Closing Thoughts

As I sit in the bustling lounge of the Singapore Airport, awareness of my surroundings of palm trees, faces and languages of many nationalities, and tantalizing food courts fade into the meanderings and musings of thoughts pulled in a hundred different directions. Hundreds of pictures, memories etched upon my mind and journal entries are all that I have left as tangible reminders of the past eight months. I know that with time, even the memories will become more blurred and distant, the pictures themselves will be archived on my laptop {hopefully} for a future photo book project, and my journal will be tucked away with all its predecessors.

So is that all? Is that what the experiences of the past eight months condense themselves into? Do I go home and return to life as I knew it before living in Asia for an extended period of time?

Or have I allowed God to perform irreversible change in my life? Instead of clinging to my expectations and ideals and resisting the work that He wanted to do in my life, have I truly experienced His Presence by offering myself in brokenness and surrender and being transformed in ways that I could take no credit for? 

I am still processing those questions. Honestly, I don't think I will arrive at any clear cut answers to those thoughts but instead trust that the work that God has begun He will bring to completion even in ways I do not see. 

In reflection of the past eight months, was it worth it? 

On our last day of volunteering at Mae Sot General Hospital, the head nurse in charge of the entire hospital asked through a translator, "why did you quit your nursing job, leave your family, and come all the way to Thailand to live and to study?" 

The pointedness of the question almost caught me off guard. When I really stop to think about it, what was at the core of why I left my family, quit a job I loved, endured sweltering heat living in a dorm with more than a dozen other girls, lost sleep over term assignments, ate unusual foods and spent several months interacting with communities of Burmese refugees? 

Fumbling for words, I was having a difficult time framing my thoughts into what I figured would be a logical response that would satisfy her curiosity. After all, this is a Buddhist lady, so "Bible schools" and "missionary training" are completely foreign concepts to her.  

Before I could even finish my reply, Pii Ophelia responded for me. Pii Ophelia is the nurse manager of the special care nursery where we had volunteered for the past two months, and she had taken Melanie & me under her wing and befriended us even outside of the hospital setting. A devoted Buddhist herself, Pii Ophelia had seemed accepting of our faith but not obviously interested beyond asking a few simple questions. 

Ophelia turned away from the hospital head nurse she had been translating for and looked straight into my eyes. In her heavily accented English, she matter-of-factly says, "It's all for God. Yes? All for God." 

Without missing a beat, she turns to the other nurse and rattles off a row in Thai, of which I could understand the word "Pra Jao" which translates into "God." 

I smiled and excitedly nodded my head in agreement. "Yes, Pii Ophelia, you are exactly right! It is all for God. That is why we are here. To learn more about Him and to show His love to everyone we meet."  

In one simple statement, my Buddhist friend had just put into words the real reason why I have spent the last eight months on the other side of the world. 

I couldn't have said it better. 

(L to R) Pii Ophelia, myself, the hospital head nurse, and Melanie

I want that to be a statement of life purpose, whether it applies to the war-torn refugees of Mae Sot, Thailand, the bar girls and familiar streets of Chiang Mai, or my hometown and neighbors amidst the fields of Mennonite farms and Amish horse and buggies. No matter where I am this coming year, "It's all for God."

So with bittersweet good-byes and a tugging at my heart, this chapter of my life draws to a close. A chapter that God has written with unexpected plots, pages smeared with my tears, lines of laughter, and paragraphs of blessing. His Goodness and His Faithfulness is written all over it, and He alone is worthy of receiving glory for what was and for holding the pen to author what is to come... 

 

 

 

Dear friends & my mentoring group for 2nd Semester. In 2010, we were students together at IGo, so it was such a gift to be able to all return two years later to do various internships in three different parts of Asia. Thank you, ladies, for showing me what it looks like to live a life that's "all for God"!

Cradling Eternity

His skin was wrinkled and dry, almost like a little old man's. But he possessed a pair of lungs and a healthy cry that could be heard even from within the warm, humidified isolette that enclosed him. That cry nearly belied the fact that he was still at the age where he should have been cocooned in the quiet safety of his mother's womb. 

I am just a volunteer in the special care nursery of Mae Sot General hospital. I don't pass medications, I don't start scalp IV's, and I don't do assessments on these preterm infants (as much as I'd like to).  I do what I can without overstepping legal boundaries of practice and comforting a crying baby is one thing that I can do.

I stepped over to the isolette where the little man was making his presence known. The pamper that was the size of the ones they make for little girls to put on their dollies was nice and dry. His blanket roll was smooth, his IV site looked fine, and he had just drank an ounce or two of milk. There was no obvious reason why this infant should be 

crying full throttle. 

I opened up the side chambers of the isolette, just big enough to slip your hands through. Gently, I lifted the baby boy and propped him up into a sitting position supported by my one hand with the other resting on his back. Instantly, the crying ceased and he relaxed completely within my hands. His eyes closed and he became 

the picture of perfect contentment. 

It was one of those sacred moments. When everything else around you fades into oblivion, and your practical sense of earthly reality is touched by the breath of Heaven. 

As I cradled this fragile, premature human being within my hands, skin to skin, I had this awed awareness:

"I am holding a bit of Eternity." 

This child is a life. He is a living soul breathed into a tiny frame of flesh and blood. His is a soul that will exist forever. Wrapped up within the miracle of humanity is the eternity of a soul created by the Giver of life. 

That soul was born to Burmese parents only a few days before in the small border town of Mae Sot, Thailand, and now was living and breathing in a small isolette in a corner of the nursery of a government hospital. I am an American nurse, living in the small border town of Mae Sot, Thailand, for only three months and now spending one day a week in the nursery of a government hospital. At this precise point of my lifetime spanning close to three decades and his little life in the big world barely begun, our paths intersected in the nursery of that government hospital. 

Divine Design. There was no coincidence that I was in that place at the same time as this premature child. As I held him, marveling at how God uses our human hands to touch hallowed reminders of Eternity here on earth, I prayed for that little one and his family. I have never met his parents. For all I know, they are refugees living in a camp, or displaced within their own country of Myanmar and seeking medical care across the border, Buddhist, or animistic, or Muslim. Was this child even wanted or was he abandoned by his mother after birth just like the baby boy found by police under a nearby bridge? I don't know the answer to those questions. But I didn't feel the need to know. 

What I do know is that this child has been given life and his life has a purpose. His purpose is to grow up to glorify the Giver of life, His Heavenly Father. What if he never hears of the One who created him and placed him here in this place, for this time in history? Whose fault is it if he does not have someone to teach him about Jesus? What is my role to play in this child's life? 

One day. A few mere moments. Short, heart-felt prayers breathed over him.

That's all. The curtain is closed and my role is finished. It was not a leading role. It wasn't even a supportive role. If anything at all, it was the part of a backstage hand, one of many nameless workers whom the audience never sees but who can either make or break the production depending on how seriously they take their role. 

Every life is beautiful. 

Every life is beautiful because every life has {Eternity} stamped upon it. 

Every day we constantly encounter opportunities that are so much more than the routine happenings that we think they are. It may be only for a few moments, but you smiled at the young woman behind you at the check out counter, and she sensed a genuinely caring spirit. Or it's the day you had a flat tire and while you were waiting for it to get fixed, God prompted you to pray for the mechanic. Maybe you offered a helping hand to the elderly lady approaching the door and she saw Jesus-in-you. Or you opened up your wallet and used your "coffee money" to buy a sandwich at Subway for the homeless man you pass on your way to work every morning. 

Someday, we will see the rest of the story. Someday, we will hear the Father say, "Well done, my child" as He introduces us to the the person who is in Heaven because of a prayer we said for them that we don't even remember...but the seed was sown. 

Like the precious, fragile infant resting in my hands, we may be cradling Eternity and never even realize it.

Don't Tell Me

I was introduced to this song today, and listening to it was like an arrow to my heart. So much of what this song speaks about I have witnessed first hand, especially since being here in Mae Sot among so many Burmese refugees.

How many times do I secretly wish that I could run from the pain I'm surrounded by; to close my ears to yet another story of suffering, of abuse, of unimaginable loss; to turn my head away from the scene of a child on the streets, digging through putrid garbage, looking for recyclables.

"Don't Tell Me..."

My human selfishness does not want to know, for with the knowing comes responsibility. Yet ignorance is not bliss, and I cannot go through life trying to protect myself from the realities of living in a fallen world.

Nothing is mine to hoard for it was never mine to start with. I have been blessed to bless others.

Listen to this song. Allow the words to penetrate your heart. Then with me, ask yourself the piercing question, "Now that I do know, how does God want me to respond?"

The Price of Purity?

Posting about controversial issues is not something that I intend to do. At least not on a regular basis. But ever since reading a news article last night, there is a question that keeps coursing wildly through my mind and compels me to write: 

"What is the price of purity?"

According to news forums around the world, on October 24th, a twenty year Brazilian student sold her virginity through an online auction. After a fierce competition, the winning bid went to a Japanese man for the sum of $780,000. 

The seller will be "delivered" to the buyer somewhere in flight between the U.S. and Australia to evade charges of prostitution. According to multiple sources, the young woman who has voluntarily chosen to auction off her virginity under claims to raise money for charity, also does not believe that what she is doing is prostitution. To quote: "For me, it's not prostitution. When someone does something once in his or her life, this is not considered a profession. If you take a picture and it comes out good, you are not a photographer because of it." 

With that logic, I suppose robbing a bank just once in your life does not make you a thief, nor does shooting just one person to death make you a murderer. After all, it's not a profession.

As disturbing as I find this young woman's outrageous choice, I also feel compassion for her. To think that she would take the most sacred gift God gave her as a woman and auction it off for the pleasure of a complete stranger. The irony of it all is the price tag that is attached. 

$780,000. Over three-quarters of a million dollars. That is quite a tidy sum. 

While we gasp at an astronomical bundle of cash like that, there are young girls in the karaoke bars of Cambodia being sold to customers to be used at their disposal, but with a small price. An hour with the girl and a couple of drinks? According to the receipt, the beer is the most expensive purchase of the night. 

$780,000 or $5. 

Which one is a truer indicator of the price of purity? Who or what decides 

what that price should be?

This Brazilian young lady chose to sell her virginity. What of the millions of young girls who have no choice? What of those who have had their innocence stolen from them by those whom they trusted most? What of those women suffering in silent shame because they thought he really loved them and believed that keeping his love required giving of the most precious, intimate part of themselves, only to be left broken and alone? What of those women, young and old alike, who are barraged with psychological and visual messages from our sex-crazed society that your only worth is your sexuality? 

$780,000.  $5. Or free for the taking. 

Who determines the price of purity, the price of sexuality, the price of intimacy? 

 I know that the subject of sexuality is one that we as conservative Christians tend to avoid. It feels awkward, so we become hush-hush about it. But in our chosen ignorance, we blind ourselves to the countless women who are silently screaming because someone placed a price tag on them. Probably none of them were priced at the sum of $780,000 like the Brazilian woman who headlined the news. Most of them had a price tag slapped on them that said "free for the taking." Yet whether by choice or by force, each one of these women have experienced a marring of a very holy part of who they were created to be. 

No man, no online bidder, no sensational news story, no customer in a red-light district, no boyfriend offering elusive promises of love, no predatory uncle, no media advertisement can ever come close to placing a 

price tag on virginity or sexuality.

That is because God is the Giver of purity. He is the Author of sexuality, the Designer of intimacy. What He creates, He calls good. He never intended for purity to have a price tag placed on it because He created it

 to be price-less. 

The treasure is too sacred to be purchased. It can only be given. 

The beauty in realizing that God is both the Creator as well as the Giver of purity and intimacy is that even when the Enemy steals what was never his to have, there is hope. God can restore that marred treasure. He can bind up what was broken, recover what was lost, and bring healing to what was wounded. There is no tainted beauty, no second-hand sacredness, and no cheapening of priceless worth in a purity that has been restored by the Creator Himself. This is the glory and grace of redemption.

Purity goes so much deeper than our physical virginity. It is purity of our heart, of our mind, of our spirit, of our actions, and of our lifestyle. Purity is an essence of God Himself, divinely imparted to each one of us as a holy gift. Purity is a pearl of great worth, not a commodity to be purchased by any earthly monetary sum. 

Dare to go against the onslaught of mockery and lies that our society bombards us with on every hand ~ 

Cherish Purity for the Priceless Gift that it is. 

Longing for Home ...

In the past nine months, I have moved four times. And before coming back to America in December, I will be moving at least once more. You would think by now that packing, unpacking, and settling into a new place would as routine for me as changing my contacts every 6 weeks. To be honest, I detest packing. Unpacking is even worse.

Of late, my thoughts have been wandering towards home more than usual. Home. Even the word itself stirs up feelings of longing. But longing for what? Longing for where?

Longing for what is most familiar to me; where I can understand everything that anyone says; where I don't have to always unlock a padlocked gate and a front door to get inside; where the flavor of the green bag of Lays chips is always sour cream and onion instead of seaweed; where multitudes of dogs are not allowed to roam the neighborhood freely, howling at the top of their lungs; where winding roads though blazing autumn woods are reality instead of pictures on facebook; where the air is turning crisp and the comforting aromas of pumpkin pies, pumpkin granola, and pumpkin lattes fill the kitchens; and that place where this handsome little man is learning new words every day and points to my picture when asked "where is Aunt K-K?"

Caleb William

But missionaries-in-training aren't supposed to have feelings like this though, right? I mean, confessing that I might be missing the comforts of home and family is bordering on breaking one of the "10 Commandments of Foreign Missionaries" that we tend to impose upon ourselves. That sounds so un-spiritual. Not the kind of stuff that you want to send back to everyone on your email update list.

Yet the fact still remained that the past week or so, I was wrestling with these feelings of just wanting to go back home, even as I sometimes wonder where home really is. It was only when I remembered the stages of culture shock that we had learned about it our Cultural Anthropology class, the light clicked on. I realized that what I was feeling was very typical for those who have been in a different country for an extended period of time. After the novelty and the new experiences of the first six months, you typically come out of the "honeymoon stage" and it's "Hello, Reality."

Instead of feeling guilty for feeling this way, it was reassuring to know that this is actually pretty normal. While it is okay to acknowledge and accept these feelings, I cannot stay there forever. And as only God can do, He has been using that aching for home to teach me more life lessons...

Even the very inner ache of the soul that we call longing is from Him. He created me with that longing for perfection, for reunion with my loved ones, for a place of total security and acceptance, for no pain and suffering and confusion -- that longing which will never be fully satisfied until I am truly Home. If I allow it to, this aching for home can loosen my clinging ties to this earth and turn my eyes toward Him. At this moment, He is preparing a place in Heaven for me, because His longing is to have me with Himself for eternity. In the meantime, He promises to be the fulfillment of all my longings.

On this side of heaven, I miss my home in America, but knowing full well that I already have a flight bound for the U.S.A. booked and prepared for my departure in two months. When I look at the people living in the garbage dump community or walk past the slum homes of the Muslim quarters of the city, I realize that these individuals do not have that privilege.

They are also in a foreign land, having fled from their own country of Myanmar to escape the vicious cycle of running from their homes or face the threat of death. They are strangers here, displaced and unwanted except for cheap labor in garment factories. Families have been torn apart, not seeing each other for years, sometimes not even knowing if family members are still alive. Then I remember, they have no ticket to go home. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Speaking of home... I have to introduce to you Bob & Charmaine, the lovely couple who opened up their house to Melanie & I for the first two weeks of our time in Mae Sot. Their British accent is simply delightful and their hospitality was as warm and comforting as the "cuppa tea" that they served us. 

For the first time in five months, I had my own room. Ah... the bliss of four walls, a double bed all to myself, and a door that closed. :)

Last Monday, Melanie and I moved into a guesthouse. We had been hoping to rent a small, furnished house during our time in Mae Sot, but after all the house hunting the past two weeks with no success in finding one within our budget or time limits, we are happy God provided us this room. We have a spacious bedroom with a small bath and kitchenette area that has a refrigerator. 

Unpacking in our new room

We even have a hot water shower!

To celebrate our move, we shared a bag of Combos from a package I had gotten from friends back home. I had been saving them for such a time as this. :) 

This final picture is of me with some of the street kids we met and fed during my "coffee fast" week. Their home is in a slum community of dilapidated shacks. 

Home. Someday, I will be Home for good. And that is something worth longing for... 

"Created for a place I've never known... 

This is home. Now I'm finally where I belong, where I belong. 

yeah, this is home. 

I've been searching for a place of my own

Now I've found it...

And I won't go back, back to how it was. 

This is home. " 

Compassion and a Cup of Iced Coffee

I stood there, clutching my bag of sticky rice and steaming hot chicken-on-a-stick. Sipping my iced coffee, I debated whether or not to pretend I did not see the half dozen street kids that had come running at the sight of a "farang" (foreigner). 

To these kids, White Skin = Money/Handouts. Tonight at the local festival was no exception. 

I turned around and faced the kids clamoring for our attention. Dressed in tattered, faded, ill-fitting clothes. Faces smeared and dirty, grimy little hands reaching out towards me, motioning to their mouths. Noting their filled out cheeks, I reasoned to myself, "Well, they certainly don't look like they are starving." 

Street Kids (photo compliments of Flickr) 

They implored me with their dark brown eyes. My conscience pricked me. "Look, I've already given money tonight towards food for another street kid. If I try to buy food for them all, I'll go broke before this internship is over!" 

But my conscience would not be silent. Almost begrudgingly, I wandered over to another stand to find pork-on-a-stick for them (It's cheaper, you know, than chicken). By the time I was ready to make my selection, one of my friends  had beat me to it with her never-ending generosity, and those kids were running off, shoving chicken into their mouths. 

I was half-relieved. Yet I felt like such a miser. In a further attempt to recompense for my selfishness, when I passed those same kids later on, I handed them my two leftover pieces of chicken and the ice from my now-empty cup to use for the soda they had begged off another passerby. 

The whole way home and later in my room that night, I kept replaying that scene in my mind...

For the most part, I would have considered myself a compassionate person. I mean, showing mercy even rated high on my spiritual gifts test, so that counts for something doesn't it?? But shame and remorse washed over me as I realized how far short I had fallen of true compassion. The kind of compassion that was modeled by my Savior to a world of people destitute in body and soul. 

What was at the core of my lack of compassion? What made me hesitate for those moments to go and buy these beggar kids something to fill their bellies? Nothing else but my own selfishness. I cared more about myself and making sure I was first fed and cared for than I did for these little ones. 

Iced coffee -- Case in point. I felt justified buying myself that iced coffee. After all, I had volunteered all day- for free!- at the local hospital, and at just 20 Baht a cup, that coffee cost me about 66 cents.

66 cents that if I was more concerned about others, I could have used to buy two bags of sticky rice for a gang of street kids.

Smitten, I asked God to forgive this selfish heart of mine. To mold my heart more into His image. To teach me to see individuals as He sees them. To break my heart with what breaks His. To put another's needs before my own wants. What do I really know of sacrifice, of giving until it hurts? I confess, only very, very little. 

In response, I felt like God was asking me to give up those little extras (like iced coffee and fruit smoothies) no matter how cheap they might be, and to be intentional about using that money instead towards feeding the hungry. Lest you think I am making some saintly sacrifice, I am starting out on this "coffee fast" for one week. After that, we'll see what God asks. :)

Genuine, Christ-like, agape-rooted Compassion is what I long for. Poured out as wine, broken as bread to feed the hungry: Those hungry for something more, something greater than sticky rice and chicken, something to fill the insatiable void of their soul. 

"Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the broken places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish... Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human." - Henri Nouwen

Perhaps it starts with walking by the street vendor selling Thai iced coffee. 

{The Exchange of Grace}

You are the one that we praise
You are the one we adore
You give the healing and grace
Our hearts always hunger for

This past week, Melanie, Yvonne, and I have been taking a basic counselor training course with the Compasio western staff. It has been an enlightening week as we have probed deeper into how to be a reflective listener, how to offer warmth, empathy, and respect to those who are hurting, and how to better relate to children from backgrounds of neglect & abuse. 

But it was yesterday, the very last session of the training, that had the greatest impact on me personally. Our teacher spoke on God's love and grace and those "boulders" in our lives that prevent us from fully embracing and openly accepting that unconditional love and grace. I don't believe it was any coincidence that my devotional reading that morning was also on accepting by faith the reality that Christ loves me without reserve and without limits. 

Oh, I know intellectually that He loves me. But so often, my behavior of performance, of running from Him when I feel guilt, of trying to deserve this love betrays what my heart truly believes. For the first time, I saw my shame that I have been acting out for years. This shame is so subtle that it disguises itself in people-pleasing actions and perfectionist attitudes. Fear of failure? Uh, yeah, that would be me. Trying to achieve love and acceptance from others?  Exhausting. 

This morning God gave me these verses from Isaiah 53 & 54: "He is despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief... He was despised and we esteemed Him not... Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows... The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes, we are healed..."

"Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed; neither be disgraced, for you will not be put to shame; for you will forget the shame of your youth..." 

My shame comes face-to-face with His Grace. That grace that compelled Him to carry to the cross not only my sin but also my shame. That cross, an instrument of death, also becomes a symbol of freedom and release. He is big enough, tender enough, strong enough, and good enough to carry my burden of shame. Not only can He take those burdens, but He longs to deliver me from that shame and to release me from those demands of perfection that I have placed upon myself. 

Trembling, I slowly open my hands to Him. Then He shows me His. Those Hands that are nail-scarred because of the price He has paid to set me free. 

I feel like my eyes have been opened to a new dimension of what Jesus has done for me. Yet I know that re-learning to live out of His grace rather than shame will be a long process. I long to learn to freely receive that I might freely give... His healing and His grace is not meant for me to keep to myself ~  but He calls me to live a life of grace that can be poured out on the world around me.