I realize we’re ridiciulous.

We didn’t win the last big giveaway from Sweetwater, and we didn’t win the vacation giveaway from Centara. And many of you are still receiving wasted magazines and advertisements from aforementioned entries.

But we haven’t lost hope.

{I suppose living amidst and working with the victims of a 60-year war creates a strong sense of resilience.}

Sweetwater has a giveaway each month, May is microphones again. I’m told this one is even better than the last; it actually has microphones in it that Stephen was looking at for some future recording projects of traditional Karen music.

Anyway, we’re entering again. We won’t beg you this time.

But we’ll invite you to enter and increase our odds…

Visit Sweetwater.com to enter the Mic Locker Giveaway. Please note that there is only one entry per household, and the question, “What mics are you currently using?” is not required 🙂

And thanks for being ridiculous with us.

This is our Narnia, and I’m more convinced of this every day. You can describe it, and it can be believed; but it can’t be grasped without experiencing it, or at least a little something of it.

And instead of endless winter without Christmas, we have endless summer without summer vacation.

Or summer without tank tops and sun dresses!

I’m amazed how much seasons are engrained in us. And when they don’t come as we expect, it’s as if time doesn’t go by. It’s as if we’ve been here for one long summer.

Then suddenly, I see my niece on Skype and wonder how she grew up so much over one summer! I watch You’ve Got Mail and hear, “Don’t you just love New York in the fall? It makes me want to by school supplies.”  I find myself aching for a breeze, a scarf, golden yellow leaves, pumpkin patches, and bouquets of newly sharpened pencils.

We live in one of the sunniest places on earth, I’m sure. Even during rainy season, which lasts about six or seven months of the year, the sun is out for at least part of the day, and often shining through the rain.  It seems this would be beautiful, right? Sunny skies every day?

There are positives: a bike ride is possible every day of the year. A garden can grow at any point, and the swimming pool is always open. Some kind of fresh fruit is always in season, and you’re never too cold for ice cream. You don’t need seasonal clothing or a winter coat closet.

But I still find myself hoping for some dreary clouds and drab cold winds.

Refugee camps can be kind of depressing places, I think.

There is a stagnancy about them; a day-in-and-day-out monotony where you can come so close to feeling like its simply a village, but you can never fully remove the awareness that its not.

One afternoon, we we walked through the camp in search of tomatoes for dinner. Earlier that day, two twelve year olds had drowned while swimming in the river, and we watched a child’s body carried quickly past us.

For some reason, I thought of their mothers. I imagined a woman weeping over her son’s wet body.  The camp community would know of the deaths, and few others. The numbers would change on the camp counts, as they always do. But I felt that he deserved more mourning; that he not be overlooked.

I began to imagine the many people weeping around the world at that moment, in that day–this woman for her child, others for deaths of friends or family, hurtful words, fear, wars coming close to home, or loneliness.

But there were joys happening in that same moment, on that same day, in many of the same places–babies born, people celebrating success in their work or a feeling of purpose, a sincere conversation between friends, delicious food, or beautiful music.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”
Romans 12:15

The significance of this verse began to resonate. What if we truly mourn and rejoice with others?

Allowing ourselves to mourn with the suffering around us–in our own cities as well as globally–makes us unable to ignore it. We are required to carry a portion of the weight and to be reminded.

But at the same time, we can cherish others successes and celebrations.

We begin to cross cultures and income gaps. It becomes less about our joys or our sorrows and more about others; the global community that both aches and hopes simultaneously. We suddenly have many people crying with us and rejoicing with us at the same time we join with others.

It’s much easier and much more pleasant for us to forget pain and ignore suffering, or perhaps simply to control when we think about it. It’s easier to hope for personal joy and success rather than collective benefit.

As I thought about this little boy and his weeping mother, I caught a glimpse of the community that is created in this verse. Not only among our immediate community as we learn to rejoice and mourn with each other, but also on a global perspective. It pushes us to selflessness. If individuals choose to engage in mourning and celebrating worldwide, we connect ourselves. We become a part of the whole of creation that aches and hopes for eternity. Our focus is shifted from self to community.

…is a dangerous word.

I’m thinking of eliminating it from my vocabulary.

Chances are, whatever you are about to say isn’t obvious to the whole world.
It’s probably not even obvious to the people around you.

I’m currently reading Comparing Political Regimes by Alan Siaroff for my research. I quite like his writing, and as far as political books go, it’s easy to read.

But he’s overusing “obviously.” I find myself wanting to scream, “Maybe it’s not so obvious to some of us! Maybe we’re just trying make sense of politics, we’re way in over our heads, and it’s not that obvious to us!”

Perspective changes everything.

A few weeks ago, we stopped in Tak on the way from from Mae Sot to Chiang Mai. There is a Tescos and a Big C there–both comparable to Walmart– and a few chain restaurants–Dairy Queen, KFC, and Pizza Company.  We stopped to get personal pizzas at Pizza Company for dinner, but got distracted by the Tescos. We ended up walking through the store for over an hour, taking in the variety: countless shirts, types of oil, and kinds of tape.

It’s a big step up from Mae Sot.

As we continued driving and ate our pizza, we commented on how good it was and how fun it was to look through all the things at Tescos. At one point, I said it might worth a Saturday trip–we could come up to have a fun meal and shop a little.

Then I caught myself, because I simply can’t let a few hours in Tescos and greasy food from a chain restaurant be considered a day out; I just couldn’t bring myself to that. It doesn’t really matter if it reminds me of the West, because it’s the no-so-wonderful parts of the West. And, no matter why, I just can’t do it: I won’t judge you if you will, but I can’t.

Fast forward about six days, and we were returning from Chiang Mai after a week of really wonderful Western food, staying in a hotel, and even shopping amidst many people and lots of traffic. We stopped again in Tak for dinner as we drove through. And this time, the conversation was more along the lines of how this pizza wasn’t as good as we remembered and how there wasn’t anything special we wanted to look for in Tescos.

We returned to Mae Sot, and I was struck by how small it felt. As we rode the motorbike through town that evening, I commented on how it feels like a small town, and it was refreshing to be back.

Yesterday, we returned from nine days in two refugee camps along the border. They are small and remote, taking two or three hours of 4WD to get there.

I was driving as we pulled back into Mae Sot and said, “Look at all these cars! This place is crazy!”

It’s interesting how our perspective changes everything.

It’s been painful recently.

I’m hesitant to write too openly in a blog. I fear that people will worry about me or us–our health, our strength, and if we can or should stay. Or perhaps I’ll say something that I would have never said in person because socially it shouldn’t have been said.

God has been confirming many things about our lives here, giving us a deep love for our neighbors; showing us the opportunities and hope in our new roles at Partners. And simply put, in my soul I believe this is right for this stage of our lives, and I’m at peace knowing simply the few steps in front of us.

But in the midst of this confidence, there have been many aches recently.

Sometimes I worry I am becoming a little unstable as a person. I’m easier to tears, quicker to insecurity, and much more wavering. I can go from laughter to overwhelmed within minutes; from watching a 22-minutes-of-laughter sitcom to tears because I’m obscurely reminded of something I saw earlier in the week.

I thought it’d be something I might adapt to as we stayed longer; perhaps I’d level out? Instead, I think it has become much deeper and more personal, and it doesn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon.

There’s a gap present in every Skype call; and with every encounter with a neighbor. We’re not the same as we were; there are irreconcilable pieces between our lives here and in America. And even still, we’ll never understand the lives of our neighbors. We can live life with them and learn much, but I’ll never know their level of poverty; I’ll never understand what it is to be stateless; I’ll never understand the fear that consumes them. I’ll never grasp their culture enough to think as they think. I can learn, yes; but it will never be a part of me in the way it is for them.

I’ll always have the knowledge of something else, I suppose.

I read Hunger Games this past week. I read all three books within the week, so I obviously enjoyed them a little. The first was much more appreciated than the last; the seemed to get more depressing to me. Either way–I can resonate with some of what Katniss writes of the gaps between the Capitol–developed, first-world if you will–and District 12–poverty stricken and oppressed, survival-focused. She nods along to a world that seem so far from her:

“While Venia reinvents my eyebrows and Octavia gives me fake nails and Flavius massages goo into my hair, I hear all about the Capitol. What a hit the Games were, how dull things have been since…it won’t be too long until before the Capitol begins gearing up for the Quarter Quell.

‘Isn’t it thrilling?’

‘Don’t you feel so lucky?’

…Their words overlap in a blur of excitement. ‘Oh, yes,’ I say neutrally. It’s the best I can do.”

I do that sometimes, nodding along with things that seem so far away.

Sometimes I feel crazy between the two worlds, understood by neither.

Its created loneliness here, too.

I can’t say my introversion has helped. In times of being overwhelmed, I retreat. Stephen has been my safety, and we have spent large quantities of time together. A good investment, yes; but we still need community. We somehow must maintain the communities we have in America while building community here, where I’m often intimidated and fearful.

Recently, I’ve been avoiding the blog, only occasionally painting pictures of fun packages, sweet neighbor children, and the joy of painting our house. All good things, yes; and all present in our lives. I have loved the packages, and they’ve brought some welcomed smiles and familiarity. I love the kiddos, and they inevitably give me the tightest hugs on horrible days. I think God sends them my way, telling them to smile big and squeeze tight. I love our newly painted walls and feel much more cozy in our home.

But its unfair to share or document the highs and leave out the tears. The reality is that I’ve spent more time crying through prayers recently than I would have liked. If I could choose, I would have learned Karen ages ago, and Burmese would be on the tip of my tongue. I’d feel more connected here to other foreigners in town, or at least have the courage to work toward it.

Conclusion-less ending: I’m fine, but it’s not all delicious chocolate treats and exciting changes in Burma. I’m more confident than ever that I’ll never be the same, and I’m simply praying that God uses every frustration, every tear, and every mustered effort.