This was our Wednesday evening in the house of many languages.
Stephen had a Burmese lesson at 8:00pm.
I studied my Karen in the community space…
…while these kiddos practiced their English alphabet, and giggled at our pronunciation of their languages.
There was a little bit of spying from the curious kiddos as well!
“We’re going to miss it somewhere. We’re all wrong somewhere.”
I heard this at a church service while we were in the States, and I am resting in it. Yes, we are all wrong somewhere, and more than ever I am seeing that I am wrong in so many areas. I am so lost, so unprepared, so unfaithful.
Putting so many of my thoughts into print and post them about the internet is a huge risk, particularly knowing how lost I am and knowing that I am definitively wrong in some way if not most.
So take this with a grain of salt, along with everything else I rattle on about. This may be just another “wrong somewhere.”
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At a few points throughout our time home, I was asked how many conversions I had had since we were in Mae Sot.
For the record, the answer is zero.
The question really just started me thinking. First, I began thinking about the very religious phrasing of “conversions” and “asking Jesus into your heart.” When did it become such a defined moment? When did the goal or the measure become a single moment in time?
I see stories in the Gospels where there were moments, where Jesus would send someone out saying their faith had healed them or their sins had been forgiven. So the moment started something; but was that the end?
I look at my life, and that “moment” was a very small piece. It was the start of a journey that has taken me around the world and into very uncomfortable places. It is a race that is wearing me out. It’s a life of hearing the Holy Spirit speak over this current moment, this current child of God. It’s alive; it’s changing and pulling and pushing.
To squeeze it back into that defined moment years ago seems very limiting.
And all this made me think of our neighbors, who I always seem to be thinking of. I ache for them to know hope, to feel unending grace, to grasp unfailing love. But really, I don’t want them to have a moment of conversion or to simply “accept Christ.” I would feel like I was cheating them of the Kingdom.
I don’t want them to just convert, I want them to really know and love Jesus. I want them to experience the renewing of their minds. I want them to know him for much more than a moment.
When I was in AWANA as a Chum, we did a study called “My Heart, Christ’s Home.” I don’t remember all that much of it, but there was a flannel graph board with different rooms that we discussed how to make each room a place where we welcomed Christ in.
Sometimes it feels like that: like I am discovering the mansion of Christ. I am always finding new rooms, some full of wonderful gifts and surprises; others full of things I must clean out. Some maybe aren’t about me at all, but are just pieces of the character of Christ that I am working to grasp. There always seems to be more, things much bigger and grander than I could create myself or dream of. And there is something, even in the dark areas that must be reconciled, about the greatness of Christ. The luxury of the Kingdom that is incomprehensible and still chooses to include me.
I feel like a conversion is like giving out a tent. Here is a moment–it provides shelter, and it’s probably very appreciated. But it’s still a tent, while I discover this glorious mansion and bask in the luxury of things I don’t understand.
That said, if there aren’t any conversions whatsoever, we haven’t even given out tents. I guess we’re just opening the windows of the mansion, and what has that accomplished at all?
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I have wondered–often, and still more recently–what impact we truly have here, there, or anywhere.
I enjoy my work, and I believe it is productive and helpful to the people of Burma, whom I believe God has given us a love for.
I love our community, and I want to be a true friend to them all. I want to know them and share hope. I’m trying to do that as best as I possibly could: trying to think about loving wildly, trying to be selfless, trying to be cultural sensitive, trying to be a safe haven, trying to be sustainable.
So really in all these things, we try desperately and fall short consistently.
And really, at the end of the day–or to be generous, at the end of over two years–what has truly been accomplished? Is it even good?
I have no idea.
I have more questions and fewer answers than I have ever had before. The line between wisdom, faith, and hope seems shockingly blurred with foolishness. I have very little defense of myself or my struggles or this messy life.
Last night, I was in the community space studying language while three girls colored and played dolls and giggled. Stephen was playing and recording “In Christ Alone” in the studio, which means he played the same song over and over and over again with small changes.
The girls began to pick up on the tune, and slowly began to sing along while they colored. Chit Mhwe would “Ooooh, oooh, oooohh” along with Stephen, and Yuh Meh Oo picked up the tune and added in her own words of “La, la, la, Steeeeephen, la, la la…”
It was an adorable little sing along.
There are so many things in our lives that need proper documentation. I can write blogs all day, but I wish there were more people listening into our conversation and catching glimpses of the chaos that we call life.
Stephen is hilarious. He is constantly saying things that are funny and blog-worthy, but I’m not quick enough to write them down or clever enough to remember them. And for that matter, I’m not funny enough to get them out in the same way that made me roll with laughter.
But really, what I have loved seeing recently, is Stephen’s compassion. I wish had a way to capture it, to show so many how well he loves here.
One of the ways I have seen his heart the clearest is in watching the little girls grow up. So many of the little girls and little boys grow up so quickly, having to work too early. We start to see twelve-year-olds bicycling down the road with flowers to sell in the market. We see a fourteen-year-old with her nephew on her hip because his mother is in prison.
We live in a place where human trafficking and prostitution are far too common and far too visible. The realities of it are often in our faces throughout town. But it has really hit us hard as we see some of the little girls we met just a couple years ago grow into an age where these things become a real danger and risk.
It is one thing to hear of a little girl being trafficked on the news or to read it in a book. It is another thing to see girls in the backs of trucks or standing in front of bars.
And it is another thing entirely to see a girl that you know her name, that used to play with dolls on your front step, that you handed a Christmas present to, get a job at a new restaurant in town with a questionable reputation. To see her dresses get shorter, her clothes get tighter, and then see her bicycle off to work on a Saturday night.
It’s a new level of heartbreak; it’s a new level of helplessness.
But in these dark places, that is where Christ shines. That is where I see Stephen pray for these girls; I see him work to protect the innocence of other little girls. I see him dream of ways to provide other solutions. I can’t tell you how many times he has said he wishes we could start a coffee shop and hire all the thirteen to sixteen year olds. Not to encourage child labor, not to creepily hire little girls; but to protect them, to give them a way out. To give them a safe work environment.
We haven’t started a business yet. But until then, Stephen works to give them a safe place here, where they are treated as they should be treated. Where they can play badminton after a long day of work they shouldn’t have had.
As I write this, he is out practicing Burmese numbers and laughing with another little one.
I’m so thankful for this. I’m thankful for his compassion and for his care for those around us.
Today I heard Dave Barnes’ Good World Gone Bad lyrics:
I’m told, at days old she was left on the steps of a preacher’s door
Mom & Dad, they felt bad, but that was one more problem that they didn’t have
What would it take to change their minds?
Just one more someone left behind
It’s a good world gone real bad, and only love can bring it back
Now she’s thirteen and it seems she wants to look like the girls on the TV screen
She stayed thin, she won’t grin, but a tiny little friend keeps calling again
What does it take to changer her mind?
Just one more someone left behind
It’s a good world gone real bad, and only love can bring it back
That is precisely what I’m thankful for: that Stephen isn’t okay seeing one more someone left behind. He’s willing to take on the aching problems of those around us, love on them, and not leave them behind.
I suppose I knew we were at risk of catching all sorts of things that enter through our doors.
Lice seemed inevitable; Hepatitis B was a scare; dengue seemed probable. We’re just trying to stay immunized for some and flexible with all.
When a dad showed up with what looked like really bad allergies a few days ago, I gave him some antihistamine. When his daughter and son had the same symptoms a few days later, I asked a friend and waited to see if the children’s antihistamine would cut it.
And then I woke up with a burning eye that wouldn’t open, and we made a trip to the eye doctor ourselves. Now I know that the father, son, and daughter were in much more pain than I thought. It was much more contagious than I thought, as well.
I was a little nervous to go to the doctor too; I haven’t always had good experiences here in Mae Sot. As we left, Stephen’s evaluation was, “That clinic was pretty legit. She even had the fake eye to point out where the infection was.”
Glad we’re setting such high standards.
My real challenge has proven to be not wearing contact lenses. I have glasses but don’t wear them–ever–because they hit a pressure point and give me a painstaking headache. The eye doctor straightened the ear pieces to hit the pressure point less, but while this does work, it makes the glasses not hook behind your ear. Thus, if I lean forward, my glasses fall off. When I’m reading, this is a minor inconvenience. While cooking, it can become more of a hassle, depending on what my glasses fall into. The same is true in the bathroom. Ultimately, the real challenge comes on the motorbike.
So now Stephen is driving me everywhere, and I am wearing headbands to hold my glasses in place. And I am putting in eye drops and ointments seven times throughout the day.
It seems I am always quite a mess around here.
Remember when Stephen made me a kick-awesome tortilla maker?
We just discovered that it makes kick-awesome naan, too!
You guys should all get one for your kitchen. Not for your classy kitchen per se, but for your delicious kitchen!
Of course one of our little friends came over about 8pm–she has freedom to stay out quite late that others don’t really have, so she comes over to get some one-on-one time of playing Memory or something else special.
This week, Stephen discovered the app Dots and informed me I would love it. He was right on, and it’s addicting. He also said I could show sweet little Yuh Meh Oo how to play on the iPad. She loves it, too, and played for over an hour.
Stephen and I were reading a marriage book together, so I kept reading aloud while she played. She doesn’t understand much of the English anyway, so we didn’t think it mattered. It did feel funny to read “sex” aloud with a small child in the room, though, so I substituted that with a code word! 🙂
We found a stuffed Piglet toy on our driveway last week. He was ripped and surrounded by stuffing, but still seemed fixable, despite the pen markings on his head.
He sat on our coffee table for a few days until I got around to it, then I finally took it outside yesterday afternoon to sew while the kids played cards on the porch.
They were thrilled that I was sewing it and began pulling it out of my hand before I could finish.
I chose red thread, thinking that, of my on-hand choices, it was closest to pink. What I didn’t consider were my sewing abilities: I wouldn’t be able to hide the thread well, nor I am a smooth seamstress. My sewing also got considerably worse with children hanging on my arm, sitting on my lap, and pulling at my project.
In the end, Piglet’s head was indeed on him. He also looked like he had been slaughtered and sewed back Frankenstein-style. Stephen declared it a little creepy.
But little Neh Wey was thrilled!
It felt like an eventful weekend for our lives in Mae Sot, so I’m stealing the high & low technique from a fellow blogger that I follow/stalk.
High: I started off Saturday early by playing in a soccer tournament at 9am. This was a fun idea, until…
Low: It was freakishly hot.
Low: The opposing team was fourteen-year-olds, some of which weren’t wearing shoes, which makes it hard for me to be as aggressive as my teammates might have wished.
Low: I am also downright horrible at football, which makes it hard for me to play as well as my teammates would wish. And to top it off, my eyes are having some allergy problems this rainy season, and at times there were definitely two soccer balls, making it difficult to know which one to kick for. I guessed wrong a few times.
High: We won anyway!
High: We started renovating the front area of our house into a community space! This is exciting because it creates a space we can welcome the community into our home in a place designed for us to have conversations, play games, enjoy tea, get medicine; and generally continue to build relationships that are not confined to our front porch, but in the warmth of a home.
Low: This required shifting a curtain from one wall to another. We borrowed the drill the week before. We had measured & the lengths were the same; shouldn’t take long, right? We measured poorly, only to discover on chairs that the spaces are about 2mm different–just enough to make life really difficult. It became a three hour task, including a trip with an 8 foot pole on the motorbike to a local metal shop to have new holes drilled.
Despite a really frustrating afternoon, the curtains are now hanging and divide the community space from the rest of our home.
High: We had one of our neighbor friends build us some shelves. The shelves were communicated in a second language, and all that considered–they turned out great!
Low: Let’s just say the shelves are very, very sturdy and style wasn’t a high priority.
High: I talked for over an hour in Karen with some of the neighbor ladies on Saturday! While we talk often, it is usually in shorter bouts or about medical issues. So while my medical vocabulary is quite expansive, it is easier to follow along if you know the general subject. It was quite an accomplishment to have a lengthy conversation about somewhat random conversations that I could still follow.
High: I didn’t have a headache after said conversation!
High: We purchased a huge metal board for magnets in the community space, which the kids are already excited about.
Low & High: We only lost it out of the back of our truck once on the way home!
Low: It required four coats of paint–two on each side–to prevent rusting. I put on the first coat on Sunday afternoon, at which point I discovered it was oil-based paint. Really, we knew that but didn’t think it through until I had oil-based paint covering my hands and nothing to remove it.
Low: I tried nail polish remover, at which point I discovered three large cuts on my hand.
Low: By the time Stephen got home, we were late to meet friends for dinner and had no plan, so I walked out the door with sticky paint all over my hands.
High: We borrowed paint thinner from a friend late that night.
Low: Throughout multiple coats of paint, I have since re-discovered the three cuts on my hand multiple times.
High: We were invited to a birthday party on Sunday morning! The newest baby in the community had his one-week party, a common celebration around here. This included sweet, sweet tea, coconut-y rice, and music.
High: We got to witness the mummifying swaddling of Burmese families. Wow.
By the way–the music isn’t edited in. That would be the one-week-old baby party music.
High (that is not a Low yet): The kids, or perhaps some adults, concocted this gem of a “toy.” It involves a small toddler bike, ridden by a four-year-old, that pulls a baby walker on wheels while the young child puts his feet up on a board. Its endearing to see the ingenuity and a sweet little boy looking after his 10-month-old brother, but it does illicit a little fear of this becoming a hospital visit sometime in the future…
