The House Collective

losing & winning.

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We’ve been watching through Seinfeld in our spare evenings and have just finished the episodes where Jerry brags about his 13-year no-vomit streak. Meanwhile, we’re aiming for six months over here and just can’t seem to make it.

After treating some fifteen people in the community with the same virus, I suppose it was inevitable. I was officially down for the count last night, in the midst of the coldest front to hit northern Thailand in over a decade. It stayed between 50 and 60 degrees Fahrenheit all day yesterday, which is just unheard of. We were then met with a huge rain storm, including thunder, which we just don’t get here. I’m torn: it’s much better than sweating, and this has been the longest cool season since we arrived. And yet, I dread the ice cold shower each day, and fear for the kiddos & families trying to live in these temps they just aren’t used to.

This morning, after I tossed and turned all night, Stephen woke up and said he was going to open the gate and door for the kids and community. It was just too cold and rainy for the kids to wait outside for the bus. So while I kept my distance on the couch, he sat among kids and blankets playing Memory before the school car came.

IMG_2116Today finds me curled up on the couch in layers of clothes and blankets as every breeze of the 50-degree weather oozes into our unprotected, unheated home. This is the first time I can ever remember closing up all our windows to keep out the cold.

The girls that are often at our house for a few school lessons are bundled up in the community space, hard at work while The Verses Project and rain fill the background. Chicken noodle soup is cooking on the stove, and a friend is helping us purchase and deliver blankets to the families in bamboo homes later today.

So we’re losing on the no-vomit streak, but winning in many ways.

a second gift.

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So we have this little business we affectionately call Flour & Flowers, delivering fresh homemade bread and local flower bouquets door to door once a week. We’re small and we are making it up as we go.

We are definitely more about relationship than business, and we know that might get us into trouble someday, if it has’t already.

And there are many days I wonder why we thought this is something we could do.

Then there are other days, when I receive a text from a friend telling us that she’s giving us her oven as she leaves town. Her oven, a prized and coveted item in this little town: for free. She said she loves what we are doing with the ladies and feels like its an opportunity to support it as she goes.

That would be the second oven we’ve been gifted since starting this little business last July.

I have no words.

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Both of these ovens were also gifted from Partners’ staff members long after we had resigned from the organization. What a testimony to the generous, gracious people we were able to work alongside!

The oven needs a little loving and minor repairs, which we’ll be working on as we dream about what this means: do we expand our options? Do we speed up our process? How do we best utilize the tools we’ve been given to bless this community?

We start by giving thanks–to the generous people who give and to God who orchestrates the giving and receiving in the ways I least expect.

Then we rearrange our kitchen a few times to decide how to arrange two ovens, bulk ingredients, and three people that our little business requires into our closet-sized kitchen!

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a small thing.

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 “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.”
Mother Teresa

The 1,740 math problems I just checked over didn’t feel like a small thing, but I know it is. It is a small thing, but we are seeking to do it with great love.

Since our neighbors were removed from their land in mid-2014, our definition of the word “neighbor” continues to grow. Each day we find more and more new friends coming to the door, kids who have heard about Bingo or the puzzles; adults who heard we would give them a bandage or a ride to the clinic when they are in labor.

Sometime in the last year, our community grew to include two young girls and their brothers. The whole families would come play in the evenings and community events, but the two girls, about 12 or 13, and the youngest little brothers, about 2 & 3, started spending nearly every day here.

We learned that the boys went to school, but the girls had to stop attending to watch their little siblings and help around the house. When there wasn’t laundry to be done or meals to be cooked, they meandered here, where there was at least a yard to explore, a playground to climb on, and even some games. Knowing they weren’t able to go to school, we tried to make it fun for them. I’d leave them matching games or toy cars to play with outside while we went to and fro.

It felt like something you read about in a book, as we watched these young girls unable to learn or go to school just because they were girls. So toward the end of last year, I had an idea.

We went into town and bought them a collection of books: a very basic English alphabet workbook, a basic English sentence workbook, an addition practice book, a subtraction practice book, a connect-the-dots coloring book. We bought them each a zipper pouch to put their workbooks in, as well as a couple pencils and pens and colored pencils. And then we bought a few cars and dinosaurs for the little boys.

We put it all together in a bag and hung it by the door. Just as all the kids trickled back into school last week after the Christmas holiday, I sat down one morning to explain it to them. I explained that it was theirs, and they could each choose the pouch they wanted, but they had to keep it at our house. Each day, when the kids are off to school, they can come to get it and play, do the worksheets, and have “school.” And before the kids come home from school, they have to pack it all up and put it back on the hook. I explained that we would have to come and go for work, but if they had any questions, they could ask for help.

I wasn’t really sure what they’d think.

We started with the easiest books, and it actually worked out just perfectly. It’s just simple enough for them to be confident, and then as it progresses they can ask for more help. For now, they are loving the math, but a little less excited about the alphabet practice. When I told them I had more workbooks, a little harder, for when they finished these, their eyes lit up and they gave a shy thank you.

For us, it’s a small thing. In many ways I wish I spent hours a day sitting down with them and teaching them new skills. Instead, we buy workbooks and I answer a few questions here and there and explain a new technique. I spend a few evenings each week going over their work and ensuring they still have pages left.

And of course I place a red smiley face at the top of each page, to both acknowledge their work and to send them all the “Attagirl”s I can muster into that little squiggle.

It’s a small thing, but we hope it shows them great love.

This year, my single goal was to maintain status quo: to not add more to my plate, to not say yes to more and more.

Instead, I’ve got two little students waiting in the mornings, and I just finished grading their work at 10pm. Instead, we were up into the wee hours of this morning creating a logo & Facebook page for our Flour & Flower deliveries. Instead, we’ve got a full day tomorrow as we add flour tortillas to our weekly deliveries, in an attempt to increase profits enough to hire & share the love with one more neighbor.

Because instead of just stopping where we are, we see more and more little cracks–cracks than can be filled! Crevices of opportunity. Fractures of individuals that have been overlooked. But God has put us here, for such a time as this, to see them and to love them in the very small things.

on being stalked.

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While a friend is in the States for an extended stay, we are driving her car once a week or so to keep it up to par. Today, we took it in for a new fuel filter and oil change.  We’ve only been to the Toyota dealer one time previously for a small repair on the car, maybe four months ago.

Today, the man asked, “Are you still looking after this car for your friend?”

He remembered us from months ago, and remembered enough to know why we had the car.

Things like this suddenly cause Mae Sot to feel very small. Or perhaps that it is small for us–memorable foreigners. And small in the sense that sometimes, I feel stalked.

Stalked by the ladies in the market stall, who ask why I haven’t been by if I miss a week or two.
Stalked by the owners of the tea shop, who ask where our neighbors are when we show up just the two of us.
Stalked by our Burmese teacher, who asks where we went last night on bicycles.
Stalked by the doctor at the clinic who said, “Didn’t you used to speak Karen? Now your Karen is not so good and you are using Burmese.”
Stalked by the random mechanic, who asked Kelvin why we have flowers in our car every Friday.
Stalked by our neighbors, who ask why I threw such-and-such away; or when I pick up the red bag, all the kids say, “Oh, you’re going swimming?”
Stalked by anyone in a mile radius, who shouts “Hello, Kelli! Hello, Stephen!” when we drive by, whether we know them or not.
Stalked by the pharmacist, who asks months later if that medicine helped your stomachache and reminds me, without a computer or written record, it’s about time for me to purchase more of my regular prescriptions.

I’m feeling very memorable these days, and a little bit like I’m being watched. All the time.

Or maybe I’m just part of a little community in the middle of nowhere, where everybody knows your name.

only two people.

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I read a book last week about a Vietnamese refugee who came over in the 1970s. It was a great story and one I oddly connected with–partially in our work with refugees stateside & partially in our own life straddling Asian and American culture.

One passage in particular stuck out to me, and it has haunted me this week. I can’t find it again, but only recall him discussing poverty and remembering being grateful for a small meal as he sat next to children who didn’t have lunches to eat.

Something about it made me wonder if all the kids in our neighborhood have lunch at school each day. Do they have breakfast?

In short: are they sitting outside my door and playing in my home hungry?

I remember one morning as the kids gathered at “the bus stop”–our porch–I watched one of the little girls open her lunch pail. There were two little layers in the container, each with rice and one sausage; which would serve as lunch for her and her brother.

That is a small lunch, yes.

But it bothered me more to watch her tear each sausage in two so they could eat part of it now, at eight in the morning. They each had a few bites of rice, and then she packed it all back up to take with her.

I asked her if that was for lunch or for breakfast? Was she hungry? She said it was fine; it was for lunch. I couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed that I had perhaps “caught” her eating lunch early? Or perhaps it really was nothing? I couldn’t really tell.

I haven’t seen it much since; they mostly bring their lunch pails and set them on the porch until the school car comes and everything is gathered in a flurry.

But when I read this in that book, it worried me.

You see, sometimes living in poverty becomes, well, a part of our every day. I see what the kids eat for dinner, since again, they often eat it on our porch. I see the insides of their homes and I see the tears in their clothes.

I might make little mends to their clothes or offer them snacks and food here and there; we might help a family with food or support a neighbors local business to help their families out. But poverty becomes a part of our every day.

Yes, everyone is poor. Yes, the meals are unbalanced and minimal. Yes, the homes are small. Yes, the clothes are worn through. Yes, the littles kids are crying and want to be held.

Yes, this is life. So we learn the names and love the families. And it becomes, in many ways, normal.

I am ashamed to admit that in many ways it becomes acceptable.

But what if they are hungry? I tell myself they will tell me; I tell myself they know we’ll give them something as we have every time before.

And yet, I find myself dreaming of a breakfast plan: how could we serve breakfast every morning before school and work? How could we find something small to send them on their way with protein and vitamins? How do we give these children a chance? How can fit that into our lives that are already so far over capacity?

But what about capacity and boundaries; what about sustainability? These are big words we use in our education and our studies, but how do they rival words like hunger? Or starvation? What do these words mean when we lift our eyes from a book and rest them on a face with a future?

We are only two people. We are just two people with hearts broken, asking God to show us how to love well.

solar plexus.

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For daily language practice, I write three or four sentences in English and then translate them into Burmese and Karen, in hopes of practicing & improving my Burmese whilst not losing my Karen. I then take it in to my Burmese teacher to go over the Burmese, and a Karen friend to go over the Karen.  Whilst reviewing it yesterday, my teacher noted that I made a mistake in my English sentence, so that’s awesome.

Perhaps it is good practice for me not to lose my English ability, either.

This week, we are also learning body parts. Not head and arm and such, which I already knew, but collarbone and nostril and throat. This is a precursor to studying some medical terms, diseases, and things that might help me at the clinic or translating in medical situations.

I was a little nervous to have my sixty-year-old conservative male teacher teaching me body parts, but it was his idea. He is getting more and more familiar with our “business” as he called it–and he knows I can often use words for the kids, cooking terms, and medical. Anyway, we made it through breast yesterday so maybe we can survive the rest?

After we went over stomach, he gave me the next term and translated it as “solar plexus.” I gave him a blank stare and said I didn’t know that word in English, while I’m racking my brain questioning if he’s heard of Plexus?

“Solar plexus? Yes, you know. Right here. On your stomach.” (He motions vaguely, because, again, it’s a pretty conservative culture.)

I wondered if Plexus got it’s name from a formal name for intestines, so I ask if he means intestines? This was an absurd suggestion, clearly. He seems a bit embarrassed to give too much detail, so I’m wondering if we suddenly dropped down lower than the stomach?

I reply, “I’m sorry. I don’t know ‘solar plexus.'”
“Yes! S-O-L-A-R-P-L-E-X-U-S.”
“Yes, that is what I am hearing. I understand what you are saying but I don’t know it.”
He pulls out his dictionary and begins thumbing through. “Navel! Navel, do you know this?”
“Oh! Yes, I know. We call it ‘belly button.'”
“I think most call solar plexus.”
“I really don’t think so. I know navel, but I think most people use belly button. Even with a  doctor I would say belly button.”
“Bel-ly butt-ton?”

So now, my Burmese teacher has moved onto teaching me both Burmese & English! And I’ve learned I do in fact have a solar plexus, which–as a bonus–doesn’t make me feel as nauseous as the word “belly button.” Win.

people always say change is a good thing…

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Mae Sot is changing. In many ways it has been since we moved, as we are in the more “developing” part of the world. But the past year in particular has held some giant leaps.

They are paving paradise and putting up parking lots all over the place.

There is a part of me that believes development is good. Don’t we call this place “undeveloped” in a negative sense? Isn’t that so much of what I studied in school–how to bring development to the world? How to help people and communities discover the advantages of development?

Paved paradiseAnd let me tell you, these new items are extra shiny to the eye. Not only do we now have chocolate chips and peanut butter available to us, but our newest concrete masterpiece offers Pepperidge Farm Goldfish! And a selection of cheese! (And they only ask for one retirement fund as payment…)

Really, it’s fun to suddenly have these things available. It was so fun to see Stephen so excited for a real ice cream shop, and this was only trumped by the joy of this shop putting mint chocolate chip on the menu! And now we have two movie theaters playing English movies on occasion, and he’s just on top of the world (and really, this saves us from a trip to the city to watch his favorites!).  I was giddy for my stocking holding the aforementioned Goldfish and canned olives.

We also just got a Boots, which I’m just over the moon for. For the Americans among us, this is the world’s best version of a Walgreens, coming from England. It’s spectacular. They have all the great hair products and Qtips, makeup in shades that just might work for me, even tampons. And to top it all off, they have sales constantly to make these Western items affordable if you are patient. I’m absolutely thrilled about our latest Boots addition, and I won’t even hide it.

So it’s good, right?

But when you see it happening, it’s heartbreaking. The percentage of concrete increases daily and reaches toward the sky. The number of cars multiplies. And beyond that, an entire town becomes more “official” and pushes out those dearest to me, who are bit more “unofficial,” if you will.

How do we support the little guy, many of whom we love?

We don’t always go to the big shops. It’s tempting, I’ll tell you. It’s pretty easy to buy everything in fell swoop, right?

But I can’t. I can’t give up on the little market ladies that know us. I can’t pass on the little snippets of conversation in Burmese and they joy they get when I spend $6. I can’t give up on the ladies that ask if we are buying this for our blind friend. I can’t give up on the amazing pharmacist that has diagnosed me and helped me find the right medicine time and time again.

I can’t see their doors close.

So we go to the market each week. We struggle to park the car, we get our feet muddled in who-knows-what, and we buy from vendor after vendor. We go to the little shop to buy all of our bread ingredients from the man that is holding his little girl at the cash register. We buy our bread from our neighbors even after it was baked in our oven.

Sometimes we do go to enjoy delicious mint chocolate ice cream and find ourselves some cheese. Sometimes we watch Star Wars twice because its a $3 air-conditioned date. And let me tell you, I’ll be visiting Boots enough to know the sales. So change is a good thing, in some ways.

In other ways, I will pray more for our neighbors as they are pushed to the margins. I will knead bread alongside them as we try to hold onto the beauty of homemade! I will get outside of the concrete and soak up the mountains and sunsets over rice paddies.

snippets.

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A few additional snippets inspired by discovered photos.

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The week after Christmas, we went camping in the mountains about an hour outside of Mae Sot. It was a lovely four days of rest and–something we get so rarely–silence. I read three books.

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We hiked, we took freezing cold showers, and we climbed waterfalls.

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December is the month-o-babes in this community. Every single year we make more trips to the clinic with women in labor and have more birthday parties to celebrate than any other month.

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This was at Na Le Ton’s birthday, who I believe is the most like a little Stephen in the community. Because of this, he might hold an extra special place in my heart!

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And this little babe–also born in December–just keeps gracing our presence.

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a surprise visitor.

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At 7am this morning, my cell phone rang. It was Si Hai, a Karen friend who lives in Tennessee. I had tutored her two oldest boys the summer of 2008, when Stephen & I lived in Smyrna, Tennessee, and worked with the Karen community there.

She asked if I was still in Mae Sot, because she was coming for a visit. I said, yes. And she said she’d be visiting on 11.

“The 11th of January?” I asked.
“No, 11 o’clock. I am inBangkok now.”
“Oh! Are you flying or taking the bus?”
“Flying. My flight arrives at 10:50.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll be there!”

And thus, our Sunday didn’t play out as we originally thought. Instead, we were able to pick Si Hai up at the airpot and enjoy a couple hours chatting with her, take her to the market, and then see her off to visit her family outside of Mae Sot.

IMG_0324As we talked, it was so interesting to see the pieces of America she has absorbed in the last eight years. She talked about her job in the county school system, medical insurance and how she drove her boys all around for sports and school activities. She mentioned how they were trying to find ways to make sure family came first, cutting back at work or different activities, so she could be with her boys, who needed her.

It just sounded so American. Even the very concept of family coming first–that’s an American idea. Perhaps for language barriers, but the Karen & Burmese families we know don’t talk about their family priorities–they talk about the community: what the community needs, what their people need. Family doesn’t really come first.

Just to state the obvious, neither is right or wrong–it’s just cultural differences; cultural differences that we’ve now swapped! I wondered as she looked around my house–what were the obvious ways we’ve kept our American culture? I think the Christmas tree might be the most obvious, but probably our matching set of plates and glasses would have made the list. Maybe our shelf of books? In what ways have we adapted, where she could pinpoint the Burmese culture seeping into our lives here?

As we swapped stories, I was struck by the similarity of our lives. In short, we do the same work–only I do it here, where she’s from; and she does it there, where I’m from. We both do our share of medical assistance–filling out forms and arranging appointments on her end; bandaging up wounds and rushing off to clinics that don’t offer appointments on my end. We both help with education–she works for the county school system to help with cross-cultural situations as the Karen students adjust to American life; I  am the local bus stop, English teacher, and after-school daycare system. We both have little businesses–she & her husband own an Asian grocery store, and my husband & I help sell Western-style bread all around town.

Our stories were shockingly similar. The cultural challenges we faced were so much the same: she was working to adjust these Karen & Burmese families into American ways, while I am trying to help these Karen & Burmese families despite my American ways! Both of us have gotten caught between the two cultures, with one leg in each, trying to help.

As I dropped her at the public transit station, I left with a smile. I had no idea she would come across my path this Sunday in January, and I had no reason to expect to see her any time soon. However, she was a gift to my day, which apparently God is willing to send from the furthest places.