tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50670014768015137042024-03-13T20:51:21.197+07:00My Alabaster Jar... {Living a poured out life}Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-56613784662740311352015-09-25T23:56:00.002+07:002015-09-25T23:56:25.912+07:00{Un}golden Silence <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The saying goes that "silence is golden."<br />
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Sometimes, that is true. At other times, perhaps the silence clamors that the hectic schedules and busyness and cares of life have overwhelmed the quieter moments of reflection and solitude. And I don't think that is necessarily a good thing...<br />
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Perhaps that's what has happened to my attempts to blog over this past year. I mentally "wrote" blog posts, but somehow never found the time to translate those scattered thoughts into writing. I miss it. The putting of my thoughts into coherent sentences that helped me process and perhaps created a bit of inspiration or humor for those who kindly took the time to read my ramblings.<br />
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So, maybe I'm back. For how long or how often, I cannot say. It's strange, but when I was overseas two years ago, I felt like I actually had something worth writing about. My daily experiences were not exotic, but just different from life as I know it now, living in rural Amish Country of Pennsylvania.<br />
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Life today seems ordinary, even hum-drum perhaps. Who wants to read about that? I've asked myself that question, and maybe in the waiting for noteworthy, life-changing milestones to happen, events that seem exciting or unique enough to share on a blog, I've overlooked the good and significant in the mundane.<br />
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Like today. I walked through the quaint small town I've called home since this past spring. I had an appointment up the road from my house, and normally would have driven there to make sure I got home in time to start tackling my day-off 'To Do' list. But the balmy September sunshine beckoned me to walk, to slow down enough to enjoy the autumn scenery around me, to take time to wave to the neighbor man pushing his child in a stroller down our street. That walk was soul-refreshing. I need to be more intentional about taking moments like that. To practice living in the moment rather than waiting for life to '"happen."<br />
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-25772169254548549512014-04-29T11:48:00.000+07:002014-04-29T11:55:46.252+07:00What If... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been three years since I was here long enough to experience the full glory of Springtime. It is splendid indeed, from every blade of greening grass to the quickening sense of aliveness carried in the morning air, to my favorite sign of spring -- the delicate lacy blooms of the weeping cherry trees.<br />
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It's been a long winter. In a sense that goes beyond just the season of record snowfalls and blustery winds and frigid temperatures. </div>
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It's felt like a long winter of the soul, too. </div>
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... of dryness, of questions, of silence, of frustration, of loneliness. </div>
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... a winter of why's with not many answers. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">But Spring is here. </span></b></div>
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There are still vestiges of The Winter remaining, like the final traces of snow melting on the north side of the house. But the ground is soft and warming and the crocuses and the hyacinths push bravely through the snow that once drifted high and heavy over the space that they now claim as their own.</div>
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<i>And I sense a re-birth of Hope within that Spring has come at last... </i></div>
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This past week was one year. One year since I embarked on what I would call some of the more challenging yet also some the most rewarding months of my life. At least that's what I wrote in my journal. But then I started thinking about Reward... and I asked myself if perhaps, one year from now, I could look back on this year, this moment, and pen the same line: "it was one of the most rewarding seasons of my life." </div>
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{Journal Entry} </div>
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April 22, 2014<br />
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"Right now, that feels impossible...</div>
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Yet how do I measure 'reward' compared to how Christ does? Reward, to me, tends to feel like some sort of personal satisfaction or spiritual fulfillment. </div>
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What if, from the Perspective of Eternity, Reward is unseen and unfelt here on earth? Not that we never have glimpses of it, but what if the greatest harvest of Reward in Eternity will be those seasons of dryness here on earth, when I felt like the seeds I was planting were pitifully small and scarce and the soil dry and wasted?</div>
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What if someday, when I stand before the King, He welcomes me with delight and in the retelling of my earthly story, He reveals to me a greater glory to Himself through my weakness, my struggle, and my tears?</div>
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What if these days that feel like blinded trust and blighted vision are in reality, an investment in the Kingdom of Heaven that someday will be understood? </div>
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What if the Father hears my fragmented prayers, some whispered, some wept, and some silently coursing through my unspoken thoughts, and His Spirit acts on behalf of each one, moving in my heart and the hearts of men and women behind the scenes?</div>
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What if, Reward has nothing to do with my measure of success, but is the Eternal Revelation of the impact of a life who was faithful in the least and endured to the end?"</div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-60188016891943218662014-02-21T11:18:00.001+07:002014-02-21T11:18:38.505+07:00The Lament & The Laughter of being Single ~ On Valentine's Day <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I have never blogged about being single. Perhaps that has
something to do with the fact that I think that the cyber world is already
inundated with enough articles on the subject, ranging anywhere from “<a href="http://tea2.wordpress.com/2007/02/19/top-10-cheesy-christian-pickup-lines/">Top 10 Cheesy Christian Pick- Up Lines</a>” to “How to Find the Man of Your Dreams.” </div>
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Or maybe I’m slow to catch on. It’s only recently that I’ve
looked around and have been jolted to the realization that several of my
friends are expecting their third or even fourth child, and the girl who
was in first grade when I joined the youth group is now dating the guy I
babysat back when he was in diapers. Somewhere along the way between then and now,
at the age of 28 and unattached, I have unquestionably qualified for society’s
label and definition of “Single.” </div>
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Since several people have nudged me to write about this very
topic, I thought now might be the time to add my sliver of perspective on
“being single.” Especially since many of you may already be tired of scrolling
through dozens of Valentine’s Day posts, this one might escape your attention
or else it might add to your mounting frustration about the aforementioned
overabundance of articles that already exist. </div>
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Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. </div>
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And before I proceed, no offense whatsoever is intended
toward the dating, engaged, or married people of our world. But that is one day
of the year when I do allow myself to privately laugh and roll my eyes at the
mushy-gushy displays of affection that are posted on not-so-private news feeds, when
I scroll past the seventh picture of the “gorgeous roses from my boyfriend—he
is so amazing!!”(seriously, how many angles can you possibly take of one
bouquet?), or when I see the man in line at the drug store, clutching one of
those stuffed teddy bears that holds a cardboard heart of chocolates and has a
cellophane “I Love You!” balloon tucked into its other paw (funny how those
things have survived several generations of lovers without going out of
fashion.) </div>
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Or the couples at the restaurant, like the one I saw last
night. They were maybe early 20’s, artsy, hipster glasses, and obviously in
love. I guess that’s what one calls the emotion that propels a young bearded
man to doodle hearts all over his girlfriend’s hand and write little notes on
it too, while his eyes are glazed over with that same emotion which makes one
do funny things like this in the midst of a very bustling, crowded dining area.
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By now, some of you may be labeling me as a cynical old maid
or a jealous hater on those who have “someone” while I do not. Before I get you
too riled up by my commentary on ways lovers choose to observe Valentine’s Day,
may I explain myself? </div>
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<img src="http://media1.break.com/breakstudios/2012/2/13/single%20candy%20heart.jpg" /></div>
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I may be single, but I am not at all against love or dating
or marriage or even Valentine’s Day. In fact, I still get excited when people
tell me their love story, I still [sometimes] shriek and envelop my friend in a
ginormous hug when she whispers to me that “he asked me out!”, and I am one of
the weepy women at weddings, trying to discreetly wipe away tears when I watch
the radiant bride walk down the aisle towards her beaming groom. (It’s so
beautiful, how can you not get teary-eyed?)</div>
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I’m all for chocolate and save Dove wrappers that have
sappy-sounding quotes on them. I still find roses to be a beautiful expression
of affection even if one young man was known to say, “How
can roses be a symbol of undying affection? I mean, do you say, ‘I will love you
forever. Now watch these die!’?” Romantic walks in the moonlight after a fresh
snowfall? Yeah, I’d be there, even if I do dislike the cold. Don’t even get me
started on wedding boards on Pinterest. I have purposely NOT begun one because
I fear that I shall become addicted and waste too much time dreaming over
styles of wedding gowns or comparing bouquet palettes. </div>
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Ah, the lament and the laughter of being single… </div>
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There is a delicate balance between embracing singlehood
with contentment and yet still keeping your heart soft and hopeful for the fulfillment
of desires for love and marriage. I do
believe that is the crux where I find myself trying to live these days… </div>
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If you had told me when I celebrated my Sweet Sixteenth that
in a dozen years I would be “single”, I would have probably retreated to my
room, horrified, and cried for a week. At that season of life, the thought of
not being married by the time I was 22 would have felt like a sentence of
lifelong doom and utter rejection. </div>
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Today, I look back over the past dozen years of my life -
still single - and I can honestly say that I would not trade them for all the
starry-eyed ambitions of love and romance that I had as a young girl of
sixteen. Am I in denial, trying to erase
all the desires that I did have, even then, for marriage to a man who with his
whole heart loved the Lord and loved me? I think I did go through that stage
for a time. Back when it seemed like everyone, including my younger sister, had
their love story play out perfectly except for me, and when wedding invitations,
one after the next, came addressed to “<u>Miss</u> Katelyn Dye.” It was easier
for me to cope by throwing myself into college, work, and any other activity
that gave me a sense of identity and meaning, rather than acknowledging that
nagging fear that it “might never be me” alongside the longing to love and be
loved. </div>
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Around that time in my life, I remember two women who
unknowingly impacted my life in this area. They were both in their 30’s, unmarried,
and yet <i>thriving </i>in life. These two ladies did not at all fit the
negative spinster stereotype we tend to cloak around the word “single”. They
had engaging personalities, were actively involved in ministry, enjoyed travel,
connected with friends all over the world, dressed in an attractive yet modest
manner, pursued education and home businesses, were brave enough to try new
things, and most of all, took a genuine interest in my life. They loved the
Lord and they freely expressed that to others and encouraged me in my own
Christian walk. Perhaps it was a subconscious thought, but I knew deep down
inside, that if someday I ever was their age and still single, I wanted to live
life with as much passion and enthusiasm as they did.</div>
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I think one of the more important lessons I’ve stumbled
across in relating to this season of life called Singlehood, is that marriage
is <b><i>not a</i> <i>reward f</i>or</b><i><b> awesomeness or
perfection</b>.</i> I am very grateful to have been influenced in a very positive way
by books written on dating/courtship by authors such as Joshua Harris or Leslie
Ludy. In the Anabaptist church setting I’ve grown up in, my generation has also
benefitted from a lot of teaching on surrendering the area of your love life to
Christ, how to go about starting a relationship in a way that honors God and
your authorities, and the imperative importance of guarding your purity. Again,
may I stress that I am very, very thankful to have had exposure to teachings
such as these when our society sneers at purity or tries to redefine the
life-long commitment of vowing your life to another. </div>
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But sometimes, I wonder if the lofty ideals of courtship
have inadvertently pressured us to make a mental checklist of “Things I Need to
Do or Be Before I Deserve to Get Married.” In talking with other young
women who are single, I get the feeling that a lot of us have moments when we are afraid
that the reason we are still not dating is because we haven’t quite arrived yet or somehow aren't enough. With this mentality, we begin comparing ourselves to this girl or
that girl or those girls over there who either do or don’t have a significant
other in her life. Sometimes, we even begin to doubt God and why He seems to be "withholding" a good thing from us when it looks like He gave it to every other girl in church on Sunday morning. </div>
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I have many friends who are around my age who are unmarried.
They are beautiful, have a great sense of humor, exemplify a close walk with
the Lord, love children, are talented in the arts, radiate creativity, and are
amazing cooks. My natural inclination is to look at them and think, “how on
earth are they NOT married??!” Did the
friend who got married at 20 deserve marriage more than my friend who is still
single at 30?</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The realization that marriage and singleness are both gifts from God, not a reward or a punishment,
has probably had the greatest impact on how I approach being single myself.</span> </b></div>
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For
as many times as I’ve looked at my married friends and longed to have what they
have, they have been the ones who have told me to enjoy the season of life I am
in and the opportunities that I can embrace because I do not yet have the
responsibilities of a husband or children. God’s plan for them was marriage,
for some of them, at a very young age. Thus far, God’s design for my life has
been singleness. Neither is better than the other nor am I any more or less
deserving than then next woman. </div>
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When I view each stage of life as a God-designed gift, then
it helps me to also embrace the desires He has given me for love and marriage as
a holy part of being created in His image.
He has given me the desires to love and be loved by a good man, to have
a child of my own, and to pour my energy and talents into supporting whatever
God would call us to as a couple. When a longing is seemingly unmet, it is
human nature to ignore it, to deny it, or to kill that part of the heart. As a
single young woman, it is easy to slip into one of those ruts and to put on a
front that screams, “why would I ever want to be married when I have my own
life?!” It is much more vulnerable to admit that yes, I have these longings,
and to trust God’s goodness to fulfill them when and how He chooses to. </div>
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I like to call it a surrendered hope… </div>
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Trust me, there have been moments of agony, tears of
frustration and times I have yes, yelled at God when I didn’t understand what
He was up to in this journey of singleness. Part of the lament of being single
is those unexpected moments that blindside you when you are just <a href="http://redarrowmedia.com/articles/2013/3/15/women-and-strength-curse-or-virtue">tired of being strong</a>… Tired of making your own decisions. Tired of always having to be
concerned about bills and money and the stresses of daily life on your own. Tired of having to kill the roaches and the spiders and the mice all by yourself. Or simply
tired of being alone. </div>
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We as single women don’t have it all together either. Take
it from one at least who doesn’t. Just like our married friends, we are flawed
and human and sometimes wonder who would ever want to love us for who we are. Our
world might appear tidy and comfortable and exciting, but we have those moments
where we just want a strong, caring guy to put his arm around us and tell
us, “I’m here. It will be okay.”</div>
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But for the lament that singlehood may bring, it certainly
can hold a lot of laughter and be full of life. I feel incredibly blessed that
I have been able to go to nursing school, make friends from all over, have a
job that I love, live in a different culture, and leave a part of my heart in
countries other than my native one. I feel like a rich woman, rich in things
that money could never purchase. I know that many of these experiences would
not have been possible if I had been married young. To me, that is not proof
that singlehood is better than marriage, but it is evidence that we have a good
Daddy who longs to give to His children above what we could have ever
envisioned for ourselves. In this season of life, He has revealed different
facets of His heart towards me in the ways that He cared for me even in those
moments that I felt most alone. </div>
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Maybe it’s mixed up, but that is a smattering of my
perspective on this whole singleness thing. </div>
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Oh, and Valentine’s
Day? Yes, I celebrated it too. By dressing up in pinks and reds and going out
for dinner with two good friends who also currently are not in a relationship.
There we were, the three of us, sitting at a table for four smack dab in the
middle of all these couples, just sampling each other’s lattes, savoring our
dinner, and enjoying each others’ company, all the while laughing at the sight
we must be. <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
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But we decided to spare the audience around us and skipped
the part of doodling-on-each-others’-hands. </div>
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<o:p> </o:p><o:p> </o:p><o:p> </o:p><o:p> </o:p><o:p> </o:p><o:p> </o:p> </div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-49731830975928187742014-01-20T13:11:00.000+07:002014-01-20T13:19:47.079+07:00Tongue-Tied <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am not usually at a loss for words, at least when it comes
to writing. Yet in the past three weeks since stepping off the Piper plane onto
the tarmac of the Lancaster Regional Airport, I’ve struggled knowing how to
articulate, even in writing, an answer to the question, “So how does it feel to
be home, Katelyn?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s scary - how displaced and detached one can feel when it
comes to reconciling the changes between the environment, the experiences, the
culture, the responsibilities, and the people you were surrounded with just a
short time ago with where you find yourself presently. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Thailand, I had a role to fill, a job description, a schedule
of responsibilities, a ministry I functioned under, a focus in what I was doing
and who I was serving. To be certain, there were definitely those moments of
unpredictability as well as the stressors of situations which never appeared in
the staff manual under “Duties of the Ladies’ Dean.” Even in all that, I still
had the encouragement and support of friends who became like family, and I felt
a sense of belonging and purpose in where God had called me. There was
something about all this which offered me more stability and security than I had
realized, until life as I knew it for the greater part of the past two years
disappeared from sight as the jet climbed higher into the inky darkness of the midnight
skies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t until the first Korean flight, when I was the
person in the window seat of Row 42, watching the lights of Chiang Mai until
they faded into tiny pin pricks against the black shadows of the mountains,
that this sense of aloneness and weakness overtook me. Grateful for the dimmed
lights of the cabin, I let the tears fall. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The past year had been so fulfilling. God had taught more about
His strength perfected in my nothingness, and I could testify that even in the
difficulties, He had been faithful and He had been my Rock. The year had stretched
me spiritually, emotionally, and at times, physically. Yet it had been a year so
rich in experiences, and most of all, rich in relationships. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, once again, I had to uproot and move on. Three years
ago, when the plane had lifted from the runway of the Chiang Mai airport and I
said good-bye to Thailand for the first time, God impressed upon me the verse
from Genesis 28:15, “Behold I am with you and will keep you…and will bring you
back to this land.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This time, I struggled with feeling like that promise had
been given and now had been fulfilled, so this must be it. That thought stirred
an unwelcomed ache within my heart: what if this time I am leaving, never to
return?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe that I am supposed to be here with my family in a
community where traditions rooted in Pennsylvania German culture intersect with
the multi-racial populations of expanding cities like Lancaster or Reading. But
it is one thing to realize that this is where I am supposed to be for now, and yet
that realization does not always ease the restless longing within for dreams
that feel unfinished, visions that seem undone, and a place that is
half-a-world away while still closely residing in my heart. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s humbling, admitting that I don’t have it all
together. In the lyrics of Twila Paris, “<i>Lately
I’ve been winning battles left and right, but even soldiers can get wounded in
the fight. People say that I’m amazing, strong beyond my years, but they don’t
see the enemies who lay me at His feet. And they don’t know who picks me up when
no one is around… I drop my sword and cry for just a while, ‘cause deep inside
this armor, the warrior is a child.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sword feels heavy right now, and I am weary of fighting enemies
that I thought had already been defeated once and for all. Re-entry is hard.
Harder than I had thought, actually. Yet it is easy for me to use the
adjustments of re-entry as a smoke screen for what lies at the root of the struggle.
Raw honesty leaves me no other option
except to confess that I know that a lot of the numbness, discouragement and
apathy that I am experiencing right now exist because I am struggling with
surrender. Over a year and a half ago, I
had signed my name on the bottom of a blank sheet of paper, as a sign of
commitment to God to say “Yes” to whatever He future plans He had for me, even <i>before </i>I knew what they were to be. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, I look at what He is writing on that page for me, and
I don’t always like it. I want to take the pen, and somehow add some fine print
at the bottom, a disclaimer or a subtle compromise to make this whole thing of “selling
out” a little more comfortable. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The commitment has already been made. I don’t want to put my
hand to the plow and look back. I don’t want to regress to waving the flag of
defeat in the Enemy’s territory and give up ground that was never meant for him
to have. I don’t want to come to the end of this season of life and regret
living it out of a sense of dutiful submission rather than joyful surrender. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I’m not as tongue-tied as I thought. Or maybe,
trying to define the struggle with words - as fragmented and imperfect as they
are - is the first hesitant step to return to that Altar of Surrender.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpaBOjHlMUkhbhyphenhyphenYpOVf6Ut22VR6uUNAZ-_cqUowxOesWZsXW6IZbqOAMbjhyphenhyphenWroB2apfCM4jwPUms9Ju0AoQ8mY_49HnhshloXRBC6VZCycWbB0S_bvyYpVntYAgkOpGDa-oRUJAmR4v/s1600/IMG_1543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpaBOjHlMUkhbhyphenhyphenYpOVf6Ut22VR6uUNAZ-_cqUowxOesWZsXW6IZbqOAMbjhyphenhyphenWroB2apfCM4jwPUms9Ju0AoQ8mY_49HnhshloXRBC6VZCycWbB0S_bvyYpVntYAgkOpGDa-oRUJAmR4v/s1600/IMG_1543.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-15479007790443397832013-11-11T17:30:00.001+07:002013-11-11T17:47:28.413+07:00My Girls... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are brave & beautiful young women, they are. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My official job title may be that of “Dean of Women”, but
what this really means is that somehow, I was the one privileged to live among
these girls this past year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They call it dorm life. Ten bunk beds lining the perimeter
of one U-shaped room with mirrors for only half the number of its occupants and
four showers to share among us. Personal space is nearly non-existent, for
getting just a smidgen of time alone means crawling out into one of the
concrete window wells or trying to find seclusion in the bathroom of the
library to Skype home. We share wardrobes,
headbands, and pretzels from the States, and learn to live with the early birds
and the night owls. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLWmDthzT7kj9nqFV1yUco55Eda-mVKD6hF9YvxdIcrFUWNTQv2LKmBNTPcw0zsa9KZoGTT_RX_JUcA_eGdhyBhRc_fkqJVBL3Hs0MUZj6xJaA7TShTXLbYQK8OGE-ibgHwPSWGf6C1ct/s1600/Nov+11,+2013+5:00:56+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVLWmDthzT7kj9nqFV1yUco55Eda-mVKD6hF9YvxdIcrFUWNTQv2LKmBNTPcw0zsa9KZoGTT_RX_JUcA_eGdhyBhRc_fkqJVBL3Hs0MUZj6xJaA7TShTXLbYQK8OGE-ibgHwPSWGf6C1ct/s1600/Nov+11,+2013+5:00:56+PM.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think they are brave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They chose to leave their homes in America and Canada and
fly half-way around the world to spend four to eight months in a foreign
country most of them had never been to before, living with people they did not
know, and committed to studying and ministering in ways that they knew would
stretch them physically, spiritually, and emotionally. This was not some reality
TV show they were paid to produce. Actually, <i>they paid</i> to come here and to push themselves outside of their
comfort zones with no guarantee of success or earthly reward. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They came from varied church and family backgrounds, some
fresh out of high school, some with more travel-dust on their sandals from previous
treks to not-so-touristy spots in the world. Some had dreamed and planned of
coming for years, others made short-notice decisions to take this flying leap
into the unknown. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They came, zealous, passionate, scared, idealistic, burdened,
searching, and thirsty. Passionate about life and zealous for Christ but asking
the questions of “who am I and what is God’s will for <i>my </i>life?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were <i>thirsty for
more</i>. For more than the American dream, for more than the pursuit of career
for the sake of money, for more than chasing guys and squandering their
opportunities and time. They did not
want to settle for the status-quo or for a mediocre, shallow commitment to
their walk with God. For them, that thirst for more of God meant leaving behind
what was familiar and comfortable and predictable…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So they came. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And we lived together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
[Quite close together, actually.]</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in the daily moments of
The Living, I watched them. Sometimes, I felt a bit protective of my girls,
wanting to shield them from pain, from too much breaking, from disappointment and
unmet expectations. [I've wondered, is this a fraction of what a mother feels
as she watches her children grow, knowing that they need the hard things in
life to make them strong, but wishing it didn't have to be a painful process?]</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched them come out of their shells and shatter random “first
impressions” from that night when they walked through the customs of Chiang Mai
Airport, bewildered and travel-weary. From that night forward, it has been a
journey. For all sixteen of them and for me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I watched them learn to navigate the motor-bike congested
streets of this city by using public songthaews, and cheered with them when
they first hailed a songthaew to Big C “all by themselves” for the price of a
10 Baht coin. I showed them how to use the semi-automatic washer in our
bathroom which seems like a luxury after washing all your clothes by hand
during a 10 day ministry trip. I introduced them to khau pad guy and pad thai
dishes in the local food shops and tried to convince them that they <i>will </i>get used to the spicy food…eventually.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiacURPYSzhMD440nF6mV5M4zEQNIBeFTAU6aivpCWoBrSs8Bwy57or8K1UfX2vsgzYqJMLpXOatZ1u6-IKwWUq_0IVOZVkmRFjOfndRIWxXq8ufwCTtK-MvSzHXYMn2KtJtzZgg_kPuwlz/s1600/Term+1+%25232+058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiacURPYSzhMD440nF6mV5M4zEQNIBeFTAU6aivpCWoBrSs8Bwy57or8K1UfX2vsgzYqJMLpXOatZ1u6-IKwWUq_0IVOZVkmRFjOfndRIWxXq8ufwCTtK-MvSzHXYMn2KtJtzZgg_kPuwlz/s1600/Term+1+%25232+058.JPG" height="290" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Semester Ladies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I listened to their stories of hiking through the mountains of
Nepal, teaching English to university students older than they are, holding the
mother-less children of Cambodia, washing the feet of the their Indian sisters,
sleeping on rice mats on concrete floors, staying in hostels with dozens of
rowdy school-aged kids, prayer walking in the red-light districts of China
& Pattaya, and reaching out to the Thai girl who runs the cash register at
our local 7-11. I’m proud of my girls. In a good, godly, humble sort of way.
For I see them as young women who are learning to give beyond what they think
is their limit and in the giving and the stretching, God is faithful to show Himself
strong and to use their hands and their lips and their feet to be His own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think they are beautiful. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw when they unashamedly shed tears and confessed
apathy after seeing the film of their persecuted brothers & sisters in
Indonesia. It was my face that had tears streaking down my cheeks when I heard
their testimonies in church or in dorm meeting, or by the answers to specific prayers, or in conversations that took place
while sitting on the tile floor of my room. My tears were tears of undeserved
yet overwhelming joy…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…<b><i>for those were times
that I felt like I was treading on sacred ground</i>.</b> To get a glimpse into
their souls, to hear their hearts, and to see the struggle, the wrestling, and
the pain that God was taking them through as He purged and restored and then
rekindled. Sometimes, I stand back in awe at what God is doing in the lives of
these young women and I am invigorated by the potential that they possess. For
it is in the <i>surrender</i> that strength and
vision and endurance arise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are beautiful young women. They are beautiful in
outward appearance of curly-haired and straight, blonde, brunette, and raven
tresses, freckled, fair, and tan, short and tall, and eyes of hazel, blue or
green. We have every personality among us you can imagine and then some spice
and spunk and wit and humor that make me laugh and shake my head in amazement.
Their taste in colors and styles vary widely but I love their creativity as
individuals. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9Lnkd4W98mQfFz8OLk79IzgvTwUGrovZxZhRhpc0Y0VaSsMx1TvKIDCA1L-nSoKk6WFjnJERf98hyx1IxYSb350ATe4n0hfyfSrkZAI0LN9bxuCUKHuxJjdY6zuKfpXmqEhKi7QkP4zK/s1600/2nd+Semester+Girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9Lnkd4W98mQfFz8OLk79IzgvTwUGrovZxZhRhpc0Y0VaSsMx1TvKIDCA1L-nSoKk6WFjnJERf98hyx1IxYSb350ATe4n0hfyfSrkZAI0LN9bxuCUKHuxJjdY6zuKfpXmqEhKi7QkP4zK/s1600/2nd+Semester+Girls.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">2nd Semester Ladies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are beautiful in talents of photography, writing
poetry, painting, playing penny whistles and pianos, culinary skills,
athletics, harmonizing with harmonicas, singing, and gifts of mercy, exhortation,
teaching and organization. Sometimes I wonder, what <i>aren’t </i>they good at? <span style="font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet in all of these outward expressions of beauty, I see
that they desire, as women, to possess <i>beauty
with purpose</i>. Not beauty for their own benefit or for merely the admiration
of others, but a self-less beauty that is a reflection of who they are in Christ
and a beauty of brokenness that rises forth from being poured out upon the altar
for others. The kind of beauty that is courageous and willing to do hard things
for the sake of the One who created them, ransomed them and empowers them. He
is the One who is receiving glory through their lives, and that is indeed
beautiful to behold. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes, I marvel at who am I to get to walk alongside
these girls, to invest in their lives, and to find that in the end, I am the
one receiving a hundred-fold more than anything I have ever given?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be sure, no one
ever said that this year would be easy. It hasn't been. We have had struggles, sicknesses, spiritual
attacks, personality differences, and the stresses and stretching that come
from living so closely together for months at a time. We have seen each other
at our best and at our worst, at those times when we are just plain exhausted
and peopled-out. Yet something that is worth having is worth fighting for… and
I believe with all my heart that these past eight months is something precious
that has indeed been worth fighting for. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next year, another woman will take up the title of “Dean of
Women” and occupy the little gray bedroom attached to girls’ dorm. It is a
bittersweet feeling to pass on this position and to know that this year was my
first and final chapter in that role. And yet, I am only a steward of this
position, for it is not my own or one that I can lay any claim to. One thing I
am assured of – God gave me the gift of knowing these girls who in reality
taught, and challenged, and encouraged me in ways that they don’t even realize.
That is a gift that I am humbled by and eternally grateful for.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
As we near the end of the final semester and departure dates
rapidly approach, my desire is that we can all finish well. And to each of my
girls, thank you for allowing me to be a part of your lives. For loving me and putting up with my flaws and quirky habits, for all the times of shared laughter and serious talks, and for encouragement through notes & words. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>My prayer for you is that you continue to follow God with all your
hearts, knowing that your life is not your own, and our Father who is Faithful
& Good will complete the work He has </b><b>begun within you. </b></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>You are brave and beautiful women, that you
are… </b></div>
</div>
</div>
Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-69666604762641412062013-10-29T20:31:00.001+07:002013-10-30T01:05:08.200+07:00By the Sea... <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I don't remember exactly when the brainstorm was first kindled. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Somewhere in the midst of the busy schedules of daily life, the humidity of hot season, and the realization that turning 28 is nearly upon both of us, we thought that a little getaway by the beach would be in order. Who says you can't celebrate </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
the milestone of "Turning 30" two years early? :) </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
We picked a place. Penang, Malaysia. Neither of us had ever been there or knew anyone personally who had, but flights were cheap, it was along the coast, and the location was outside of Thailand so it would count as a visa run as well. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The trip had been planned several months ago, but the timing of it couldn't have been more perfect. The past month has been hard in the terms of needing to make some weighty decisions, and I was feeling pretty drained. In retrospect, this 4 day trip was a precious gift from God, & here is a photographic tribute...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8GW3F0yvCllCKU8KyN6BpKreRl6g4MIj2rbmC1to76Ubd7j3QOLwV4gdhzCNbd3PNjRQqJvXkh8-HYVGjA6dV2onVZ38weC1s6Dwn7Z6ZMpnzNJ12nAXK9WU93WyIFiEERmiPMhVZpDZ/s1600/IMG_2938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz8GW3F0yvCllCKU8KyN6BpKreRl6g4MIj2rbmC1to76Ubd7j3QOLwV4gdhzCNbd3PNjRQqJvXkh8-HYVGjA6dV2onVZ38weC1s6Dwn7Z6ZMpnzNJ12nAXK9WU93WyIFiEERmiPMhVZpDZ/s1600/IMG_2938.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yay for budget airlines like Air Asia. Except for when they charged to rebook us for our connecting flight because we checked in 8 minutes late :(</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9H8IPQqWxNUIAJ0mdpF-cWwH0YK2Nk52IXSrhDta7sgZfAqvNipPIkp4I_JXEHpB0jg9g3ZLsEstlTUfW6Euld5erZP2iPYl8V_yI1KzgsUUyRP4pEWK44v2PdPZUbltslh0I1ylCTg13/s1600/DSCN3076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9H8IPQqWxNUIAJ0mdpF-cWwH0YK2Nk52IXSrhDta7sgZfAqvNipPIkp4I_JXEHpB0jg9g3ZLsEstlTUfW6Euld5erZP2iPYl8V_yI1KzgsUUyRP4pEWK44v2PdPZUbltslh0I1ylCTg13/s1600/DSCN3076.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our hotel by the beach, compliments of Mel's thrifty travel agent skills on agoda.com :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeW5Pb5fEaGSAcaSpt0Y0SwkEAUxKZSKjLjJgBlGAhhs4mVOk9mkH0pFydmXh05j2gL4yBFPMJrYs5wHbrgv5ZazOmsuOxSkfp_JICtwy1YOk6hz71e14dGplSQpKadSOa_5Iaw5c5XSg/s1600/DSCN2989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxeW5Pb5fEaGSAcaSpt0Y0SwkEAUxKZSKjLjJgBlGAhhs4mVOk9mkH0pFydmXh05j2gL4yBFPMJrYs5wHbrgv5ZazOmsuOxSkfp_JICtwy1YOk6hz71e14dGplSQpKadSOa_5Iaw5c5XSg/s1600/DSCN2989.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stairway going down to the beach from our hotel's bridge access. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_3wU_ysjQuArauRHYRIf7g9cGXsaGJZGl4xHWXjQt9lrK_EBe3TukzBg2gR7AXY3QCnqSp5HcbmtEBuv9l4y1UigCQ0yCjRuIfVHZ-wCIK0wy-Dihk5raKdXKqLf85QXNe8qQakLEoQ2/s1600/IMG_3038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5_3wU_ysjQuArauRHYRIf7g9cGXsaGJZGl4xHWXjQt9lrK_EBe3TukzBg2gR7AXY3QCnqSp5HcbmtEBuv9l4y1UigCQ0yCjRuIfVHZ-wCIK0wy-Dihk5raKdXKqLf85QXNe8qQakLEoQ2/s1600/IMG_3038.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunsets by the sea... God's handiwork takes my breath away... </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy07adYAN4YZLY71RLDYrZZl9cnAcHX_fOQzJthyphenhyphenqospH5G95PVptMnCGGe-bXqGUjeeRuNnp5urTLKwF3_nJA3izfLiDiKCJgruTn97E2LID9S5uZXLD363ddKM467MH42k6r4HQVtL7Z/s1600/DSCN3078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy07adYAN4YZLY71RLDYrZZl9cnAcHX_fOQzJthyphenhyphenqospH5G95PVptMnCGGe-bXqGUjeeRuNnp5urTLKwF3_nJA3izfLiDiKCJgruTn97E2LID9S5uZXLD363ddKM467MH42k6r4HQVtL7Z/s1600/DSCN3078.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our secluded spot on the beach where we spent a lot of quiet time reading and journaling. <br />
The sea, the sand, and the salty air are so refreshing to one's soul...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmiiap4RobI_XKrSeEtdPFjEntoxQCW72f0BDa1qGCTkjt31iyjqM11PbHwzreyQYst7L2hB0gssuj1XlutDWNeqN43EnL7g_o6In-gFpF5_2Ag3UuADTZLE8I_E5eaQSjKJ_h2PabYHC/s1600/IMG_3044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmiiap4RobI_XKrSeEtdPFjEntoxQCW72f0BDa1qGCTkjt31iyjqM11PbHwzreyQYst7L2hB0gssuj1XlutDWNeqN43EnL7g_o6In-gFpF5_2Ag3UuADTZLE8I_E5eaQSjKJ_h2PabYHC/s1600/IMG_3044.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Times like these are always better when shared with a friend...<br />
[and being asked by strangers if we are sisters? I'll take that as a compliment. :)]</td></tr>
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On Friday, we decided to rent a motorbike to tour the island and the historic city of Georgetown. One tour guide tried to convince us that hiring a taxi and tour guide would be the better, safer option for us. We appreciated his concern (or his sales pitch to get us to rent the hotel's taxi service), but we preferred to blaze the trail on our own. The experience was every bit as adventurous as it sounds. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGM7G_mnggk-waYIe0UytRx6xVTuoRjHQmjWT8lWYo5-bo48SKUc7Cdhibl36XNMikztoyryL-GE539r-fnlizvTbRzs7Wa4FOkxpH2mbYAaaUbljhgumVBdjaPuiJ6q5JBNrM9Y_47lE/s1600/IMG_3036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGM7G_mnggk-waYIe0UytRx6xVTuoRjHQmjWT8lWYo5-bo48SKUc7Cdhibl36XNMikztoyryL-GE539r-fnlizvTbRzs7Wa4FOkxpH2mbYAaaUbljhgumVBdjaPuiJ6q5JBNrM9Y_47lE/s1600/IMG_3036.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our rental bike and fearless driver. This is after we figured out that Malaysia does not have full-service fuel pumps like Thailand. :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_J2Oyy9jauwS8XY1qMMZ0fpjcw39MfDr8wnDr4X-DEJFCIQkrKfrC6khyHk1Ye9PGmU7qdVpqlAgyduJFbFvd_TvDsEp2LCy1H1TO0YcVe0opdDL91zI81z47DfSgI9B6fwAXcQsXTZn/s1600/DSCN3045.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb_J2Oyy9jauwS8XY1qMMZ0fpjcw39MfDr8wnDr4X-DEJFCIQkrKfrC6khyHk1Ye9PGmU7qdVpqlAgyduJFbFvd_TvDsEp2LCy1H1TO0YcVe0opdDL91zI81z47DfSgI9B6fwAXcQsXTZn/s1600/DSCN3045.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I am directionally challenged. But armed with a detailed map, on the look out for some specific landmarks, and we got around just fine.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhgrVZCZO5UQFjbrMD_spcYa_V2S2IbQlEmB9CvcfFaazOIouT3orqRScptjmH6vV-KUrCgH5g14SgziinPUyGlMIE14k-rOeCqKh7USlVxzZURQ-YRo_1wBpkQlBhZyV53Z76Be4khTS/s1600/IMG_2959.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhgrVZCZO5UQFjbrMD_spcYa_V2S2IbQlEmB9CvcfFaazOIouT3orqRScptjmH6vV-KUrCgH5g14SgziinPUyGlMIE14k-rOeCqKh7USlVxzZURQ-YRo_1wBpkQlBhZyV53Z76Be4khTS/s1600/IMG_2959.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The waterfront view from downtown</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Georgetown is the capital city of the Malaysian state of Penang, and was first colonized by the British in 1786. Due to that influence, many of the buildings have been preserved in their original colonial architect as a World Heritage site. A simply charming city that is a fascinating cultural melting pot of Malay, Indian, and Chinese people, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
as well as other ethnicities.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UyjiwfSGy7Xl-5u85yoGKtuFPwUxdHziPPqNSmsEseHhfVsoPIDumHMR9uf6clIKufFsWEY_r6nEJtyb6gpkAMrIauFNVKJI-GbNeSnEaSdkLz-TythMf90OV2SgVmLL_1xlcoy91rcG/s1600/IMG_2962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UyjiwfSGy7Xl-5u85yoGKtuFPwUxdHziPPqNSmsEseHhfVsoPIDumHMR9uf6clIKufFsWEY_r6nEJtyb6gpkAMrIauFNVKJI-GbNeSnEaSdkLz-TythMf90OV2SgVmLL_1xlcoy91rcG/s1600/IMG_2962.JPG" height="316" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't consider myself a photographer by any stretch of imagination. But even I was giddy at discovering all this quaint Old World charm... </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Georgetown is famous for their rich and creamy blend of white coffee. We were not disappointed. :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There were many evidences of different religions here with numerous Mosques, Hindi temples, and <br />
Buddhist statues.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiucDddadt1kpa5w3ZmbD-_p6O6b_YaItaPCj_SUBH74TCCNIyBxiuvyc5SkmDGzAAELBZFexuOIBDedaWpmMh420mVadYDQ2ni4bmySPpFsA-QvB-xz7pPkEO86jpX5uLHWjQb7GRqjQFF/s1600/IMG_3008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiucDddadt1kpa5w3ZmbD-_p6O6b_YaItaPCj_SUBH74TCCNIyBxiuvyc5SkmDGzAAELBZFexuOIBDedaWpmMh420mVadYDQ2ni4bmySPpFsA-QvB-xz7pPkEO86jpX5uLHWjQb7GRqjQFF/s1600/IMG_3008.JPG" height="327" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kTniCgxUynGGBkuH0yzZ5aMJC4CjO4RiR9lF2C91Xd7NLNRqLJkfvthdi7wr0zer8Hmn5jg9qJdnYEQ1tUPLBIVrjfQx8j7402tKjylpq_uvAKYMawdHaFDakbISFR4Ze9R-35B7WjOP/s1600/IMG_3012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7kTniCgxUynGGBkuH0yzZ5aMJC4CjO4RiR9lF2C91Xd7NLNRqLJkfvthdi7wr0zer8Hmn5jg9qJdnYEQ1tUPLBIVrjfQx8j7402tKjylpq_uvAKYMawdHaFDakbISFR4Ze9R-35B7WjOP/s1600/IMG_3012.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More colonial architecture...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjeFq9vP1cfdJZAHYjYZgDNegLB81vMBW17kiM__w37lGr8n1jrukYgyuouC0rcIfcTtD3qOJXZ9x6YgvHzZLgjzFR9CYhmcRmYbCvV1xKZjYcqivwHJa9bv2-BsMAzEcUoxcpaGP-yr3/s1600/IMG_3011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjeFq9vP1cfdJZAHYjYZgDNegLB81vMBW17kiM__w37lGr8n1jrukYgyuouC0rcIfcTtD3qOJXZ9x6YgvHzZLgjzFR9CYhmcRmYbCvV1xKZjYcqivwHJa9bv2-BsMAzEcUoxcpaGP-yr3/s1600/IMG_3011.JPG" height="342" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Meets New: Pedal-bike rickshaws shared the streets with luxury vehicles.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqNhuU7hYAYH54LoCp6gsSmI1h-N-8QYNBHjWCAvMurL-JRAoQhnra9zQubA5jW5UHK7Acd3dXO9cLZwLXdh-ayoTOxf5GZMIhdQtxyFRceLDyCw4uHhzDvqThk-0pIeLqojSV9TsfNWX/s1600/IMG_2961.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXqNhuU7hYAYH54LoCp6gsSmI1h-N-8QYNBHjWCAvMurL-JRAoQhnra9zQubA5jW5UHK7Acd3dXO9cLZwLXdh-ayoTOxf5GZMIhdQtxyFRceLDyCw4uHhzDvqThk-0pIeLqojSV9TsfNWX/s1600/IMG_2961.JPG" height="640" width="452" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Have I mentioned the beautiful architecture we saw on every street? :)</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sfG5q-02j-yhcdOOq45xK7c1VhHCVeMuc0KiQXUF7LnWCyByBfsW76iLePdFhXFIUNqrdHuOrIjVn3kxJvbShyphenhyphendMAGHOdcHkmGEY4NKhKLbpkBEJv6jIb_U30Nh0vw43fVcpnTtrCXdR/s1600/DSCN3041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sfG5q-02j-yhcdOOq45xK7c1VhHCVeMuc0KiQXUF7LnWCyByBfsW76iLePdFhXFIUNqrdHuOrIjVn3kxJvbShyphenhyphendMAGHOdcHkmGEY4NKhKLbpkBEJv6jIb_U30Nh0vw43fVcpnTtrCXdR/s1600/DSCN3041.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJw3K1yQ1-xIPNUSdnzoH0gZnV0xDsxx4swEFLWUgiyiufS6IcrP0508gh92b7PQNDlqXHXspxxUGe1OUNYFRREAsVK-h7muxagjif9TkHMbQ7yJ8ONnZtMqk0O8ruZu6Ant1L9xGXR8sk/s1600/DSCN3021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJw3K1yQ1-xIPNUSdnzoH0gZnV0xDsxx4swEFLWUgiyiufS6IcrP0508gh92b7PQNDlqXHXspxxUGe1OUNYFRREAsVK-h7muxagjif9TkHMbQ7yJ8ONnZtMqk0O8ruZu6Ant1L9xGXR8sk/s1600/DSCN3021.JPG" height="640" width="474" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Props to a passerby on the street who offered to take our picture when we were struggling with self-timer <br />
camera settings. :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdxRqwbudHYx-PrNMuBBDT2YEL1k7jstJSM6u59Wt6SZYQY5rjF_HCqAYBy8MF7ncbP5AAo-xPa_eDxzc4j_Ya-h0SZ6KFGx_9ydzjLcevKxE1QXKiumaeVz04fKZlZRMR7VFwZT4ednU/s1600/DSCN3029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdxRqwbudHYx-PrNMuBBDT2YEL1k7jstJSM6u59Wt6SZYQY5rjF_HCqAYBy8MF7ncbP5AAo-xPa_eDxzc4j_Ya-h0SZ6KFGx_9ydzjLcevKxE1QXKiumaeVz04fKZlZRMR7VFwZT4ednU/s1600/DSCN3029.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The waterfront yacht clubhouse</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulfDbDiCymIjjBYmySDbMSGR3AjOwVefVY6GbmTLHWbWmvelGn5r3KAUun036gDWMVDpJ6MkpcHJ_csRcQeemkkYf0Pt-U6nD5VfdLWJ67tGQa4ttkCjehtwB9yR4781-HL-QM3eFL0n2/s1600/DSCN3044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulfDbDiCymIjjBYmySDbMSGR3AjOwVefVY6GbmTLHWbWmvelGn5r3KAUun036gDWMVDpJ6MkpcHJ_csRcQeemkkYf0Pt-U6nD5VfdLWJ67tGQa4ttkCjehtwB9yR4781-HL-QM3eFL0n2/s1600/DSCN3044.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have a weakness for old churches with steeples and was delighted to find one in Asia! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCt1hx1FAyEpN-zeaBYgVJR0BUzRxByv1GUgAA27WAYncROJ4od5NWvXxWeFZPJgeSNfpdZF0DK7Azo49Z0L0kmhl5m6xsPv3M04_q2smBbzHJTs57M5HSifclJtmM6Qurtsd6sQt-R2qn/s1600/DSCN3046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCt1hx1FAyEpN-zeaBYgVJR0BUzRxByv1GUgAA27WAYncROJ4od5NWvXxWeFZPJgeSNfpdZF0DK7Azo49Z0L0kmhl5m6xsPv3M04_q2smBbzHJTs57M5HSifclJtmM6Qurtsd6sQt-R2qn/s1600/DSCN3046.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too many different ethnic restaurants to choose from? "Let's get a dish from all of them, " she said.<br />
This was the Chinese dish, Laksa, I believe it's called. Made of fish and noodles in tomato curry.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBnXxWi6lue5ioKsogohhJhE8IfclSDz5frnnCVfqOcPRWznXrVNOntT8ZbE3G4xnk3mTvF_84DTxpxKVMFNqagiAGeDllEUw9P4ZVp5CcJ1vscV41B26TRtJRgFKhXj4xG4qg-0uFzVY/s1600/IMG_3023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoBnXxWi6lue5ioKsogohhJhE8IfclSDz5frnnCVfqOcPRWznXrVNOntT8ZbE3G4xnk3mTvF_84DTxpxKVMFNqagiAGeDllEUw9P4ZVp5CcJ1vscV41B26TRtJRgFKhXj4xG4qg-0uFzVY/s1600/IMG_3023.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And this was the Indian food, complete with authentic Chai tea, tandoor chicken, roti, and dahl. You have to taste it for yourself to understand the deliciousness of that plate. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvdawgnvDZPQAAGE10mgRFpXUlgvFTEy8HeWs8oBqfN65GwYrhHNOWnHGDgZtS68Jql_2Mlkqf4ryB2UOB_Chj42FZvudYqOEAlemzlAxmPHXa-QsrpAVXRuSBbjGUPhUGrydPZUkmMWJ/s1600/DSCN3073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvdawgnvDZPQAAGE10mgRFpXUlgvFTEy8HeWs8oBqfN65GwYrhHNOWnHGDgZtS68Jql_2Mlkqf4ryB2UOB_Chj42FZvudYqOEAlemzlAxmPHXa-QsrpAVXRuSBbjGUPhUGrydPZUkmMWJ/s1600/DSCN3073.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The following afternoon, we opted for a countryside route, winding up and down the mountains.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQ3YSQjdZQBrRdkLwTiDGMBM6ZWB6O5nIlmhur1096GPG9SdW8JlNYPviHid8h5XCQho8bl70uJouyC65Az1toSNLyrsNLR3CD-8SGCl5J-_Be_TwN4BEJFfxP3I3oVNGX79xXgNU3e3K/s1600/DSCN3064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQ3YSQjdZQBrRdkLwTiDGMBM6ZWB6O5nIlmhur1096GPG9SdW8JlNYPviHid8h5XCQho8bl70uJouyC65Az1toSNLyrsNLR3CD-8SGCl5J-_Be_TwN4BEJFfxP3I3oVNGX79xXgNU3e3K/s1600/DSCN3064.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At one point, the actual road did not match my trusty map. But we bravely motored on and discovered the scenic route is sometimes the best one of all. :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2MFvczifNJG_FDK-FjyE8TVxg2WWapGNHVwtm0h4Gu2YDSM_ljoZavQ5y9BMdfuazliE_oDf2313RYXtfwQTr7U7Gtwu4rxL3XyLcIzilZ0EFXAOqHXTf3lk2a2A2ekImE3jxFXlKDPz/s1600/DSCN3075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF2MFvczifNJG_FDK-FjyE8TVxg2WWapGNHVwtm0h4Gu2YDSM_ljoZavQ5y9BMdfuazliE_oDf2313RYXtfwQTr7U7Gtwu4rxL3XyLcIzilZ0EFXAOqHXTf3lk2a2A2ekImE3jxFXlKDPz/s1600/DSCN3075.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last stop of the biking expedition was to purchase some real White Coffee. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RsykaCxrzp82vePMVDWc-85ENh1Hx2XU5qmP7P8HFyqn0XANdq8TfEBvUYAqlXZZMtg2kg4YJeOL6eFoqDrdUxzSt_3NZv90dA6gD4PC9wySN_klm7tb4aVJJM16_k_A2O4L5QgH2G46/s1600/IMAG0166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4RsykaCxrzp82vePMVDWc-85ENh1Hx2XU5qmP7P8HFyqn0XANdq8TfEBvUYAqlXZZMtg2kg4YJeOL6eFoqDrdUxzSt_3NZv90dA6gD4PC9wySN_klm7tb4aVJJM16_k_A2O4L5QgH2G46/s1600/IMAG0166.jpg" height="238" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">[And this is one of those "footsie" photos that I find strangely disturbing when I see them all over<br />
Facebook & Instagram]. <br />
But instead of buying boring "I Love Penang" tourist T-shirts, we opted for a much cuter and more lasting souvenir. Mine are the red, hers are the navy. :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9srFvjKaT9QYq-ExsKsQngZhYF8LQMSd2-ZR5JOdA5BzaL0HakCkKVpfTb0aAk2O-6yiApW7PgGkMMbVJUPUjiWRXoqlQnQ5zSEfmH6A1VOMyEvkhVyDKa2cVf7zdbBYNF_FS98105-dx/s1600/IMG_2947.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9srFvjKaT9QYq-ExsKsQngZhYF8LQMSd2-ZR5JOdA5BzaL0HakCkKVpfTb0aAk2O-6yiApW7PgGkMMbVJUPUjiWRXoqlQnQ5zSEfmH6A1VOMyEvkhVyDKa2cVf7zdbBYNF_FS98105-dx/s1600/IMG_2947.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">"One of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood." </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">-Lucius A. Seneca</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Thanking God for the gifts of kindred spirits, sunshine, sand, and the salty ocean air...</i></span></span></td></tr>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-79109899267882200142013-09-30T11:51:00.000+07:002013-09-30T11:51:36.855+07:00Less of Me...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My biggest enemy is myself. </span><div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The most daunting battles are the ones where it is my flesh pitted against my spirit. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Right now, I want to climb down off the altar, run away from the sacrifice, and demand an answer to all my "why's?" </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You parted the Red Sea for the children of Israel, You raised to life the dead son of the widow woman, and You fed 5,000 people with mere loaves & fishes. You are able. You came through for them... What about me? What about others who I know are hurting and confused? </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I agonize and I weep and I don't feel like the strong warrior woman that so many think that I am... </span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;">But-- there is that still, </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #666666;">s</span><span style="color: #666666;">mall</span></span><span style="color: #666666;"> Voice. The One who invites me to wrestle with Your Goodness, the Voice that whispers when I want signs & wonders from heaven, the Voice that woos me to trust in the very character of Emmanuel {God With Us}. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You are still there. You are the One who draws me closer to Your heart even when everything within me screams to run and take my own way. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;">You are still good. You continue to perform miracles before my eyes every single day. </span><span style="color: #666666;">Your timing is perfect even when it makes no sense to my earthly snapshot of the here & the now. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will choose to praise You, even when I can't see one step beyond where I am right now. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #666666;">I do love You. </span><span style="color: #666666;">Like Job, the man who was stripped of absolutely everything and everyone he held dear, </span><span style="color: #666666;">I want to say, </span><span style="color: #666666;">"For He bruises, but He binds up: He wounds, but His hands make whole."</span><span style="color: #666666; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="color: #666666;">[Job 5:18]</span></span></div>
<div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>It is worth it. For You are Worthy...</i></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 24px;">PRAYER of DETACHMENT</span></div>
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St. John of the Cross (1542-1591) </div>
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Deliver me, O Jesus... </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the desire of being loved </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the desire of being extolled </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the desire of being praised </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the desire of being preferred </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the desire of being consulted </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the desire of being approved </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the desire of being popular </div>
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Deliver me, O Jesus... </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the fear of being humiliated </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the fear of being despised </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the fear of suffering rebuke </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the fear of being forgotten </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the fear of being wronged </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the fear of being ridiculed </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...from the fear that others may be loved more than I </div>
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Jesus, grant me the grace to desire... </div>
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...that others may be esteemed more than I </div>
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...that in the opinion of the world others may increase and I may decrease </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...that others may be chosen and I set aside </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...that others may be praised and I unnoticed </div>
</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 20px;"><div style="text-align: left;">
...that others may become holier than I provided that I may become as holy as I should.</div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-11995596741564785372013-08-08T20:31:00.000+07:002013-08-09T00:31:16.353+07:00Snapshots of Life [May - June 2013]<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Statistics don't lie. Interestingly enough, the stats of my blog show that the post with the most pictures had nearly three times as many views as the other posts that were merely writing. Popular opinion rules in this case, so rather than tell you about my life, this time I thought you might prefer if I show you instead.</div>
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Ah, Monday Nights. </div>
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They are our girls' night out once a week to talk, to share, to laugh, to cry, to drink coffee, and to pray with each other. What a gift those Monday nights have been with you, Melanie! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMW3ML269YbWyKGuAZfIUbVfMjjqkwwRiYxRnKWQ7o4jPyi7JunsxxWARgUR-tgefToufDXh0pH0KuFB64xsXeJv-qpaTAmcYpXGn2ObVmI4sPT1Ki-zuTh7W6jCLfgkt-mwaQnCeVjhR/s1600/968853_10152883718460714_1561672952_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMW3ML269YbWyKGuAZfIUbVfMjjqkwwRiYxRnKWQ7o4jPyi7JunsxxWARgUR-tgefToufDXh0pH0KuFB64xsXeJv-qpaTAmcYpXGn2ObVmI4sPT1Ki-zuTh7W6jCLfgkt-mwaQnCeVjhR/s1600/968853_10152883718460714_1561672952_n.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Pz1SXDbTgdy0DQXS9HHmwZpoANwBCQMlPaVXAjt0sbiUcf-Sv55ZuzrVn6FFPnQcrklSWFogfiCaLN4G8xSfcUFm9N5IC17tdB-w6bgU3nx_y5vgKNtDCeDIsTViGWAdsijv6OS66w6C/s1600/DSCN2594.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Pz1SXDbTgdy0DQXS9HHmwZpoANwBCQMlPaVXAjt0sbiUcf-Sv55ZuzrVn6FFPnQcrklSWFogfiCaLN4G8xSfcUFm9N5IC17tdB-w6bgU3nx_y5vgKNtDCeDIsTViGWAdsijv6OS66w6C/s1600/DSCN2594.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course, those Monday nights usually involve coffee in some form & flavor. :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EPrd02EkVmYX4-KzA0qRXjPRWioAi8Y2bmNScJ_9YehOoGh9oL4VDFNzlXqHcg7Wlx98r4czLgw5E5KLOs6fl3aCpQSb98ruYAJxdKXWDflBqB_To2C6BStoysLHnkSm8oMC8h2B0YgX/s1600/DSCN2600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EPrd02EkVmYX4-KzA0qRXjPRWioAi8Y2bmNScJ_9YehOoGh9oL4VDFNzlXqHcg7Wlx98r4czLgw5E5KLOs6fl3aCpQSb98ruYAJxdKXWDflBqB_To2C6BStoysLHnkSm8oMC8h2B0YgX/s1600/DSCN2600.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street scene from downtown Chiang Mai with Tuk-Tuk's parked in the foreground.</td></tr>
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2nd Term was the "Month of the Foot Problems." </div>
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One of the guys severely split open his toe while playing ping pong. Another one of the students developed a stubborn skin infection on both of his feet. Then there were various hives of the feet, swelling of the feet, & foot pains from going barefoot on concrete floors all the time. I was quite in my element getting to bandage, sanitize, medicate, and diagnose, but I was just sorry it was at the students' expense. :) </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3bcx-01NWNSx8X-KtfWJuElLFYjUZnJu-FjrLm-HJntaYofzm3mQy_Xtadegyx3GvTaK6IlArqOYPXhDnagm85sGek7ybXoxHAMQ-oXkqNBADji_noRDUfXAnjg-lYlPPjSiH8TkuGXZ/s1600/DSCN2589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3bcx-01NWNSx8X-KtfWJuElLFYjUZnJu-FjrLm-HJntaYofzm3mQy_Xtadegyx3GvTaK6IlArqOYPXhDnagm85sGek7ybXoxHAMQ-oXkqNBADji_noRDUfXAnjg-lYlPPjSiH8TkuGXZ/s1600/DSCN2589.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Treating the split toe. I spared you the close up shot of the injury. </td></tr>
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Then there was THE KIDNAPPING. </div>
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I thought I was going out for supper with one of the girls. They had all ganged up on me and had completely different plans for the evening. I was promptly blindfolded as soon as I came down the steps, led to the waiting songthaew (taxi), and hurried off to an unknown destination. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Surprise! We had arrived at the beautiful Waterfall Restaurant for dinner</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xL6RlAppE6vJQBxH2TY4mQrVy9dHid0DYs2fC6B_W3-U9cbKt1luaGfI7q7PmAVsj-InCmbcMP2wH1eSPRUACpgK2bT01tNsAK5UZmIrqVi-MONrdSNcgA3dCqHLeqV9xo6lIK3KEa4k/s1600/Term+1+%232+055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8xL6RlAppE6vJQBxH2TY4mQrVy9dHid0DYs2fC6B_W3-U9cbKt1luaGfI7q7PmAVsj-InCmbcMP2wH1eSPRUACpgK2bT01tNsAK5UZmIrqVi-MONrdSNcgA3dCqHLeqV9xo6lIK3KEa4k/s1600/Term+1+%232+055.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All the lovely ladies who joined us for the evening</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmVUtL_zSti1H3CkwVwGP7SKAoOb9OTdzOW4-eDASYjx-y9eRaO__QRXnFL1I79YTAwIpqrJW0xpjiW12UbXDRc4vVoyD6CfIpY_imbTDmo6-KZls0HFclQ7Hyl_a6UPq0TcejhKD9FI-/s1600/Term+1+%232+059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmVUtL_zSti1H3CkwVwGP7SKAoOb9OTdzOW4-eDASYjx-y9eRaO__QRXnFL1I79YTAwIpqrJW0xpjiW12UbXDRc4vVoyD6CfIpY_imbTDmo6-KZls0HFclQ7Hyl_a6UPq0TcejhKD9FI-/s1600/Term+1+%232+059.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me & "My Girls'' ~ I think they are just pretty splendid. </td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
We had a few empty pots & planters around here that I wanted to use to add some color to the exterior of the school which is mostly concrete. Barb Yoder, the administrator's wife, and I went to a nursery one afternoon and filled the truck with lovely flowers. It was so much fun to get my hands in the dirt again. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now it's the challenge of keeping the plants alive. :)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUwPh5kYdEnDYoyiHLKNHI4zuXg6X5TTeiOmnn2JYglAszgYsOmxl-tbxhmY0AxUpH7p0QQyPBbgKopOy8p4MB1XGay6YutL7cCIbgdYgVV52SsWO-8BXDntZNU5Pms5sXj24nEx7KkF9/s1600/DSCN2606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDUwPh5kYdEnDYoyiHLKNHI4zuXg6X5TTeiOmnn2JYglAszgYsOmxl-tbxhmY0AxUpH7p0QQyPBbgKopOy8p4MB1XGay6YutL7cCIbgdYgVV52SsWO-8BXDntZNU5Pms5sXj24nEx7KkF9/s1600/DSCN2606.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a> </div>
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Three of my friends who had been students with me in 2010 returned to Thailand to visit and do some traveling. It was really special to have them over here and we even had a mini 2010 Reunion with them and those of us staff who had been here all together. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruLRow2v0e0-Yov9v-6svzC0dNqAig3c1_q_wz9Mjxj22GsS4Dh1T3wG6DYm3dki9bfuZ0_lT3rBMItPMFGGxPHFvQCZ5uVXJkQCF6sCqAT_LWi3f9YmIwnnVXwqRZwS-TY4oPdXbl7KQ/s1600/IMAG0054-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhruLRow2v0e0-Yov9v-6svzC0dNqAig3c1_q_wz9Mjxj22GsS4Dh1T3wG6DYm3dki9bfuZ0_lT3rBMItPMFGGxPHFvQCZ5uVXJkQCF6sCqAT_LWi3f9YmIwnnVXwqRZwS-TY4oPdXbl7KQ/s1600/IMAG0054-1.jpg" height="343" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee shop with Yony who traveled all the way from London to visit. <br />
Love how we can pick up right where we left off! :) </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvnUmeQ9eIabUqGolHNHpnTdTRmvtpNjiZVOw-OZ91sfkPP3hBxSl9ye3ymquP1nlzAMSRXoHETsZe5IjdOZn3G0oCnTNzyf_13g1E2fqclq83vJTxLT5OnaE3Mqw2uAhLNCE9cuFI1-L/s1600/1011839_10201556636344680_842053264_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGvnUmeQ9eIabUqGolHNHpnTdTRmvtpNjiZVOw-OZ91sfkPP3hBxSl9ye3ymquP1nlzAMSRXoHETsZe5IjdOZn3G0oCnTNzyf_13g1E2fqclq83vJTxLT5OnaE3Mqw2uAhLNCE9cuFI1-L/s1600/1011839_10201556636344680_842053264_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those of us 2010'ers on this side of the world. Good memories with these people!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And then, there are the daily routines and moments that my days consist of. Just in case you wanted a glimpse of some of my surroundings... </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihVH8TOMoHGVrjJl2oyIuLJPGbshtKZMXixddYE8SH1fvVdFvPSun_3q_uLZW4kzI7Va_etuu6hdSJcEMz-Jtzpbf8bqZgdd1Y6lq_XCkOzvQ_t8f66Ka6wSRYU8pg36upT6VVh2k4YLf6/s1600/IMAG0092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihVH8TOMoHGVrjJl2oyIuLJPGbshtKZMXixddYE8SH1fvVdFvPSun_3q_uLZW4kzI7Va_etuu6hdSJcEMz-Jtzpbf8bqZgdd1Y6lq_XCkOzvQ_t8f66Ka6wSRYU8pg36upT6VVh2k4YLf6/s1600/IMAG0092.jpg" height="400" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khau pad guy - One of my many favorite Thai dishes of <br />
fried rice with chicken served with a tomato broth and a spritz of fresh lime. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6Qr8vl4gbiSoNEmhYRL1fy8VTc2-AvaE-51nW1DLZio_D6Hb3t6qPYD5Uo6YucLR02k2dqYR_lKrrjaShnnAMPJnY4yvUwQUo5vTMP4rNSTecOp8yo6fB1nVzP8K-mWghltNGrqYYsAX/s1600/IMAG0093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6Qr8vl4gbiSoNEmhYRL1fy8VTc2-AvaE-51nW1DLZio_D6Hb3t6qPYD5Uo6YucLR02k2dqYR_lKrrjaShnnAMPJnY4yvUwQUo5vTMP4rNSTecOp8yo6fB1nVzP8K-mWghltNGrqYYsAX/s1600/IMAG0093.jpg" height="238" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have to keep five bathrooms and the girls' dorm stocked with paper supplies. <br />
Believe me, we go through a lot around here! </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RQtrWFaAlp01fN8gfXVK8yO0t43X2t-WJVde84nlFl34hbgMZVv1ekM6LSI__AR7JCxcULEAcsVZHJKzUSUABfpdWC4YkvwQZ0gR2g-eSvvW7TeCJYjvIsfQFMZb07e4lyOwvuakQMSP/s1600/Term+1+%232+007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RQtrWFaAlp01fN8gfXVK8yO0t43X2t-WJVde84nlFl34hbgMZVv1ekM6LSI__AR7JCxcULEAcsVZHJKzUSUABfpdWC4YkvwQZ0gR2g-eSvvW7TeCJYjvIsfQFMZb07e4lyOwvuakQMSP/s1600/Term+1+%232+007.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cafeteria/dining area</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh282raY3kvcNs7d3BnNAIXRKoDUIzQ7m68c1iSbUrPkMY__k2SoLIAoK-GvY1Gov6w0NyPzP1qpVq1TsfaYL2_nyPt3FE-sAMWrqspwgTW2i0_GOQdI1YajRGPpmSMWBwgKCuFm4mwpPsP/s1600/Term+1+%232+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh282raY3kvcNs7d3BnNAIXRKoDUIzQ7m68c1iSbUrPkMY__k2SoLIAoK-GvY1Gov6w0NyPzP1qpVq1TsfaYL2_nyPt3FE-sAMWrqspwgTW2i0_GOQdI1YajRGPpmSMWBwgKCuFm4mwpPsP/s1600/Term+1+%232+006.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The downstairs lounge where studying, reading, guitar-playing, games, and conversation take place. <br />
Sometimes all at once. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTqCzYWMdBszXxTFDfBrsiMCcHgxoSGnsJHIRP-Ope_cQJcY_PyWHnuJDMKLW3KEmxcOIUoBDm06CmrwQVMaGtBHty5zmUlWcaZyTXbLi2VDhEN1-GtYaB2W9DKGCrfOnXlKpa3ePiD3k3/s1600/Term+1+%232+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTqCzYWMdBszXxTFDfBrsiMCcHgxoSGnsJHIRP-Ope_cQJcY_PyWHnuJDMKLW3KEmxcOIUoBDm06CmrwQVMaGtBHty5zmUlWcaZyTXbLi2VDhEN1-GtYaB2W9DKGCrfOnXlKpa3ePiD3k3/s1600/Term+1+%232+005.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Study Hall. Or where studying is SUPPOSED to take place. :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHsufCbsHmlkSGwceoQlClRYw9ouDDE_EOjZWk7oeQgfMUe-_OVNSM3z-VS3gxoOCRCrXC4yp9enqQb0LlZf3rlvDUX0Lzo_QMya56qLaNgEcrvRuJEqFmKLe1R0Vb09N_AflgoSpOYj-/s1600/Term+1+%232+002-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqHsufCbsHmlkSGwceoQlClRYw9ouDDE_EOjZWk7oeQgfMUe-_OVNSM3z-VS3gxoOCRCrXC4yp9enqQb0LlZf3rlvDUX0Lzo_QMya56qLaNgEcrvRuJEqFmKLe1R0Vb09N_AflgoSpOYj-/s1600/Term+1+%232+002-001.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Classroom. The students spend between 4-5 hr/day in class.<br />
(yep, that was me too not that long ago. :))<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Every morning we have a chapel service, and on Fridays, a group of students are in charge. They have done a great job of planning those chapel services with a variety of activities. Sometimes, that includes skits to <br />act out Bible verses. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3-ScAl6jwriRJ88-zojghesUPMWbhhUdMKzT9hOES4qjyDLLVlKn2js73k-QPKv56JNxBLMh5fbnXmQuAHJz-mOcj7z6eblXdS8rVhHXyGkPwAlBf2b7Fl9aVEpOB2slbm9WUiyh1shJ/s1600/Term+1+%232+038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3-ScAl6jwriRJ88-zojghesUPMWbhhUdMKzT9hOES4qjyDLLVlKn2js73k-QPKv56JNxBLMh5fbnXmQuAHJz-mOcj7z6eblXdS8rVhHXyGkPwAlBf2b7Fl9aVEpOB2slbm9WUiyh1shJ/s1600/Term+1+%232+038.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chapel Service </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4d7sU_YOCUhWO7qAIAY6YdvGKQMx-mPbzbvdTP0n64V1sLjsN36UskeOntzwOE3A2hxhZrfDSn9b1TL9goF77jDnxSjHY99447tCjNGQhrLK7uZL4lHDHug2TFHZ9BHvBhTahE7g-kDO/s1600/Term+1+%232+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4d7sU_YOCUhWO7qAIAY6YdvGKQMx-mPbzbvdTP0n64V1sLjsN36UskeOntzwOE3A2hxhZrfDSn9b1TL9goF77jDnxSjHY99447tCjNGQhrLK7uZL4lHDHug2TFHZ9BHvBhTahE7g-kDO/s1600/Term+1+%232+025.jpg" height="315" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three women with a scales, a mirror, a black sweater, a silk scarf, and plenty of exaggerated expressions. I believe we got our verse of "do not compare yourselves among yourselves" across quite well. :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJOSb14y83ZX4x7KTxaGi84tzGQ4VuhrW6UUjJhUdjQn01EaQFkPsV361qkl2KC5DBg935xmoiKqaN5X4EAMrmeVgx4eh9bYI32yg59DQRjbz2ImCvfjstbxcPAFTDb2oSS2ZBpeh_uXB/s1600/Term+1+%232+028-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJOSb14y83ZX4x7KTxaGi84tzGQ4VuhrW6UUjJhUdjQn01EaQFkPsV361qkl2KC5DBg935xmoiKqaN5X4EAMrmeVgx4eh9bYI32yg59DQRjbz2ImCvfjstbxcPAFTDb2oSS2ZBpeh_uXB/s1600/Term+1+%232+028-001.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And sometimes, skits bring out unknown talents among us. Even in our administrator. :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0MMmOamlqvourkV70wvwFP6VBE4KkIZr4R-r9mvN75g_KddcmCTqff-VtkkZft1-V6w8aYM5S-U-OQAKrchdRECAr6tSzr6WGhF1omgN9LPhMfGwcw-MO7Oc5Pse3oIclOe1VFiHMePJ/s1600/DSCN2610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0MMmOamlqvourkV70wvwFP6VBE4KkIZr4R-r9mvN75g_KddcmCTqff-VtkkZft1-V6w8aYM5S-U-OQAKrchdRECAr6tSzr6WGhF1omgN9LPhMfGwcw-MO7Oc5Pse3oIclOe1VFiHMePJ/s1600/DSCN2610.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saturday night cook-outs at the Pastor's home. <br />
We love the Barkman's. And we love Mr. Barkman's grilling. :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzA9xLTE9PuGugvjc-tc79w7KD1fRiYv5URbhH1pJmP2esfhpkHPTaCvbOFoxcftT69bCddrLk64IzE8NqzpDCKBIMRK5X-K__39EHupek8HqgdWaxriwy_pmBwrRa06B2-GZk0LFaizQ4/s1600/IMAG0057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzA9xLTE9PuGugvjc-tc79w7KD1fRiYv5URbhH1pJmP2esfhpkHPTaCvbOFoxcftT69bCddrLk64IzE8NqzpDCKBIMRK5X-K__39EHupek8HqgdWaxriwy_pmBwrRa06B2-GZk0LFaizQ4/s1600/IMAG0057.jpg" height="400" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One day I found all these sticky notes from the girls on my door.<br />
They certainly know how to make me laugh & cry all at once. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then, I find these random jokes hanging in the shower behind my towel.<br />
Did I ever say I love a good sense of humor?? :)<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After three weeks of classes and exams, the students leave for a 10 day ministry trip. That is my time to recoup, to refresh, to sleep, to catch up on never-ending projects, and to plan for the coming term.<br />It is also the perfect time to spend with friends who have a spare room in their house with A/C. </span><span style="font-size: small;">[grin]</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lM8tYSPIRtLeOBdJapn1sGBdDzHAYeKH9uRcktH-KVk-IQYVX0bMhcPQ6qfYdMWlBpLaE8pkfFXhxFSACkakFNiAYFd9FOL7K7wZCGF-_ddAQBbMoh7X2XFqTR7H_P76F9GuYdpDDfiA/s1600/facebook_-2146076342.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1lM8tYSPIRtLeOBdJapn1sGBdDzHAYeKH9uRcktH-KVk-IQYVX0bMhcPQ6qfYdMWlBpLaE8pkfFXhxFSACkakFNiAYFd9FOL7K7wZCGF-_ddAQBbMoh7X2XFqTR7H_P76F9GuYdpDDfiA/s1600/facebook_-2146076342.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practicing my culinary skills with Jana, Second-in-Command of the Kitchen.<br />
(For the record, First-in-Command would be her mother. Not me) </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch with Mae Wan, our faithful laundry lady and Thai Grandma</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 4th of July celebration for Val's 60th Birthday (with the gift of a hand-drawn picture of his children).<br />
I feel so blessed to work under the leadership of this man of God. </td></tr>
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After the Month of the Foot Problems, we had a bout of Dengue Fever that took it's toll on one of the students and two of the staff. All three of them had to be hospitalized for several days due to very low platelet counts. The fever is spread by infected mosquitoes who are striped black-and-white and are most commonly active during the day, unlike most other evening-biting mosquitoes. </div>
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We praise God for the healing He brought to those three and that so far, the rest of us have been spared. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visiting one of the students, Sandra, in the hospital.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Life continues to be a journey of the mundane and the extraordinary. <br />Yet in it all, He keeps giving me purpose, teaching my skittish heart to trust Him, and multiplying my meager offering of loaves and fishes in ways that make me stand in awe of how chooses us to do His work here on earth. </span><br />
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<span class="hP" id=":ur" style="outline: none; padding-right: 10px;" tabindex="-1"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">May we all be in such a condition of soul, such an attitude of heart as will fit us for any little work in which our gracious Lord may be pleased to use us — not seeking a place for ourselves, but lovingly serving all. The Lord, in His great mercy, grant that thus it may be, with all His beloved people!" </span></span></h1>
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<span class="hP" style="outline: none; padding-right: 10px;" tabindex="-1"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">~C.H. Mackintosh</span></span></h1>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-52266428131366730702013-06-15T01:48:00.001+07:002013-06-15T01:48:53.712+07:00The Pied Piper of Prostitution <br />
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<i>The slogan has haunted me</i> since nearly three years ago, I first saw the alcohol advertisement plastered all over the streets of Chiang Mai, Thailand. </div>
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<b>"Give 100% to Live 100%"</b></div>
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Tonight, I went prayer walking once more past the bars of familiar streets. Ladies lined the sidewalks in front of windowless, three-story buildings, neon signs and pulsing music beckoning to the night crowd. Primping themselves and powdering their faces, </div>
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their eyes were heavy with dark mascara. </div>
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It's just another night on the job. </div>
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The black spiked heels, the rich red mini skirts, the sheer, lacy tops. This is the life isn't it? Men, a sensation of power, money, pleasure, iPhones, beautiful clothes ~ what more could a woman want? Yet the emptiness in their eyes is a cynical testament to the reality of where "Giving 100%" has lured them to...</div>
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I notice the Girl in the Corner, sitting on a bar stool apart from the others. She is 19, she tells me. She has been in Chiang Mai for a year already, separated from her family. She smiles sweetly, accepts the invitation to English Class that I offer, and politely carries on a conversation with me until we exhaust her English and my feeble Thai. We part ways, and I wonder, "What brought her here? What is her story? How did she first buy into the lie that to literally give everything she <b>is</b> will reward her </div>
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with the life she always dreamed of?" </div>
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It's the Pied Piper of Prostitution, and its luring sound is to the tune of cash. Scripture tells us that "the love of money is the root of all evil." [I Timothy 6:10]. After an evening on the streets, I cannot deny the truth or the power of that statement. The sex trade has many faces - that of the runaway teenager looking for love, the pimp, the club owner, the child whose innocence was stolen, the customer seeking for a thrill and fleshly pleasure, the girl working "the Track" in your own city, the father who sells his daughter for a flatscreen TV, the drug addict desperate to buy the next shoot up of cocaine, and the young hill tribe woman who is obligated to make the most money possible to send home to her poor family. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The stronghold of the love of money holds millions captive. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Actually, make that billions. </span></div>
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It is a lie that the Enemy has used to manipulate both victim and perpetrator. It is a lie that drives these ladies to work the bars of Asian cities, even as they tell you that they hate the things they have to do. In reality, the shame is overwhelming and the price tag attached is enormous. "Why don't they leave, why do they do this to themselves?" we wonder as we shake our heads in disbelief or point a judging finger. No, for many of them, there may not be physical chains holding them here, forcing them to do what they don't want to do; but they are bound by the lie that money is the answer and </div>
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they have no better choice. </div>
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You have to do whatever it takes to make the most that you can. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfpTVQ59YyK26Hd7Bk1Li1fJNJ5raJ2Y_je1uFEmy7gc4XGM0Q85npm4P5WiHXLzbLRXvpJLPfB4fQ7Ff44zGLijwPMG3Roq1432zoNcP4ypslgBRrI7Kq981w6zU1hhBu7cG6K1E-mYmm/s1600/DSCN1350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfpTVQ59YyK26Hd7Bk1Li1fJNJ5raJ2Y_je1uFEmy7gc4XGM0Q85npm4P5WiHXLzbLRXvpJLPfB4fQ7Ff44zGLijwPMG3Roq1432zoNcP4ypslgBRrI7Kq981w6zU1hhBu7cG6K1E-mYmm/s1600/DSCN1350.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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So tonight they do it all over again. Give what they don't want to give - what they shouldn't have to give - in order to keep up with the Pied Piper's tune. </div>
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I want to run after her. To tell her that it's all wrong, that the catchy slogan</div>
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is not what it seems to be. </div>
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But what of us? What lies have we blindly followed, what precious things have we sacrificed to the god of money, what voice have we chosen to heed over that of our Savior's ~ and what makes us think that </div>
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in return, we will "Live 100%"?</div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-16382355943323459112013-05-27T01:28:00.001+07:002013-08-08T20:35:45.972+07:00On Being Dean ~ Lesson 101<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>What I've been learning in my first three weeks as ladies' dean.... </b></div>
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{at least the edited & condensed version adapted from a lengthy journal entry}</div>
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~ I am in a classroom. Not a literal one as the students are, but a classroom nonetheless of Life Lessons. It also includes taking tests on a daily basis. </div>
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~ I cannot do anything on my own. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It must be all God. </div>
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~God delights in showcasing <i>His </i>strength through my weakness. </div>
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~ It takes time to build trust and relationships. Don't rush them. </div>
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~ Daily quiet time is essential to the task.</div>
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~ Audrey Assad's "<i>Restless</i>" has become my theme song and is stuck on repeat in my playlist more often than not. [<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0B2ybZpDeM">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0B2ybZpDeM</a>]</div>
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~ An atrocious amount of hair will collect on the floor of the girls' dorm in a 24 hour period. </div>
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~ Sometimes, <b>chocolate </b>IS the answer. </div>
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~ Making good food can be helpful in building friendships. Maybe there really is a scientific explanation to that heart-stomach connection. </div>
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~ Being dean can be exhausting mentally, physically, emotionally, & spiritually. </div>
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~ Old habits (like being a night owl) did not automatically change when I became a dean.</div>
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~ Being able to laugh at myself goes a long way in practicing a good sense of humor. [even when I ask someone what the battery life of the vacuum is, just after I had unplugged it's cord. TRUE STORY]. :)</div>
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~ Put down my computer or stop whatever I am busy doing when one of the girls asks a question or wants to talk. </div>
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~ "People" are more important than my daily "To Do" list. </div>
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~ The internet can quickly become a thief of my time. Browse wisely. </div>
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~ Try to be present at all mealtimes. That's where the good discussions happen. </div>
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~ There can never be too many fans blowing at once during hot season. </div>
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~ Quickly learn to recognize speed bumps. Otherwise, it is painful for both me and my bike. </div>
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~ Don't be afraid of trying new things, even if I'm worried I'll look like a fool. [like trying to play futsal, the Asian version of soccer]. </div>
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~ Girls universally will discuss guys & relationships. Trust me, I am one. </div>
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~ Be real with my own flaws & weaknesses, but also willing to share the good things that God has done/is doing in my life. </div>
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~ Mercy must be balanced with Truth, and Grace is sometimes gritty. </div>
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~ I realize how selfish I really can be. </div>
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~ Be prepared to be asked a lot of questions. Many of them, I may not have an answer for. </div>
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~ There is a lot of joy and fulfillment to be found in serving. Even sweeping three stories of tiled floors. </div>
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~ A grateful spirit is contagious. Be quick to express my thankfulness to others. </div>
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~ That weekly girls' night-out with a friend on Monday evenings is soul-refreshing. </div>
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~ Even brief email replies are better than none at all when my inbox is screaming for attention. </div>
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~ Riding my own motorbike is a great outlet for independence and adventure. </div>
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~ Thailand's iced coffees have become a regular part of my diet. </div>
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~ I wouldn't get anywhere without the prayers of others. Don't take them for granted. </div>
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~ Laugh often. Love much. </div>
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~ Snail mail is greatly appreciated. </div>
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~ I will mess up, believe lies about myself, and find myself falling into people-pleaser mode. Just don't stay there, but return to the Truth. </div>
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~ Be able to accept God's grace for myself so that I can freely extend grace to others. </div>
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<b>... and that, my friends, are the lessons of only the first three weeks... I still have seven month's worth ahead of me. :) </b></div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-17322331408012040022013-05-09T16:57:00.002+07:002013-05-10T11:41:32.003+07:00These Days...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Have you ever had one of those moments where you feel overcome by joy? Where you are vividly aware of the life, the beauty, the blessing, the gift of the moment? It happened to me the other day. </div>
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I was just taking a walk around our mooban (neighborhood), enjoying the cool freshness of the morning air. I was thinking and praying as I walked, my thoughts slightly distracted as they tend to be. But suddenly, something made me just slow down and <i>notice </i>my surroundings: the heady fragrance of plumeria permeating the breeze; dozens of green mangoes hanging from bending branches, the tropical birds that chirped and whistled all around me, the soft <i>swish, swish</i> of the street sweeper's broom, the distant rumble of a motorbike, elderly Asian ladies doing their morning exercise routine, nodding politely as we passed. My very skin felt the cool dampness of the air, and when I took a deep breath, it was as if all my senses came alive. </div>
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I was awestruck. </div>
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It wasn't just the physical beauty I was surrounded by that enraptured me. Out of the six to seven billion people in this world, who am I to be so blessed to be in this beautiful country, to have the opportunity to see more of God's great world and to drink in the experience of living within another culture? Or the realization that I have the privilege of getting to know six lovely, young ladies who have a heart after God and a desire to pursue His plan for their lives, whether at home or overseas? Oh yeah, and the thrill of driving my motorbike down the road and feeling the wind in my face? :) Yet even all this pales when I remember how much my Abba loves me and His gift of eternal life and desire to have an intimate relationship with <i>me, </i>just a frail human being on this speck of cosmic dust we call planet Earth. </div>
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Maybe even <i>awestruck</i> isn't enough to describe moments like this. </div>
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No, I am not living in some utopia community out of touch with reality since I have returned to Thailand. :) I am human and the people I live and work with are just as human as me. Daily life here has challenges and difficulties just as it does in my hometown of Myerstown, PA. Yet since being here, God has given me so much peace in resting in the truth that this is where He has called me, at least for this season of my life. </div>
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I am learning, in His Presence, there is truly <i>fullness of</i> <i>JOY</i>... </div>
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So these pics are a glimpse into my life {These Days}...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6VAIY9Uw2Cq-PG4BQu8EGBjeSz8XI3bvyqo2xu9-0ZflItOFpgErsLaqR52QJITA1QH0Fv375jG7SuKuHrNxONfgpY8bO7a0h6FzCPBEGCwYuWNXsdUimTm3WaNH4uRM9ARZwfeNPN3i/s1600/DSCN2472.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6VAIY9Uw2Cq-PG4BQu8EGBjeSz8XI3bvyqo2xu9-0ZflItOFpgErsLaqR52QJITA1QH0Fv375jG7SuKuHrNxONfgpY8bO7a0h6FzCPBEGCwYuWNXsdUimTm3WaNH4uRM9ARZwfeNPN3i/s1600/DSCN2472.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lanna Resort -- where we had staff retreat the week after I got here</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiUUuM5gtoT_RJMYQOtrmMsvJN8l87zMYA7CENrp1IAv12sfpP6F5RVuUCyLTZbMpq_iAKWq3UWOhiXZxDE1cXCbtr1KAPmfcbPqilgEdoQ7Hvez3mOTgoe7MlilZS3W1YzmDyDRht4m7A/s1600/DSCN2487.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiUUuM5gtoT_RJMYQOtrmMsvJN8l87zMYA7CENrp1IAv12sfpP6F5RVuUCyLTZbMpq_iAKWq3UWOhiXZxDE1cXCbtr1KAPmfcbPqilgEdoQ7Hvez3mOTgoe7MlilZS3W1YzmDyDRht4m7A/s1600/DSCN2487.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning beauty walking from my cabin</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-hnOsjAyTfFHAkC9qoSTBgK1sxEy3zOQnHXgK6uB3n7HvnsfdL6utZfrb63E0nLLCPdlCbkCnuXRylpJmXIWBN1274A_fN6J3z4bv7D2bozeKarIoog8R5cgp2UIqa6jZV4qIzEtpj-J/s1600/DSCN2486.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: 13px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu-hnOsjAyTfFHAkC9qoSTBgK1sxEy3zOQnHXgK6uB3n7HvnsfdL6utZfrb63E0nLLCPdlCbkCnuXRylpJmXIWBN1274A_fN6J3z4bv7D2bozeKarIoog8R5cgp2UIqa6jZV4qIzEtpj-J/s1600/DSCN2486.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And then there was a talent night that revealed another side of people. :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5qbx5IeFQg-WJLOoM9-ESJCbgSbxPUTck8FYfhsib2syJN24XmfrcpEHoL1iLvKMKfhAWztegs5HCz6GuazttXY_9ZlXlebWTHxE6fhBq5-AhoaA6SzsnMhQwWg7yXGcSGy6XP6E48Up/s1600/DSCN2482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf5qbx5IeFQg-WJLOoM9-ESJCbgSbxPUTck8FYfhsib2syJN24XmfrcpEHoL1iLvKMKfhAWztegs5HCz6GuazttXY_9ZlXlebWTHxE6fhBq5-AhoaA6SzsnMhQwWg7yXGcSGy6XP6E48Up/s1600/DSCN2482.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and family sing-a-longs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3iZbekVUTOKPuZIrmRpvL_ccsGQEsfKtL6TWPWsPYKRUzayKLBHLCQDjyEDUuEMfJb0aAW1Pxwb4kniDDCSRvu2ggXP1ZDYsqULdRrqQOJHY57SZUxVAA_wD4hQDsuyCrmsUc0xndAso1/s1600/DSCN2492.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3iZbekVUTOKPuZIrmRpvL_ccsGQEsfKtL6TWPWsPYKRUzayKLBHLCQDjyEDUuEMfJb0aAW1Pxwb4kniDDCSRvu2ggXP1ZDYsqULdRrqQOJHY57SZUxVAA_wD4hQDsuyCrmsUc0xndAso1/s1600/DSCN2492.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And what is a staff retreat without a volleyball tournament? </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8kDk3nX43cieKo6KK4xBoqAuGGJMOcQEoVXBeIcUPvW1JBFHCVmGvo7WgwaP9u_ise0YUSAvuXgeMGD_ljRLmzCiyHQE0XoiYNctTuFq_IJwGg9YbFeCjdnLebKmMxtuBdI9zekOGdeGI/s1600/DSCN2503.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8kDk3nX43cieKo6KK4xBoqAuGGJMOcQEoVXBeIcUPvW1JBFHCVmGvo7WgwaP9u_ise0YUSAvuXgeMGD_ljRLmzCiyHQE0XoiYNctTuFq_IJwGg9YbFeCjdnLebKmMxtuBdI9zekOGdeGI/s1600/DSCN2503.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and outdoor pizza parties</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvBXwzztPyXyjf27QIcEN4jspWKmawNnpm84XqD2IMcGWavAdNvLv8y354bjfYdOvfowMQgpB6N4hTcsWtwwLslN6LzcR2wkBzmLRJzNGpd9lUcTfsIBIUP6LHlcG_3tFLEmB9mxh78O8w/s1600/IMG_7691-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvBXwzztPyXyjf27QIcEN4jspWKmawNnpm84XqD2IMcGWavAdNvLv8y354bjfYdOvfowMQgpB6N4hTcsWtwwLslN6LzcR2wkBzmLRJzNGpd9lUcTfsIBIUP6LHlcG_3tFLEmB9mxh78O8w/s1600/IMG_7691-001.JPG" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There we are folks -- IGo Staff 2013</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3Pp6BfT3Z8cL5I9GQ165wl6X3cXKKzXqzBHqVItrBn13qed6sL-bTiiOlBwhedimaSSkusmkfDAAQkQ30gzMPoU14_11urBke_4DtpJ2CxZM3P01N9ga-M_dZnnX-XDjajCmrTxgd9w-/s1600/IMG_7714-001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3Pp6BfT3Z8cL5I9GQ165wl6X3cXKKzXqzBHqVItrBn13qed6sL-bTiiOlBwhedimaSSkusmkfDAAQkQ30gzMPoU14_11urBke_4DtpJ2CxZM3P01N9ga-M_dZnnX-XDjajCmrTxgd9w-/s1600/IMG_7714-001.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and the lovely ladies who fill the place of sisters away from home... </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuums2_Z1fmyB9nYpBOg1kwF-xtEBL8uMrmC0X6T5iEOnTWJ5yv_5-fJ0nNeJzcGmQ-U8xSbNIzswk-iVDbSEef2wltipgllpTC5q09bQaZYUxlpdGJiWpMQYzPH_UjG3ksyaKeSrclNYM/s1600/img_1907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: 13px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuums2_Z1fmyB9nYpBOg1kwF-xtEBL8uMrmC0X6T5iEOnTWJ5yv_5-fJ0nNeJzcGmQ-U8xSbNIzswk-iVDbSEef2wltipgllpTC5q09bQaZYUxlpdGJiWpMQYzPH_UjG3ksyaKeSrclNYM/s1600/img_1907.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...And holidays like Songkrahn which is a nationally-declared water fight, & no one is exempt!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyznyi2fP5RkHGD4DNelchCBjVovogZWHwDxz7sIMInsGeTtMAZ9I6kH1ggCqvodlO0cRMhwpief20ZEnMkiigk9mf4RBkoUUDfTX04sGdE1e41KyNH82QUGKFFs5ec-G7AYGN_6kIW_W/s1600/IMAG0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyznyi2fP5RkHGD4DNelchCBjVovogZWHwDxz7sIMInsGeTtMAZ9I6kH1ggCqvodlO0cRMhwpief20ZEnMkiigk9mf4RBkoUUDfTX04sGdE1e41KyNH82QUGKFFs5ec-G7AYGN_6kIW_W/s1600/IMAG0013.JPG" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Then came the fun of arranging and settling into the "Dean Room" :) </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8guF-ety6rvvRY07Ui5J1_oBglZSHmJxVjFx1pJ-IfjetOzjomhMie4uGQDdrM7Yf3uZNX0qHdQGanZIVyE6aqx1BOls2KQscMO9XHvubs4PrCuSeQ5o7aYaojzcvWJdIaba3duum5LS/s1600/IMAG0019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8guF-ety6rvvRY07Ui5J1_oBglZSHmJxVjFx1pJ-IfjetOzjomhMie4uGQDdrM7Yf3uZNX0qHdQGanZIVyE6aqx1BOls2KQscMO9XHvubs4PrCuSeQ5o7aYaojzcvWJdIaba3duum5LS/s1600/IMAG0019.JPG" height="320" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A reflection of the dandelion decal I put up on my one wall [we'll see how long it actually sticks :(]</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aSqU4FPWBnOgFg1IVcO5bDlB3lTvrAZuLtRPFSyhG94uaQLAFxf-NHOLk3T0tFPUl6_t6DaHXFDmZKmKHY9K-kliPftfvn6gqT4MegEDPoein1O2mQ2EkzFPH2V0uxw0g0VVzPLG7aLs/s1600/IMAG0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aSqU4FPWBnOgFg1IVcO5bDlB3lTvrAZuLtRPFSyhG94uaQLAFxf-NHOLk3T0tFPUl6_t6DaHXFDmZKmKHY9K-kliPftfvn6gqT4MegEDPoein1O2mQ2EkzFPH2V0uxw0g0VVzPLG7aLs/s1600/IMAG0037.JPG" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and the photo board I inherited compliments of Heidi Musser, which was exactly what I was wanting for this wall! :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWW5L6pS8nw4PGvmvam1SjJol0wuGuDYaeWG0WnC8F5s1__1kRmI8YaI1mS8w3ZQdESiiZeBegWdCuxDlUEvAzLiQdwCucpWdnQBEQ6b76F13tqylldJ3NFEHm593kOzt5X3gi0cg-XPW/s1600/IMAG0026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRWW5L6pS8nw4PGvmvam1SjJol0wuGuDYaeWG0WnC8F5s1__1kRmI8YaI1mS8w3ZQdESiiZeBegWdCuxDlUEvAzLiQdwCucpWdnQBEQ6b76F13tqylldJ3NFEHm593kOzt5X3gi0cg-XPW/s1600/IMAG0026.JPG" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was my chalkboard wall D.I.Y project in the study hall -- I would like to do a different country every term...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkeckyzx6mN_HaF0B4JG_OHRTO2fF2LHYHcX1MHlvt4oL0B9phY64yIPXd-c_xi0KAkfxjEakwUHsoYiEuiX5f4WJTMroxge9GCE0FbTo91LLCaJ8-hdk5VvE1zo7nhP80HsHBM1Rebpe/s1600/DSCN2515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkeckyzx6mN_HaF0B4JG_OHRTO2fF2LHYHcX1MHlvt4oL0B9phY64yIPXd-c_xi0KAkfxjEakwUHsoYiEuiX5f4WJTMroxge9GCE0FbTo91LLCaJ8-hdk5VvE1zo7nhP80HsHBM1Rebpe/s1600/DSCN2515.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and then there are lazy Sunday afternoon picnics on the mountain with the "single" staff. LOL </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc2oAIiEl4dZy1NSAmZnzUq_5K7goc53Eu5d4_IEzNbBQsbei1WcTb8_uqvAQ2CtJyN67GaW4Ial6Z8VdSSGgDRkdfPi6bTs-kX0u8YiOnyXfprynM08Xd70IaMB8PSMjW3mQN-lusV73w/s1600/DSCN2516.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc2oAIiEl4dZy1NSAmZnzUq_5K7goc53Eu5d4_IEzNbBQsbei1WcTb8_uqvAQ2CtJyN67GaW4Ial6Z8VdSSGgDRkdfPi6bTs-kX0u8YiOnyXfprynM08Xd70IaMB8PSMjW3mQN-lusV73w/s1600/DSCN2516.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...Except for Jana, who has "Finn" the ukelele to keep her company and together they strum us a little tune... </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckcrCpaN2nkPcKqlso9bvFIZXFDQXXjGINx7Ne5g1r_RCD6fBwy5VA8e4VurgnmyZisdJ8BU07af28vaNSuuXDHQpf4kYAZuv8X4cqcBAMMO2uCDrHqqqas34QUxihesG4A2LaTMzZvn9/s1600/DSCN2522.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgckcrCpaN2nkPcKqlso9bvFIZXFDQXXjGINx7Ne5g1r_RCD6fBwy5VA8e4VurgnmyZisdJ8BU07af28vaNSuuXDHQpf4kYAZuv8X4cqcBAMMO2uCDrHqqqas34QUxihesG4A2LaTMzZvn9/s1600/DSCN2522.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...Breakfasts with these beautiful people at the Hideaway Cafe</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and scouring the flower market where several dozen roses cost around $6</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8suk-M5h8GASzih8KtPHF62c8JWLj6QiLfDmOHNAuMzfEZO188-AKeatq8uIki9ks_hJOiRTkJMjS6QmKK0XOOTd6uuK0fBRBwt3WcMrB8r5kudKtt1wqMUL2dCd5ImvsneBCiIrTR6rg/s1600/DSCN2528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8suk-M5h8GASzih8KtPHF62c8JWLj6QiLfDmOHNAuMzfEZO188-AKeatq8uIki9ks_hJOiRTkJMjS6QmKK0XOOTd6uuK0fBRBwt3WcMrB8r5kudKtt1wqMUL2dCd5ImvsneBCiIrTR6rg/s1600/DSCN2528.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One Saturday, I helped with an English Day camp at a local Thai church. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdUUCqEHxqZpzS54ZCPy9-no9YFFlKLpKzN46X8UZt3ok4YeRY4Z0pQ3_ndIc13JlvMqa1LVI8cIRhoTMjOWoYz8kj2krdXvG-qf8bCEFfraloD6M0m3hDs4tGFvEibUgIa87KDV0rY0p/s1600/IMAG0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdUUCqEHxqZpzS54ZCPy9-no9YFFlKLpKzN46X8UZt3ok4YeRY4Z0pQ3_ndIc13JlvMqa1LVI8cIRhoTMjOWoYz8kj2krdXvG-qf8bCEFfraloD6M0m3hDs4tGFvEibUgIa87KDV0rY0p/s1600/IMAG0029.JPG" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...And then there was the final afternoon of solitude before the students started coming</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MEBHTeBRMuWSz8KhyOA4k6znubv4gPxMFCDbN3DSJsjyf68DrBJjxUw_1pagJ9Rh0ZsBZpeGv8gLnYIyh-IYvROs-VqKD-fQ8oM09SstBeKhbp5GAfBupe3N6kekNPtFwhp3ii_2z-la/s1600/IMAG0030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MEBHTeBRMuWSz8KhyOA4k6znubv4gPxMFCDbN3DSJsjyf68DrBJjxUw_1pagJ9Rh0ZsBZpeGv8gLnYIyh-IYvROs-VqKD-fQ8oM09SstBeKhbp5GAfBupe3N6kekNPtFwhp3ii_2z-la/s1600/IMAG0030.JPG" height="320" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...April 25th, 2013: Ready or not, here they come! :) </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2R9OuSwoCQNty-c2Um6nWfjbPi5Rx9JfvxuHWD6pJNsdrwbNsnQAAQzCVJKco8uy12zJ2hmOvyt2Z-_-DwWkJ5mA095VfV-Jq5QzJtyvMxAjZtRmfz-We4PFKYfJOOpVn-2di2Kl7vOw/s1600/DSCN2534.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2R9OuSwoCQNty-c2Um6nWfjbPi5Rx9JfvxuHWD6pJNsdrwbNsnQAAQzCVJKco8uy12zJ2hmOvyt2Z-_-DwWkJ5mA095VfV-Jq5QzJtyvMxAjZtRmfz-We4PFKYfJOOpVn-2di2Kl7vOw/s1600/DSCN2534.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Day of semester, early morning ice breakers. Gotta love all those awkward first moments. :( Thankfully, they don't last long. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqJS0Rl87oyPvJLVJZ7oEcttZlYOIpXDtLrbb-T3BtwhmN6ukJkSVxHbB80d1OVgsWfaId4X5oVXDwFOMSB8Vde8ViS7DTvlKNS_6b2BIDMkrYeug6-QbxYq3rU5N1QhBu3DgkreFcN0q/s1600/_MG_6957.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqJS0Rl87oyPvJLVJZ7oEcttZlYOIpXDtLrbb-T3BtwhmN6ukJkSVxHbB80d1OVgsWfaId4X5oVXDwFOMSB8Vde8ViS7DTvlKNS_6b2BIDMkrYeug6-QbxYq3rU5N1QhBu3DgkreFcN0q/s1600/_MG_6957.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The student body of IGO First Semester 2013 -- six young ladies, three guys, and two married couples. They are the reason that I am here & it is my privilege to serve a group such as this. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXxtdQk_0nwv28I6CREPR7Jn-YANF4aMLgQCgy78A1p7lg8RfF-exVwOOte7OleXwa5Sc3ITL5F8q_EdmeobnME3E3w7Z7TzeigiszNspDu3g1GmxF0zLUGOpnrb9E3hHmhIACm70fzNXT/s1600/IMAG0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXxtdQk_0nwv28I6CREPR7Jn-YANF4aMLgQCgy78A1p7lg8RfF-exVwOOte7OleXwa5Sc3ITL5F8q_EdmeobnME3E3w7Z7TzeigiszNspDu3g1GmxF0zLUGOpnrb9E3hHmhIACm70fzNXT/s1600/IMAG0034.JPG" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...So I have started taking Thai lessons. Five tones to remember. On top of that, try saying words with the "ng" sound at the <i>beginning </i>of the word. [I told you it's not easy.] </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_bl-ScJvgefDzwCJArkNY0_Ay6kOM0WBx51Seb2fJo_kuuClHoITr-0dLh78G3SdcFDqcRJsyk3YmlX5rtq-qU5FU5gWVLLmil6MvWfROjEgM48wTRXjAAmMDHT620nazHYT_5YR7U_a/s1600/IMAG0040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_bl-ScJvgefDzwCJArkNY0_Ay6kOM0WBx51Seb2fJo_kuuClHoITr-0dLh78G3SdcFDqcRJsyk3YmlX5rtq-qU5FU5gWVLLmil6MvWfROjEgM48wTRXjAAmMDHT620nazHYT_5YR7U_a/s1600/IMAG0040.jpg" height="190" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My view from my bedroom window -- how many times has this sight of those mountains refreshed my spirit??</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEAa_ESwRY_ndYO4aTlESxt4maQnZp6HDi2ejO0IG0gjCFo0atfQ7dPfXaVLce-qcCsARmaJhjN0ht1ez2aZfuASB7V7qYyYyIWE3QbK7jI10kia4Rq6MA2uqZpE5Krb2g0HvuUJLF9b5/s1600/IMAG0041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEAa_ESwRY_ndYO4aTlESxt4maQnZp6HDi2ejO0IG0gjCFo0atfQ7dPfXaVLce-qcCsARmaJhjN0ht1ez2aZfuASB7V7qYyYyIWE3QbK7jI10kia4Rq6MA2uqZpE5Krb2g0HvuUJLF9b5/s1600/IMAG0041.jpg" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These days, I spend a lot of time sweeping tile floors. It's a good thing dirty floors have always been a pet peeve of mine. That helps with the motivation of keeping three stories of floors clean. LOL</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixqO_NAnfVgD_hQwGnA85v8f_dMsadjpFOYxLYi8AuIloYb7hPQerKewA-Jv_Ku38G5lRxcBU4xsOTZDRzujjHYwdQvUvaWLwOBIlBn6enpyoMxB7H5iThj2UYjQgKOMaeVBCcL3ZmL2r2/s1600/IMAG0043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixqO_NAnfVgD_hQwGnA85v8f_dMsadjpFOYxLYi8AuIloYb7hPQerKewA-Jv_Ku38G5lRxcBU4xsOTZDRzujjHYwdQvUvaWLwOBIlBn6enpyoMxB7H5iThj2UYjQgKOMaeVBCcL3ZmL2r2/s1600/IMAG0043.jpg" height="320" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and Jonas (pronounced "CHO-nas" with a dutchified accent) and I are official! LOL I love my bike. <br />
And Heidi, he is treating me well. :) </td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTWIaznQ6M5TY4QKI4lXO031b46u1RLowMqPVahyNrLPvMtPt_QyNk0NTYkmKbO1Y3_YXiLOdJ7HnXBbafnUmtWqL6UAHhSlCNJaCRuApHRPA97_E36JTZvGKOwQHKFRvuZYmugJZLKTF/s1600/IMAG0022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTWIaznQ6M5TY4QKI4lXO031b46u1RLowMqPVahyNrLPvMtPt_QyNk0NTYkmKbO1Y3_YXiLOdJ7HnXBbafnUmtWqL6UAHhSlCNJaCRuApHRPA97_E36JTZvGKOwQHKFRvuZYmugJZLKTF/s1600/IMAG0022.JPG" height="191" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...These days, there are always those moment that call for a strong iced coffee from this cool little <br />
VW bus-turned-coffee-shop. Reason #78 why I love Thailand. :)<br />
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-33156203627460560202013-04-08T19:12:00.000+07:002013-04-08T22:35:26.087+07:00The Why of the What <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A dozen days ago, I boarded the eight-seater Piper
plane as the lone passenger with two pilots. That flight was only the first
stretch of the long journey from the rolling, barren hills of Lancaster, PA, to
touchdown on the runway rimmed by the hazy blue-green mountains of Chiang Mai, Thailand. </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDnvDqza91WSScAr2SqoNMd4RgG3Km3Rk03CeytiImoReCP4_v7xlU3vEPocQMYHZDh2Yd1IeCn12l9yZ76tTEnF6NM8a2MVHQagKPr4Id4dB3qulqpXbaRINWCopMlIKY-wAJt4DPGJf/s1600/DSCN2466.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNDnvDqza91WSScAr2SqoNMd4RgG3Km3Rk03CeytiImoReCP4_v7xlU3vEPocQMYHZDh2Yd1IeCn12l9yZ76tTEnF6NM8a2MVHQagKPr4Id4dB3qulqpXbaRINWCopMlIKY-wAJt4DPGJf/s1600/DSCN2466.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: large;">Once we got past the bumpy take-off, the view from the very, very small plane was actually quite scenic.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">From here to there and back again. It is an odd feeling to
have your heart suspended between two different worlds, to be at home in both,
and yet to still have that unquenchable yearning for eternal Eden…</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last December 20<sup>th</sup>, I think my homecoming at JFK
airport was so jubilant that even security may have been getting suspicious of
all the commotion. Thankfully, we were not apprehended ~ and my </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">time at home was rich, hectic, hard,
and refreshing.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">During the next three months, I savored each minute with my
two year old nephew who now imitates every word he hears and who fascinates me with
his energetic way of living life with all the wonder of a child. Once more I
donned my scrubs and dusted off my stethoscope and loved every minute of diving
back into work at Cornerstone Family Health nestled in small-town Lititz. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">My
family and I shared laughter and tears that knitted our hearts together in
even deeper ways, and I marveled again at how they put up with my idiosyncrasies,
odd habits, and sarcastic sense of humor. I shopped out of my sister’s closet,
disagreed with her sense of direction (which is just as bad as mine), and
taught her to make Thai-style iced coffee while we finished each other’s sentences. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qOGLRT2is0g07BlPVAXJ4JT5qGzb4GN38PSgL17vKJKqhgwBfqJq2uFFHeZ1dd1BP0LuEuqq_6Hb8VXbK37LnHpCk8MYM630qUNbzj73LRxkH0FjVnC4Kfmyz514S6AkFOqKrxvXm3hI/s1600/DSCN2457.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qOGLRT2is0g07BlPVAXJ4JT5qGzb4GN38PSgL17vKJKqhgwBfqJq2uFFHeZ1dd1BP0LuEuqq_6Hb8VXbK37LnHpCk8MYM630qUNbzj73LRxkH0FjVnC4Kfmyz514S6AkFOqKrxvXm3hI/s1600/DSCN2457.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Snowflakes made me as giddy as a little kid, and I thought
the fluffy white stuff was beautiful even if the calendar said it should be
spring. Once again, I ate real cheese and swirled half-and-half in my morning
coffee. I reconnected with friends over
steaming latte’s in quaint café’s and watched children who were being burped
and swaddled only eight months ago now toddle down the aisle at church. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I
struggled to make time for my devotions and at times felt burdened by the weight of
discouragement and troubling circumstances. Some days, I felt mixed up inside, wondering
where I truly belong and wishing I knew what the future held. But woven throughout the difficult and the delightful
was the loving support of so many people and the faithful leading and provision
of my Abba. <i>Every day was a gift... </i><i></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">So that is the long nut-shell version of the </span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>what</i></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">. It is the “</span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Why</i></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><b style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">are you going back</b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">? “question that I’ve been asked numerous
times since leaving Thailand last Christmas. I don’t blame you for asking. It
is unnatural to leave your job, your family, your community, and your tidy
little bubble within a familiar culture that is a woven into your very fiber
and that shaped from birth your initial point of reference for how the rest of
the world goes around. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">For some reason, the Lord has chosen to give me a tip-of-the-iceberg
glimpse of how many people of the rest of the world actually live, often
without having ever heard of Jesus Christ. This is </span><u style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">not</u><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"> because I am someone
special or that I deserve the opportunity more than another; but I believe that He has
granted these glimpses to me as a sacred responsibility. What will I do with
all that I have been given, both physically and spiritually? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Out of that responsibility, God has opened up a door of new
opportunity. This time, I returned to Thailand to serve as staff at IGo, the
very same training institute where I spent a total of twelve months as a
student and then as an intern over the course of 2 ½ years. A year ago, I would have laughed and said, “Absolutely
not!” if you had told me that I would be coming back to Thailand and taking on
the position as dean of women. At times when I think about the incredible
responsibility of this task, I still find it both amusing and terrifying that
God would call me to something so different from what I had expected or
have ever done. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Of two things I am assured: He has a benevolent sense of humor
and a way of knocking out all props from under us so that we can do nothing
else except run to Him. </span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">So that is the why behind the what, folks. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The students I
will be serving are girls just like myself, making a big leap into the scary
unknown of living in a foreign culture and desiring to learn more about knowing
our God and making Him known in all the earth. If in some small way I can play a role of
supporting them in this journey to discovering more of God and His heart for
all people, it will only be because of His power in my weakness and an outflow
of what Jesus has done for me. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>Dei Gratia</b></span></span>
</i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
{By the grace of God}
</div>
<br />Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-59085796041570715892013-01-18T13:26:00.000+07:002013-01-18T13:33:42.518+07:00The Woman I Call "Mom"<div style="text-align: center;">
Barely five feet tall, she has a face that is perpetually freckled and laugh wrinkles that crinkle into a dozen creases around her hazel eyes. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She possesses a crazy sense of humor that finds the bright side of any situation and a heart that is big enough to wrap around the entire world. Seriously. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She is also one of the few people I know who can be in the bathroom of a rest stop McDonald's and within minutes, an absolute stranger will be pouring out her life story and crying a river. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She loves to do laundry, cannot sign a birthday card without filling both sides, and is a procrastinating go-getter. (no, that is not an oxymoron). </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She is the woman who is looked up to as a mother figure by many,<br />
but to me, she is "Mom." </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We celebrated her birthday the other day. And with all due respect, I will not mention which birthday it was. In her birthday card (which somehow filled both sides), I told her that the older I get, the more I wonder how I came to be so blessed to be the daughter of such an incredible woman.<br />
I feel so unworthy of that gift. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Her life has not been an easy path. Many times she has had to do the hard thing, to choose a road less traveled and to take it alone. Yet she would be the very first person to tell you that she has so much to be thankful for and that God is so good to her. She will even tell you that through her tears... </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In many ways, I am my mother's daughter. As a phlebotomist for the past 25 years, she stirred in me an early interest in the medical field that eventually led to my going to nursing school. We both love coffee and cannot stand clutter. My terrible sense of direction must have come from her, and we are both notorious for getting into awkward situations and trying to politely talk our way out of them. She often knows what I am thinking before I ever say anything, and I can finish her sentences even when she has the habit of starting to say something and never finishing. Oh, and the random snort that embarrassingly happens when I am laughing really, really hard? That is one of her trademarks<br />
which must have been genetic. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Beyond the fact that we share the same color eyes or our night-owlish habits, my mom passed down an example of genuine love for people. She didn't have to tell my sister and I while growing up that it is our Christian duty to love others. She lived and breathed compassion towards others and her gift of mercy was such that she would literally give away the last roast in her freezer to the young couple who was struggling to make ends meet. There was never any pretense in the way she freely loved others, because it was just an natural overflow of the Love of the Savior she had accepted into her own heart as a young college graduate. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I still remember her telling me about one patient she had drawn blood on in the hospital. The woman was off the streets, a known prostitute and one whose veins betrayed her addiction of shooting up. A lot of the other staff just dismissed her as a pathetic drug seeker, but I remember Mom coming home from work and telling me how much her heart goes out to that girl. She said, "Katelyn, I just wish that I could start </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
a home for girls like that." </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Was it in that moment? I don't know. But I wonder if God used that incident and the example of my mother's response to stir in my own heart a passion to work with women whose lives have been broken by abuse and shame and who believe that they are worth no more than selling their body to the next john, looking for love in all the wrong places. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If it wasn't for my mother's influence and the grace of God, I could be one of those girls that society shuns and that even Christian communities write off as an impossible case. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No, I'm dead serious. It's true. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I know she's not perfect. But I see my mother's life as a ripple of influence whose ever-widening circle has touched many lives and will continue doing so as long as Time goes on. Only Heaven will fully reveal the rewards of her life well-lived in being poured out to Jesus and<br />
given to others. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">Mom, you have had the greatest influence in showing me how to light my candle and go light the world. Even when doing so means releasing your daughter to God's call to move to the other side of the world, you are still my biggest cheerleader. </span></b></div>
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I love you. </div>
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<br />Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-57065491944484951532012-12-19T21:00:00.001+07:002012-12-19T21:09:06.421+07:00Closing Thoughts<div style="text-align: justify;">
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. </div>
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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? </div>
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Or have I allowed God to perform <i>irreversible change</i> 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? </div>
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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. </div>
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<i><b>In reflection of the past eight months, was it worth it? </b></i></div>
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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?" </div>
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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? </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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, "<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b>It's all for God. Yes? All for God</b>." </span></div>
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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." </div>
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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." </div>
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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. </div>
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I couldn't have said it better. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(L to R) Pii Ophelia, myself, the hospital head nurse, and Melanie</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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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. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">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... </span></div>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZL0BL3ggErMtJ_CRTM8ypNvtKSemrOU8hZlwAHTWhTFdhbsLSdVzO03m40Gfwq18be6DUwQ2bu4ltR6EfNHYb00HhOZQfZ4KUQGz-3FLY8E0HAPzo8Pdksqw6kwP2bfTb-s3FRbP_kML/s1600/242974_10152345398345714_1602784756_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ZL0BL3ggErMtJ_CRTM8ypNvtKSemrOU8hZlwAHTWhTFdhbsLSdVzO03m40Gfwq18be6DUwQ2bu4ltR6EfNHYb00HhOZQfZ4KUQGz-3FLY8E0HAPzo8Pdksqw6kwP2bfTb-s3FRbP_kML/s1600/242974_10152345398345714_1602784756_o.jpg" height="242" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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"!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-24992390659066733872012-11-20T00:47:00.000+07:002012-11-20T00:47:18.247+07:00Cradling Eternity<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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 </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">one thing that I can do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">crying full throttle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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 </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">resting on his back. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Instantly, the crying ceased and he relaxed completely within my hands. His eyes closed and he became </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the picture of perfect contentment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I cradled this fragile, premature human being within my hands, skin to skin, I had this awed awareness:</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">"I am holding a bit of Eternity." </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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<i> forever.</i> Wrapped up within the miracle of humanity is the eternity of a soul created by the Giver of life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Divine Design.</span> <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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?</span> <span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>What is my role to play in this child's life? </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One day. A few mere moments. Short, heart-felt prayers breathed over him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Every life is beautiful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Every life is beautiful because every life has {<b>Eternity</b>} stamped upon it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Like the precious, fragile infant resting in my hands, we may be cradling Eternity and never even realize it.</span></div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-46507603203873683592012-11-04T16:54:00.000+07:002012-11-04T16:54:58.515+07:00Don't Tell Me <span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><i>"Don't Tell Me..."</i></span></div>
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</span> 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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing is mine to hoard for it was never mine to start with. I have been blessed to bless others.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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?"</span><br />
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-66890910668763616812012-10-28T21:56:00.001+07:002012-10-28T21:56:59.414+07:00The Price of Purity?<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">"What is the price of purity?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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 </span><b><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">$780,000.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></i></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">$780,000. Over three-quarters of a million dollars. That is quite a tidy sum. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">$780,000 or $5. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Which one is a truer indicator of the price of purity? Who or what decides </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">what that price should be?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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 <i>thought</i> 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? </span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">$780,000. $5. Or free for the taking. </span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who determines the price of purity, the price of sexuality, the price of intimacy? </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">price tag on virginity or sexuality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That is because God is the Giver of purity. He is the Author of sexuality, the Designer of intimacy. What He creates, He calls <b>good</b>. He never intended for purity to have a price tag placed on it because He created it</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> to be </span><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">price-less</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.</span></i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The treasure is too sacred to be purchased. It can only be given.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.sensationalcolor.com/liveinfullcolor/wp-content/uploads/LiveInFullColor/KimberlinBrown/BirthstonePosts/pearls_3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://www.sensationalcolor.com/liveinfullcolor/wp-content/uploads/LiveInFullColor/KimberlinBrown/BirthstonePosts/pearls_3.png" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The beauty in realizing that God is </span><i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">both</i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dare to go against the onslaught of mockery and lies that our society bombards us with on every hand ~</span> </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Cherish Purity for the Priceless Gift that it is. </span></i></div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-25630207933132691292012-10-16T01:38:00.000+07:002012-10-16T01:43:25.022+07:00Longing for Home ...<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of late, my thoughts have been wandering towards home more than usual. <i>Home. </i>Even the word itself stirs up feelings of longing. <i>But longing for what? Longing for where?</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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 <i>always</i> 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?"</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Caleb William</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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 </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">aching for home</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> to teach me more life lessons...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Even the very inner ache of the soul that we call <i>longing </i>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 <i>His longing</i> is to have me with Himself for eternity. In the meantime, He promises to be the fulfillment of all my longings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>Then I remember, they have no ticket to go home. </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">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. :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span id="goog_616214679"></span><span id="goog_616214680"></span>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. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Unpacking in our new room</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We even have a hot water shower!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">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. :) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This final picture is of me with some of the street kids we met and fed during my "coffee fast" week. </span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Their home is in a slum community of dilapidated shacks</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">. </span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Home</span></i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">. Someday, I will be Home for good. And that is something worth longing for... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<i>Created for a place I've never known</i>... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is home. Now I'm finally where I belong, where I belong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">yeah, this is home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've been searching for a place of my own</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now I've found it...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I won't go back, back to how it was. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>This is home</i>. " </span></div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-22021144641684452982012-10-08T23:08:00.000+07:002012-10-08T23:10:19.488+07:00Compassion and a Cup of Iced Coffee <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To these kids, White Skin = Money/Handouts. Tonight at the local festival was no exception. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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!" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The whole way home and later in my room that night, I kept replaying that scene in my mind...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Iced coffee</i> -- 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. <b>What do I really know of sacrifice, of giving until it hurts?</b> I confess, only very, very little. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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 <i>something more</i>, something greater than sticky rice and chicken, something to fill the insatiable void of their soul. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Perhaps it starts with walking by the street vendor selling Thai iced coffee. </span></div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-55600369382306781162012-09-29T16:49:00.001+07:002012-09-29T16:49:21.528+07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-large;">{The Exchange of Grace}</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">You are the one that we praise <br />You are the one we adore<br />You give the <i>healing and grace</i> <br />Our hearts always hunger for </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">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 <i>me</i> without reserve and without limits. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">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 <b>deserve</b> this love betrays what my heart truly believes. For the first time, I saw <i>my shame</i> 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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">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... <b>He was despised</b> 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..."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Do not fear, for you will not be ashamed; neither be disgraced, for y<b>ou will not be put to shame</b>; for you will forget the shame of your youth..." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">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 <i>longs</i> to deliver me from that shame and to release me from those demands of perfection that I have placed upon myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">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. </span></div>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5067001476801513704.post-72409067470855846662012-09-21T17:11:00.002+07:002012-09-21T17:15:54.806+07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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{Breaking the Alabaster Jar}</h4>
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<span style="color: #555555; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">I have always loved the Biblical account of Mary Magdalene washing Jesus' feet. To me, her act of adoration in breaking the alabaster jar of precious ointment at Jesus' feet is more than just a nice story. It is said that in those days of Jewish culture, a young woman received an alabaster box of costly perfume to save for the one that she would become betrothed to. When a young man offered her a proposal, she would break the alabaster jar at his feet as a sign of her acceptance, her willingness to give him all of herself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #555555; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This was her offering. This was the most precious gift that she could give. Yet in order for the gift to be given, the translucent alabaster jar had to be broken. Only in the shattering of the vial could the perfume be poured out and the sweet fragrance arise to her beloved. There was no in between, no half-hearted brokenness, or no way of compromising just a few drops. This offering required all or nothing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #555555; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">In humility, Mary broke her alabaster jar at the feet of Jesus. Her Savior. The One who had redeemed her when society labeled her as an outcast, when she had lived a life controlled by darkness, when she had no other hope. But she loved Him for He had first loved her. Breaking that costly jar at His feet was the least that she could do to show Him her devotion. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #555555;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">What was the response of those who observed her act of sacrifice and love? Ridicule. They looked at</span></span><span style="color: #555555; line-height: 24px;"> that shattered jar and the puddle of perfume </span><span style="color: #555555; line-height: 24px;">on the floor, and they just saw a waste. But Jesus sees and feels something else. Jesus sees and feels an act of love, a symbol of a life poured out for Him. To Jesus, this was a beautiful waste. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #555555; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">His words spoke healing to her wounded heart as He lovingly accepted her precious offering. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #555555;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Once, Jesus had told his followers, “Those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #555555; line-height: 24px;">gospel, will save it.” What about me? Do I count my life as my own? Am I clutching it to myself, unwilling to break this alabaster jar, afraid of what it might cost? </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #555555; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Perhaps a few drops of perfume will do. Maybe I can just crack the box a little without losing it all," I try to reason. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"We hold so tightly to that tiny box. The contents are costly. To break that box at His feet may mean giving up the deepest desires of our heart.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Marriage. </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Children. </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The ideal career. </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If we break the box others might call it a waste. They may ridicule the sacrifice. </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If we break the box we might be called to a life of singleness. Or to dark jungles somewhere. </span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We fear the pain and sacrifice involved. We’re afraid to pour it all out for the One who poured Himself out for us. So we cling to the box that keeps us from clinging to the Savior. And in all of our clinging we forget that He is worthy.</span><img alt="We cling to the box that keeps us from clinging to our Savior." class="aligncenter size-large wp-image-18715" height="139" src="http://ylcf.org/wp-images//cling-600x262.jpg" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.699219); border: 1px solid rgb(230, 230, 230); display: block; height: auto; margin: 0px auto 15px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 3px; text-align: center; vertical-align: bottom;" title="We cling to the box that keeps us from clinging to our Savior." width="320" /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Break the alabaster box." - Grace Dye (ylcf.org) </span></blockquote>
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Katelyn http://www.blogger.com/profile/16703969861922022659noreply@blogger.com0