About a year ago, my sister and I ambitiously attempted making cheese. This required unpasteurized milk, which I tracked down with the help of my Karen teacher.

And since then, we’ve been buying our milk from the same milk lady.

I don’t have a significant belief in the benefits of unpasteurized milk, but I do like that it comes from the cow and to me within hours. I also love that it comes in a bag, saves us just a few baht, and supports a local family that I’ve come to know. They saw us in the hospital a few weeks ago and waved excitedly.

Even as much as I like this activity, it’s a weird experience.

For the first year, I was told to come between 2pm and 3pm. That changed last month, and now I am to come at 5pm.

When I arrive, we exchange smiles and hellos in Burmese, and I say my token Burmese words: milk, and a number–the number of bags that I would like. Each bag is between two and two & a half cups and costs about 60 cents each.

But no matter how many bags I request, she suggests a different number. I have no idea why. Sometimes she’ll suggest I buy more, sometimes she’ll say they only have so many or they’ll only give me so many or something of the sort. Either way, it’s like a game: do I ask for one less than I want, because she might try to up-sell me one more. Or do I ask for extra, because she might not give them all to me?

After I make my irrelevant request for a certain number of bags, she smiles and tells me how many I will get. She invites me to sit and wait. I take off my shoes and sit in the first chair by the door.

And it just keeps getting interesting.

Usually, she gets on her motorbike and leaves to go get the milk, presumably from the place in the market that her husband is selling the milk. But she never takes me there or tells me where it is; even through a translator, she asked me to come to her house.

The room I enter into serves as a living room, dining room, and business. Big wood furniture cabinets line two walls, and one blares a television. Big, oversized chairs line one wall, where I sit. An absolutely abnormal number of pots sit above the cabinets; I have no concept of who could use so many.

While she is gone, I sit in the chair. Sometimes there are a number of people around: some are kids or grandkids or aunts or uncles. A number of people who look very similar and are eating, sleeping, watching television or sitting and watching me.

Sometimes there are people who sit beside me in the other chairs, waiting for other things. I don’t know what.

Sometimes, she leaves me there by myself. I sat there today for about ten minutes, in her house by myself. She did this today.

And then she returns. She gives me small bags of milk with a big smile, and we exchange thank yous in Burmese. If her daughter is there who knows English, she tells her to tell me thank you in English, and asks if I will come back tomorrow. I tell her probably not tomorrow–as no human should intake these quantities of milk overnight–but next week, per usual.

This isn’t the most efficient way to make tortillas for dinner, but they sure are lovable.

We also took a break to practice writing names in English on the iPad. So cute.

Mong Ey came to our kitchen door to get her son, one of the kids playing with magnets on the floor. She apologized for the kids, telling them to go home to play since we had just come from work and I was cooking with them all over.

We told her it was no problem. She has no idea the joy they bring!

This weekend, I spent some time sorting through our final photos of 2012. Stephen loves to keep our computer in tip-top organizational state, and this is part of it.

I deleted the blurry and unflattering shots, and categorized the rest into a 2012 folder, complete with categories of different events: my parents coming to visit, trips to villages, courses I taught. In previous years, we’ve had a “Stephen & Kelli” folder of things just the two of us. We also have a “friends” folder–random photos of times out with friends.

But this year, after I had sorted through more photos than I could count, I looked into our “friends” folder. There was one photo.

You see, we’ve never been excessively popular people.  But here, most of our friendships are based in other things: we attend work events with friends, yes, but they are work friends; we spend plenty of time socializing in our street with friends, yes, but they are our neighbors. We have very few people that are simply friends, and even less photos of these few people.

And then I looked at the “Stephen & Kelli” folder to find the majority of 2012 within it.

Because really it’s almost always just us.

Sometimes we’re around the neighbor kids, but we’re the only ones who understand each other. Sometimes we are around work friends, but we like each other best. But really, most of the time, it’s just us.

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Today at home church, I watched as Stephen & his friend Isaac joined in worship. There was one girl scheduled to lead on a keyboard, and Stephen added cajon while Isaac added guitar impromptu.

It worked.

Stephen looked in his element; he was at ease. And it reminded me of how fun it is to see him find his place here.

He’s really wonderful with the neighbor kids. His patience is growing, which I didn’t think was possible. He has always been the most patient person I know. And he still more patient, with the endless requests for more water and asking for him to come to the door to collect a flower. When we returned from a bike ride yesterday, a girl ran into him with such zest she knocked his bicycle from under him; he patiently picked it up and calmly corrected her. The other night he sat playing Memory with a little girl as she soaked up the attention.

I only know a glimpse of these children’s lives, but I know Stephen presents a new role of males. He shows them loving attention, he plays with them in a safe environment. He compliments their drawings, hair bows, and haircuts. He tells the boys they are strong when they help us carry groceries in. He takes time for them.

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When we traveled to a remote village for a few weeks in November, I loved seeing the changes in Stephen. That was longest time we had been in a more trying environment: cold showers, sleeping on wood floors, very limited personal space, and more rice than any American knows what to do with.

I know this is hard on him; he has back pain from sleeping on the hard floors and usually doesn’t sleep well. The feeling of being endlessly hungry doesn’t settle well on most men, and he’s no different.

But he said nothing. He was exceptionally positive, really.

Just in December, he got his first iPhone 4. It’s from my dad, who kindly upgraded and passed one along to us!  Stephen was so excited. He started working for Apple in 2009. And through a year of being surrounded by coworkers with Apple computers, iPhones, and more, he graciously used a small Sony Ericsson.

He’s set it up to work magic. It connects our calendar, emails, photos, and music between the laptop, iPad, and phone. We can text our families around the world free of charge. He keeps everything updated and synced, whether its photos or my recipe collection or our address book.

I love that he uses it to its full potential, but didn’t see it as a necessity. I love that he is really working hard to know what is truly a need and what is simply a want–when is he truly hungry, and when he is just hungry for familiar food? When do we really need to improve our technology, or when can we make do because so many are?  He keeps us balanced–helping us to splurge and enjoy life while we still live in way that sometimes a meal of rice is enough.

I’m not sure I know how to write this: I don’t think iPhones are bad, nor are steak dinners. Rice isn’t awful, and neither is sleeping on the floor. Neither way is good or bad; instead, we are simply living somewhere in between them all. I love that Stephen is really working to embrace this middle ground–when there are burgers, he enjoys them. And when it’s rice, he enjoys it as he can without complaint. Likewise, he doesn’t jump at every new movie or camera lens or software program. Nor does he demand we have nothing.

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Since moving to Thailand, Stephen and I have gotten much closer.

In our neighborhood, he’s the only one I can really communicate with. And in Mae Sot, he’s the only one I can communicate well with. Within many, many miles, he’s the only one who knows about my family and has had a meal with them. He’s the only one who knows about the many surgeries I’ve had and has sat beside me during recoveries. He’s the only one who knew who I was in college and how the past few years have changed me.

And at the end of every day, when we realize we are stuck in a very small space between our sweet friends in our kitchen and our lovely families a million miles away, he’s the only one in that small space with me. He knows the heat of Thailand, the frustration of running out of water again, the unknowns of how long we’ll be here and when our next trip to the hospital will be. He knows the love/hate relationship we have with the “Kelli! Stephen! Water!” being shouted and repeated, louder and louder, outside our window.

I guess I’m realizing how much he has come to mean to me. I am thankful for where we are, experiencing all of this together–whether it’s hiking over a slippery mud mountain, sitting in a hospital waiting room and not sure who or what you’re waiting on, bringing another cup of water to the kids at the door, or perhaps just getting up for a 6am breakfast in the market. 

It is just us for so much of our lives, but I’m not tired of it. I actually crave our long bike ride and hike on Saturday mornings, because it’s time together to talk; while I know we spend more time together then more couples would even know what to do with!  It would be easier to measure our time apart than together.

He was always perfect for me, and he was always abundantly patient, wise, and kind. He’s always been funny and kept things light-hearted. And still, he’s more of all of that now.

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I’m not the only one who loves him.

Check out the amazing magnet-version of Stephen that two kids put together last night:

These kids are crazy, always providing stories to be shared.

I came back from a run yesterday to find five kids in our yard: two were sleeping on the chair, one was eating a piece of watermelon much larger than her head, one pounced on my lap and starting blowing in my face to cool me off, and last–the last little girl of about seven, Neh Wey, was eating a raw Thai pepper on the end of a shish kabob stick.

For your random knowledge, the Scoville scale measures the heat of peppers. Your standard jalepeno pepper is about 5,000 units and in the same realm as Tabasco sauce. A habanero pepper can range from 100,000 to 350,000.  And a Thai pepper, which this girl was munching on, ranges from 50,000 to 100,000, in the range just under the habanero peppers.

And she was eating raw and alone!  I was the only one slightly concerned while the other kids seemed unfazed.

She then proceeded to request water with great urgency. I couldn’t help but give a look of confusion: didn’t you do this to yourself? Why am I being pressured to give you water after such choices?  I gave her some of course–four glasses, actually, which she chugged.

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I’m not sure if Yuh Meh Oo got her ears pierced or if she simply got these new earrings, but she came over with great excitement to show them off!

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As I made dinner on Christmas Eve, these two special friends came over to play. They brought a phone with them: your classic coiled cord phone with a few broken buttons. It was very clearly a treasure, and they were so excited to use it. They would pick up the handset, make a “ring, ring” sound, and call out the name of who they wanted to call in the next room–usually Stephen or my mom by her many names, including “Sinny”, “Mom-my” and “Motha.”

We would then answer our cell phones and say what little we could understand of each other: “How are you?” in English or Burmese; “I am fine,” in English or Burmese.  And then, “Bye, bye!”

It was  simple game, but they loved it.

The joy on their faces was absolutely priceless. They loved having Stephen play with them and respond to them, however little they understood.

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Yesterday we were attempting to get back into the swing of “normal” before we go back to work after the new year. Stephen was busy cleaning his studio while I was putting away Christmas gifts and bringing water & Memory cards to the kids at the front door.

Two little girls didn’t like the crowds of our front steps, so they came around to the kitchen door to play Memory. This let in their little brothers and their friends, who were then playing with magnets on the fridge.

Stephen came out of the studio into the kitchen and I heard, “Oh! Hello. Kids in every direction today. From this vantage point, there are kids at the front door, and kids in the kitchen…”

“…and a sucker in the middle,” I added.

On 27 December, we took the bus to Chiang Mai with my parents. We saw them off at the airport that evening, and then spent another day in town in hopes of seeing The Hobbit.

We had originally planned to see Mom & Dad off on a flight out of Mae Sot, saving us another trip on the bus. This was very tempting after all of our travels recently, and the many trips that hang on the horizon.

However, it was The Hobbit.

And for Stephen, that was one of those small moments when you just don’t want to be here. You don’t want to be removed; you want to be able to see a movie in the theater and pretend you live in the West.

And so we decided it was worth it.  And I think it was, because I really think it is some of the smallest things that make you want to give up and go home. It’s never the big frustrations, really; it’s the little ways you feel disconnected and the little nudges that you don’t fit here or there anymore.

We went to the mall on Friday afternoon to buy tickets for the evening showing. They had limited The Hobbit to one theater, with just two showings at 3pm and 9pm.  While we were in a very long line, the 3pm showing sold out. And while we weren’t wanting to go to that one, it incited a small panic. We already had tickets out the next day, and we now could hear an English-speaking couple in front of us deciding they would just have to see the 9pm showing instead.

What if everyone wanting to go to the 3pm showing switched to the 9pm showing?

Stephen was more nervous than I’d like to admit, and I was just thinking how tired I’d be if we had to stay in the city much longer.

But oh, after nearly an hour wait, we had tickets in hand!

And it was fun. We really enjoyed the movie and an evening out.

Without giving anything away, the general plot is that the dwarves’ land has been taken by a dragon, and a group of dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit head out on a journey to reclaim the dwarves’ home. The hobbit is the odd ball that comes from a comfortable house on the hill and doesn’t really fit in the group of tough guys.

And as I write out the plot, I realize how ridiculous it sounds, particularly considering how much Stephen loves the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy. And how much of a nerd I am that I’m about to quote it.

However, I loved this line, and couldn’t have said it better. At one point the hobbit tells the others,”I know you doubt me. I know you always have, and you’re right. I often think of Bag End. I miss my books, and my arm chair, and my garden. See, that’s where I belong; that’s home. And that’s why I came, ’cause you don’t have one…a home. It was taken from you, but I will help you take it back if I can.”

My thoughts exactly. This is what I want to say when I am sliding down the muddy side of a mountain, spilling water as I try to do my laundry by hand, or smiling over fish paste. My version would be more of, “I know I look ridiculous and uncoordinated. You’re right; you are far more capable than I am. I miss America. I miss my soft bed, my books; I miss understanding what the heck is going on. I miss bread and salad. But that’s home for me, and we’re here to try to create a peaceful, safe home for you here. And really, we’re here to share a far greater hope than that. I’m doing what I can.”

And somehow, we both left the movie encouraged. As much as I hate the city, it’s really a blessing that we can get to food we recognize and sit in movies we understand. We can participate in both worlds for just a short time.

After a late night of playing cards and watching a movie on Christmas Eve, we slept in on Christmas Day.  We got up for a late breakfast and had just started to pass out presents when the cell phone rang.

The conversation was very broken, but we sorted it out. On the 23rd, we had taken a little boy just under one year old to the hospital with an abscess.  He was admitted and had a minor surgery to lance it. And now, he was ready to be discharged.

Christmas isn’t a big deal here–or a deal at all–so the hospital looked entirely like every other day. There were plenty of people there for routine check ups and shots.

This is our token photo, on our way to the hospital on Christmas day.

And then we made it back to open presents and visit a friends’ house for Christmas dinner in the afternoon.

New clothes always smell so wonderful; they smell like America and my family. And clean.

The infamous Snoopy package we were waiting for! The Spurlocks had sent it and told us to keep an eye out for it, and it arrived just before Christmas!

This painting was done by a migrant student in one of the migrant schools around Mae Sot. They are being sold to raise funds for the education programs. I particularly loved this one, a watercolor of the Burmese markets in Mae Sot. I had suggested we buy it one evening, but Stephen talked me out of it. I sent him back the next day because I found myself wishing we had; he told me it had sold before he got there. Liar! It’s ours 🙂

For Stephen’s gift this year, I got him a new lens for his camera. However, the shipping to Thailand was a little bit much, so it’s visiting the Spurlock home until Gena & Karen come for a visit at the end of January. I made this paper lens for him to open on Christmas.

Stephen & I only have a few traditions we faithfully follow, but one of our favorites is on Christmas Eve, when we each give each other pajamas.

This year, I thought my favorite seamstress in town would be wonderful for this. I went to the market to find a nice red & mustard yellow plaid fabric for Stephen, and a coordinating paisley for me. I took our old pajama pants to her and asked her to replicate the sizes, plus a few additional instructions. Namely, I wanted Stephen’s to be basic plaid pants with a drawstring. I wanted mine to be capri length in the paisley pattern, plus a ruffle at the bottom & drawstring in the same plaid that Stephen had.

It looked so cute in my head: coordinating Christmas pajamas!

I arrived at the shop to pick them up last Saturday and found myself in a familiar situation, what we affectionately call a “very Thai experience.”  Stephen’s looked great; they lacked a drawstring, but nothing too significant. Mine, on the other hand, were another story.

I first noticed the abnormal amount of ruffles. How could they just be at the bottom when there were just so many ruffles…everywhere? Sure enough, they were not only along the bottom, but up the sides of the legs. A triceratops was the first thing that came to mind.

I look up at the seamstress’ husband (and our translator), who pointed to the excess ruffles and said, “For you. No charge!”

Please note that this no extra charge for the extra ruffles; I still purchased the two items. He looked so proud, as if he had just blessed me with a Christmas present, rather than turned me into a cowboy.

I wrapped them and put them under the tree anyway.

And when I put them on, they were far worse than I imagined!

On Saturday, we had a Christmas party for our neighborhood. And, really, a few more surrounding neighborhoods.

We had quite an ambitious plan: a dinner for around one hundred people, a raffle with twenty-six gifts, a few games, and 140 presents for children, adults, and babies.

But yet again, plans schmans should be our mantra here.

We spent the day in the kitchen: pumpkin curry on the charcoal burner, green beans on the indoor burner, cookies in the oven, and rice in a too-big-to-describe (and borrowed) rice cooker. Before we opened our doors at four, our living room was set.

By about 4:30pm, it looked like this:

We were quickly aware that we didn’t have enough rice or gifts. We also didn’t have enough fans; or sanity, for that matter. The difficulty with such parties is that once you invite your friends, everyone comes. People from roads over, different neighborhoods; people we’ve never seen before are streaming into our home.  There is water on the floor and chicken grease on the walls, and it is very, very loud.

What can I say? We throw a good party!

Since we didn’t have enough presents for the gathering crowd, we decided to just do the raffle for this group; and the games were cancelled all together. The raffle was well-recieved to say the least, but the excitement nearly squashed mom, myself, our translator, and our loud-male-voice helper in the middle.

We then said our goodbyes and gave cookies at the door. We went to get our own dinner at a local shop, and took a moment to breathe.

At this point in the evening, we were thankful for the opportunity to serve masses. It was a good way to meet new people and invite everyone into our home, especially so many adults that we see day-in and day-out, but are too shy to visit.

There were also two significant highlights to this part of the evening. First, in the midst of over a hundred people eating rice, chicken & curry in our living room, I heard a little girl’s voice calling, “Kelli! Kelli!” I looked over to see Musana, devouring a huge serving of rice and a chicken leg. She looked up to my eyes and said, “Thank you,” in Burmese, with a huge smile.

Second, as I was calling out the raffle numbers, I saw there was one present left for the kids. It was a set including a coloring book, colored pencils, a pencil case, and a butterfly pen. I thought of Yuh Meh Oo, one of our favorite friends who loves to color at our house and stay long past the others. I looked up to find her and saw her squished in a corner, almost looking a little scared of the crowd. I said a quick prayer for her, that she might win this raffle, which I knew she’d love.

She did! Number 8 was called, and I looked up to see her face light up as she pushed forward. Stephen saw her skipping home just a few minutes later.

I suppose I love those small reminders: that God loves these families more than I ever could; that all the chaos is worth those momentary connections.

And it was. Particularly after a good night sleep and a cleaned kitchen, I can say it was worth it.

However, we still needed some way to deliver 140 presents to the families we know best.  About 8pm, we snuck outside with a few small gifts, and went to our translator’s home. We told her thank you for all of her help during the previous mayhem, and presented her little family with presents. We explained that we had presents for these neighborhoods that live near us, and she agreed to help us.

For the next hour or so, we trekked around the community around our home, hand-delivering packages to every person in each home.

It was wonderful, and really far better than we could have asked for; what a privilege to deliver each present with a smile and Merry Christmas wishes.

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The Friday morning before this party, we sang O Holy Night at our office. The line, “And in his name all oppression shall cease,” has been ruminating in my mind.  Particularly as we planned for this party, it became my prayer for this community.

All they know is oppression. They are oppressed in the market, by the police, at the hospitals. They are always in fear and without defense.

But as they entered our home, I wanted them to feel welcomed and honored; I wanted them to feel valued and cared for. Even if just for a moment, I wanted them to feel the oppression cease in the name of Christ and Christmas.

I’m not sure if that’s possible in one loud and chaotic Christmas party. I’m not sure that’s possible with one meal of rice and curry. I’m not even sure that’s truly possible through a million bandaids,countless trips to the hospital, and hours of play. How can any of us grasp the glory of the day when all oppression shall cease?

We can hope for it.

And we can surely serve chicken, host raffles and pass out presents in the dark of night to the truly beautiful community that surrounds us.