We have started our own little pharmacy. We keep a nice little basket off to the side, packed full of paracetamol, cough syrup, Band-Aids, gauze, and oral-rehydration solution. I try to keep the mindset of, “If this was my child, what would I do?” If I’d give them paracetamol for a fever, I do. And when I start to get worried, we take them to clinic.

Because its such a large group of kiddos, and they are in such close contact, I have been giving out Tylenol for weeks, to a new kid each day who has picked up the fever. Its been gone within a day, no problems to be had.

Wednesday a little girl of nearly two was brought over, having thrown up five times that day. Her mother actually came with vomit all over her, which was lovely. The little girl had a fever and diarrhea, too, so I gave her oral-rehydration packets and paracetamol. I told her we’d wait and see how she was tomorrow.

She wasn’t better the next day, and was throwing up the medicine and rehydration fluids. We decided to take her the next morning, when I was off work.

It was a record trip to the hospital: we were in and out in just one hour and twenty minutes with medicine in hand. And it cost us just $2.28.

The next morning, the little girl was happy, full, and playing on our doorstep.

Then it was Saturday: we had slept in and were just sitting down to pancakes at 9am when another woman walks up with another little baby girl.

Her little girl had an on-and-off fever for a month. I had given medicine twice, but now I was starting to think it was recurring too often. And as of Saturday, there was sort of rattling in her lungs.

We decided to take a second trip to the hospital. They get the baby ready–including a diaper that they didn’t know how to put on and I had to show them.  She had on an outfit of every shade of blue you could imagine: a flowered blue hat, a differently flowered blue sweater, and a blue plaid skirt. She was ready for this trip to town.

This time I thought it was just me, the mother, and the two year old; we suggest the motorbike. She agrees and I climb on.  Here I learn that there is a translator coming to help as well, so we now have four squeezed onto the motorbike, including the mother sitting side-saddle in her sarong. This was not the easiest journey I have made.

After a much longer wait at the hospital–three hours this time–the little girl was admitted. She had an upper-respiratory infection, pneumonia, and they suspect tuberculosis. They are running tests.

She has now been at the hospital three days, and we go to see them each day. I can’t really say much because they speak Burmese and I only know pieces of Karen, but we brought some small toys, coloring pages, and snacks.  Their older little boy, about four years old, is stuck there, too.

Today, I went by the hospital at 10:30am. I spoke with the doctor, who said they were running the tests for TB and she needed at least two more days of medicine. I knew the family didn’t want to stay, but I told her it would be two more days and I’d come by later with a translator to explain. I wanted her to understand the severity of the situation, since her little girl had three ailments.

At 12pm, I got a call from someone speaking Karen–this took me a few minutes to even sort out what language she was speaking and that I should understand; I still have no idea who it was. The family had a bill and the baby could go home, she said. I told them I’d be there in a few minutes, just to wait.

(I will mention here that this is the same family that we took the drunk husband to the hospital one night with a large, bleeding head wound. He left the hospital unexpectedly and we couldn’t find him for over an hour. I was a little worried they might just head out on their own, too, if it ran in the family.)

When we arrived, they did have a bill in hand. But when I asked the doctor, he very adamantly explained they could not go home, but the hospital wouldn’t continue to give medicine if we didn’t pay for the expenses already incurred.

With the help of other patients’ family members, we translated this to the mother. The baby was still really sick and needed to stay. Yes, you did get a bill; I know that’s confusing. But you still need to stay for two more days. She looked a little defeated at the prospect of sharing a hospital bed with her two children in a hallway for two more days, which I can resonate with.

This payment was also not as beautiful as the last–it was no $2!  And this is only the half of it.

As I spoke with the nurse about paying the bill, I could read her expressions. Clearly I’m paying for someone else’s bill, and her name clearly implies she is Burmese. I am obviously the white person here to pay and do very little else.

I wondered for a moment if we were fools. How do I explain myself? I imagine people asking us–how do you justify spending hundreds of dollars on medical for this community? Where is that money coming from? What if more people need it next week? Is this sustainable?

In all reality, we have almost certainly spent more money on medical for this community in the past year than on medical for the two of us. And we don’t have a budget or a plan for any of it.

No one was really asking these questions, but sometimes I think God gives me the answers anyway. He knows how much I hate spending money. He knows how nervous I get to see the large number.

In that moment, he told me I was to do it. I was suddenly confident that he had orchestrated these friendships, and that this was a way to show love.  I was sure that if I was standing before the Lord needing to defend these dollars, it was a small amount in the Kingdom. Could I waver over this little girl’s health for a price?  Could I tell them to go home, hope their whole family doesn’t get TB and hope she gets over pneumonia?

Certainly not. I could love them now and let God work out the details. Because they were just details, simple matters of health that somehow always lead me back to the fact that Holy Spirit is constantly leading us, guiding us, and showing up when I am the most tired and the most unsure.

From my co-worker, Yim, as I sat working at the computer today:
“You look so professional today. It’s very not normal!”

It’s been one of those weeks when you start a blog with the phrase, “It’s been one of those weeks…” and it’s merely Tuesday.

I feel so small this week. I feel small in the grand scheme of Burma, as I try to write curriculum to teach a few courses on development. A few courses teaching an unspecified number of people, in hopes that huge concepts might be applied to small villages and make small changes in communities, government, and the economy.

This seems ridiculously ambitious for my twenty-four year old self.

And while I write this curriculum and make preparations for trainings in the office, I come home to a community of pain. A community I can’t truly help: I can’t provide papers or secure homes; I can’t provide enough food. I can’t heal the pain and suffering; I can’t even end it.  The simplest concepts of gardening, playing games, and friendship often become so muddled in communication and cultural differences.

I’m not sure I have the words; nor am I sure that any words I’ll come up with are biblical or true. But I would probably say it this way: I have never been so sure of where I should be and so unsure of what the value of it is.   I have never been so unsure that it is really, truly changing anything.

I suppose this week the things I can’t change seem prominent. The things I attempt to do each evening seem so inconsequential.

The kids drained me tonight. Not because they were disruptive or disobedient; they were just such a tangible picture of the reality that is our community.

There was a group gathered outside of about ten kids; the youngest was a little boy about two years old and the oldest his fifteen-year-old aunt who cares for him.  The two year old cried every ten minutes or so, feeling left out and neglected by his aunt as she played with friends; and likely just tired as 8pm rolled by.

I gave them children’s vitamins and suckers; they asked for glasses of water. They started fighting each other and I heard screaming; I went out and explained they could fight in the street, but not at our house–our house was for playing and kindness. A drunk man came to sit on our bench and started bothering the girls. When we heard them shrieking and running around the yard, we couldn’t determine if it was a game or they felt threatened. Stephen went out to tell him to go home and go to sleep.

They played longer, and my sweet little friend, Yuh Meh Oo, came back and forth from the door to check on me inside. She had a sweater on her head like a veil and repeatedly modeled it, waiting for me to tell her how beautiful she was. They all seem to ache for affirmation.

Another drunk man came by, this time speaking slurred Karen to me–very difficult for a language learner–with very little awareness of personal space. At this point Stephen had run up to the office to grab a file off the computer, and I hurriedly told our visitor goodbye and shut the door.

The kids continued to play. While some ran off to go home, Yuh Meh Oo stayed around, per usual. She asked to watch Cinderella on the computer. I told her we couldn’t do that, but she could color on the iPad.

The ten kids quickly found their way back and each took their turn on the iPad, coloring a picture of a house or landscape. They each chose their own color and waited for a compliment on their masterpiece.

I wrote yesterday of our dinner on our doorstep, and of the ways we can see God’s faithfulness in placing in this neighborhood.

This is still true.

I’m no less thankful for all the things orchestrated to bring us here; I’m no less sure that it is right. But I do have more questions than I know what to do with.

I was crying tonight for our neighborhood; and I found myself whining, “I’m just a kid. Why do I have to know this?”

And then I thought of Yuh Meh Oo, and my tears became, “And she, she is truly just a kid. Why on earth does she have to know that?”

It’s official. We are now in possession of two very important plane tickets.

We will be visiting the States for an entire three months to see friends and family!

While we make plans to visit different cities and states, we’d like to put the word out:
We would love an opportunity to share about Burma. 

Burma has been in the news, with changes and economic opportunities and starting a peace process. While so much of this is true, it is only one side of the story. On the other side are ethnicities still fearful for their lives, or migrants still struggling to survive after sixty years of civil war and no home to go back to.

We would really love a chance to share about the relief that is still needed and the development that is only beginning.

If you have any venue you would like us to speak in–your church, small group, school, or just over dinner with you!–please let us know. We would really love to share why we are here, what we do, and what God is doing in Burma.

Also, please note that our primary goal is not to raise funds. God is providing through so many of our friends and family faithfully giving month after month, and we believe He will continue to provide. While we want to give people an opportunity to give to support us or Partners, we also simply want to give a voice to the voiceless.

Please email us!
stephen.spurlock@partnersworld.org

Tonight we sat down to dinner on our living room floor, intended to watch a TV episode. Today didn’t sparkle, and we wanted to laugh.

Just as we started, she showed up at the door asking for water. At this hour, it’s always the same little girl with the same sweet smile.

I brought her water and a piece of naan. I opened the door for her to sit on our step.

She watched us; we watched her. We talked about our options. How do we love her well?

And then we moved over to eat with her. We all sat by the doorstep eating naan and curried chickpeas. We played a few games of dominoes, and Stephen slipped an orange into her coat pocket.

More often than not I find myself asking, How did we get here? How did we get to having kids all over the kitchen, to having a basket of children’s medicine and Band-Aids by the door? When did our Saturday become filled with installing a water pump and passing out oranges? When did our walls become covered in coloring pages?

When did normal become an evening of one neighbor crawling into our well; pulling a child off of our air-conditioner; having dinner on the doorstep with a little girl; and playing a wordless game of dominoes into the evening?

I remember when we moved, and I was so nervous to choose a house.  I don’t even know why; I think I just wanted so badly to make the right decision. So many people had opinions and advice, while there were so many changes anyway. I just remember praying every night that we would find a house that was perfect for where we were supposed to be.

And Stephen and I both thought this one was right. Many disagreed; it was deemed overpriced and in a dangerous part of town.

We went for it.

We never guessed the landlord would lower the rent by 25% after a year; that was unheard of for foreigners, where most rent goes up yearly. We would have never guessed that we’d have kids in our yard daily or that we’d be waking up to our names being personally called outside the window. I never would have guessed I’d go for a run and have an entourage of kids running beside me for the first two blocks.

I never would have guessed they’d teach me what community is. I never guessed I’d see this much of Christ in the thanaka-covered faces on my kitchen floor. I never thought I’d see so much of Christ in the way Stephen cares for the kids on our porch.

I never knew I’d end up here, but this house and this neighborhood have proved to be one of the clearest ways I have seen God’s faithfulness in the past two years.

Things always seem so easy from the discussion board. The corners look clean and simple; you wonder where things could things go wrong.

It’s almost unfathomable, then, when you find yourself in muddy waters with no simple solutions. And this is a very long story of such muddy waters; I’ll attempt to give the short hand version.

We have been discussing ideas for a community garden for so long. We attempted to start one just months after we arrived, and we did see fruit from it, however chaotic the process.  We have made little improvements here and there, but needed a re-vamp. We discussed it with a few women in the community in October, and it was well-received; we decided it was a worthy investment. We discussed options with the agricultural development experts at the office, we had hopes of a greenhouse-style design with organic plants. We hoped add a pump to our well to make watering easy and accessible.

Somewhere in there, life starting running. We were traveling, they were traveling, and we found our neighbors asking if we would start the garden soon.

In the next 140 days, we will be home just twenty-one of them. We have many travels ahead of us, to say the least. And all this time away seemed like a deadline that we needed to start the garden. Particularly before we went to America on furlough, we wanted to show the neighbors we wanted to invest in them and we’d be coming back.

Before traveling, we had two weekends to install a pump, clean out the well, purchase bamboo and build a fence, purchase rice hulls to make bio-char, break up the soil, and get started with seeds. We had discussed it all with Mong Ey, who was excited. We have since learned her husband is not as excited about some of it.

There have been a number of ups and downs over the past weekend. Stephen successfully installed the pump, and it worked like a charm. However, instead of clear water–or even brown–coming out, we got black; so black you might have thought we struck oil. And it smelled far worse than it looked. We’re now trying to pump it a few times through with hopes of seeing clean water before too long.

I have been trying to write this post since Saturday: it started with great joy. I had photos of Stephen putting together the well and the success of water coming out. I have a video clip of the water bursting through the pipes and our responses of, “Eww! Did you see how black that was?!”

But by Saturday night, we had disappointments–Mo Bya was not wanting to build a fence; he was not interested in organic agriculture. He was skeptical that the well might ever be usable.

When I suggested that burning the weeds would hurt the soil, he said no. When I suggested the fence would keep kids out, he said I was wrong. When I said I hoped pumping the well out three times might produce clean water, he said he didn’t think so.

In the process of pumping out the well, we had the lid off-set a little to watch the water level. And when Stephen went out to check it on Sunday, we discovered that some of the littlest boys thought it was fun idea to throw trash into the well. Stephen was not pleased and has now decided a fence will be a must.

After seeing us attempt to fish out the trash with a bucket, Mo Bya returned again today. He promptly walked up, handed Stephen the end of a rope, and climbed into the well to retrieve all the items. I was terrified and praying through the entire ordeal. He was shouting things out in Karen that were very hard to decipher coming up the well, and its a little nerve-wracking when things are said with urgency from inside a well in a language you are straining to grasp.

Supposedly he’s coming over tomorrow; we’re providing a weed-eater and broad fork to clear the weeds and break up the soil. We’re deciding how to convince them of the essential need for a fence. We’re waiting to see if this is going to look like a garden in the end after all.

It seems we’ve been back to the drawing board so many times on this. We have such grand ideas and outlined plans. And then we try to communicate them, and communicate wrong. We sort out the mistakes, and then maybe we simply disagree. We find ourselves asking over and over how we got here and how to best love. How do we respect them, and help? How do prevent charity and encourage development in way respectful of friendship and culture?

Before too long, the neat clean, lines become piles of muddied questions, and you have no idea what you’ll come home to or turn up with in the end.

Any readers who will be in Oklahoma City on 3 March?

Check out Marked 2013, an event to speak on behalf of marginalized women. Rather than being marked by fear, torture, and mere statistics, crowds will be coming together to leave a mark of love and hope.

The one-day event will provide social justice seminars and information about organizations, businesses, and individuals working on behalf of marginalized women locally & globally.  Everyone is challenged to
learn something
do something
give something
buy something
pray something
in a way that defends and cares for marginalized women.

And what I am most excited about: we’ll be there! I was there for the first event in 2010, and I’m thrilled to be invited back. We’ll be sharing about Partners’ work and speaking in a social justice seminar and panel.

And it will be a wonderful start to a few months of rest and reconnecting with friends & family in the States. Watch this video learn more and hopefully some of you will make the road trip to be there!

https://vimeo.com/56802405