighbors came across my mind, just one after another of mothers and children and fathers and grandparents.

Christ is risen from the dead
Trampling over debt by death
Come awake, come awake!
Come and rise up from the grave
Christ is risen from the dead
We are one with him again
Come awake, come awake!
Come and rise up from the grave
Oh death! Where is your sting?
Oh hell! Where is your victory?
Oh Church! Come stand in the light!
The glory of God has defeated the night!

It makes me cry now, because that was the very first time I really realized how much I loved them. How much of my heart was right here on this street. How deeply I wanted them to know truth–to come awake!  For them to know that death doesn’t have to sting, hell doesn’t have the victory; for them to know that debt has been overcome!

This was the first time I grasped the concept of Romans 9:3, when Paul says, “For I could wish that I myself were accursed and cut off from Christ for the sake of my brothers, my kinsmen according to the flesh.”

_______________________________

I’m not sure any of these connect for anyone else.

It is so funny to have something so tangible to me: the tension I can grasp, the burden, the value of truth, the personal nature of it; and yet possibly just a wisp of disconnected stories for everyone else when I try to put it into words.

For those of you who read our last post Starving, here is an update and a way for you to participate!

While things haven’t changed much, there is a small piece of good news: Partners has been able to deliver some help to the Rohingya people. Over 27 tons of rice have been sent, and that is certainly something!

There are also reports that the UN and other foreign aid will be able to return to Western Burma in early May to resume help.

In other ways, it is still the same. Twenty-seven tons of rice is a drop in the bucket for 150,000 refugees with no food for nearly a month. Rice doesn’t help with medical needs.

Keep the prayers coming. Fast with us.

And today, a small thing you can do: sign this petition to stop the genocide of Burma’s Rohingya people!

It’s been a whole holiday week around here for Songkran | Thingyan–the office closes, we have a collective water fight that requires showering often, and {some of us} sleep and rest.

And today, we celebrate the local new year!

Today was also Oo Wah Tah’s birthday, so we had a tapioca-coconut-soup around noon. For the new year, we were given a strawberry drink with black jelly squares and lime and salt in the afternoon.

And then the real party began–including a blown speaker, karaoke, and so much more.

Yuh Meh Oo brought us a bowl of noodles & curry about 6:30pm. We shared some of it, but tried to save room for our dinner that was already in the oven. I was thankful I made a small dinner of roasted vegetables and half a piece of chicken for Stephen.

And then we sat, with hopes the evening was over after two bloody escapades with the kids.

Not so fast. We were invited over to join the party–for another meal of noodles and curry!  The party also included lots of dancing. The traditional Burmese celebration also includes a sprinkling of homemade shampoo. I’m not entirely sure what it’s made of, but its kind of oily water-based shampoo with roots and limes in it…thrown on your head when you’re not in the shower.

‘Twas the night of three dinners and a shampoo sprinkling!