I've stopped this morning to remember the story. The story of the very first time I ever stepped foot on the property at Hot Springs. Right back to the beginning, that very first trip to Asia in the winter of 2008.
I read it now and remember with piercing clarity the culture shock of seeing for the first time how our children lived before we met them. Before God did what He did to connect us.
This is the why. Here's from my journal entry on that day almost 18 years go.
And oh, what God has done since then!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
As we’re driving the rough and winding roads out to Hot
Springs, I am thinking hard. The
significance of this particular event, and its connection to the entire Asian
component of Regions Beyond at Highview, may well be the most important reason
we’re here.
The Hot Springs orphan home
is led by Pastor Suradet and his wife, Yupa.
He is from the Karen tribe and she is Thai. (This is significant, as the hill tribe
people are regarded as an inferior ethnic group by the Thai. For him to lead a church of most Thai people
is, to him an affirmation of God’s call to this ministry. Socially speaking, he shouldn’t be accepted
in a leadership role. As a female senior
pastor, I instantly relate to my pastor friend in this.) They serve and shepherd a small local
congregation about an hour’s drive from Chiang Mai, up in the hills.
They have two young children of their own, and have, in
addition brought 11 more to live with them, so I am told. An act of compassion, without any promise of sponsorship, these
children have been taken in.
In an e-mail sent about 10 days before we left, I was introduced to the Hot Springs situation and asked that Highview consider whether or
not this might be an opportunity to respond through a partnership with
Suradet. I am favourably leaning toward the idea from the start. Before I left I sent the e-mail on to the
Elders, asked them and a few others to pray, and asked if I could meet
this family when I’m there.
So now, I here am, sweaty and limp and covered in paint, from the impromptu little project we agreed to earlier in the day. I am physically and mentally fatigued, riding in a car up a harrowing drive dodging
dogs and water buffalo, to gather important data that I will bring back to
Highview.
I am not bringing my best game
to this. I wonder how I will be able to
form intelligent questions, and work it all through an interpreter. I’m concerned about how I’ll be able to take
notes for my report. None of this will
matter later, but in the car I don’t know that.
As we step out into the dusk I breathe a prayer for
sufficiency. Cover me, Lord. It’s all You in this moment. I have nothing to bring to this. Let me see You here. Guide my heart.
We are told that Suradet and Yupa are not here because they were called to a meeting. The children have been left in the care of support staff. But it's okay, they say, we are welcome to come visit.
I am first impressed with the structure of the
building. Built in 2005 through
sponsorship of the Korean Methodist Church, there is a traditional Thai beauty
and characteristic steep staircases, combined with crisp lines and Methodist
simplicity.
But I’m not looking long at the building. Our arrival has been quickly noticed and we
are greeted en mass by the children, with that odd mixture of respectful wai
and familiar hug. This is only our
second time meeting them. These children
had attended our program the night before back at the Doi Saket orphanage, and
afterwards, when I spoke directly to Suradet, they stood beside him and shyly
giggled because of the camera. They are
not so shy this time.
Tutu (Asia's Hope Director for Thailand) is here to translate, but I am amazed at how little I
need her by now, with the children at least.
The little ones don’t care that they can’t understand me, they just
carry on the conversation regardless.
The older ones simply love it that I’m speaking English to them. If it looks like I’m expecting an answer they
just smile and say, in English… “My name is…..”and then something completely
unrepeatable, which I try to repeat.
They are very patient, but my efforts most often elicit a giggling
attempt to correct my pronunciation. [Note: I have since learned that I was tacking on the polite 'ka' ending to each name, as if it was part of their name. Sounded hilarious.]
We are pulled by eager little arms in to see their place.
We were told that Suradet had set up space for these
children in the basement of the church.
I guess I thought that meant the Sunday School rooms. I guess I thought that meant there would be
beds. I guess I thought there would be
windows. I guess I thought there might be an actual floor.
Instead, two concrete
rooms, one measuring approximately 8 x 10 and the other measuring approximately
8 x 14, provide the bedrooms of the 4 boys and 9 girls respectively. Their mats are rolled up and what little personal
possessions they have are stacked neatly beside. Their clothes….just that for 6
girls?….are hung in one corner on a bamboo stick attached to the wall by a
leather strap.
That’s it. Oh, and
the room where you make the food. Not a
kitchen. Don’t think kitchen. It’s a hard packed dirt floor with a table
and some baskets of vegetables I don’t recognize. A small electric fridge sits awkwardly in
another general all purpose room adjoining.
There is no furniture.
No beds, no chairs. There are no
toys. Not that I can see. Except, I do notice the colourful cloth bags
with the Teddy Bears inside them that we had given out at the program a few nights before, hanging from nails above their folded
mats. And an anime colouring book. It’s night, so the florescent lights buzz
annoyingly.
This is where these children live.
Beautiful Thim, with her uncharacteristic curls brought
into submission in those amazing braids. Sweet little Sai, whose enchanting smile
is missing teeth in the front. Laughing Fruk, who looks way younger than seven.
All of them. These
real human children with faces and pretty little hands pressed together in the wai,
and skinny little arms wrapped around my waist….they live here! It repeats itself in my head like a crazy,
manic, whispered scream.
And the really awful thing about it is, this, this is
better than where they came from.
Here they have adults to care for them. Here they have food. Here they are taken to school rather than
forced to work. Here they are taught
songs and hymns and spiritual songs and to say please and thank you and to
share. Here, someone tells them they are
valued. Someone tells them they are loved.
It hits me like a wrecking ball. I fight to keep my composure. I feel sick to my stomach from it. They live here. Thirteen of God’s sweet children. They live here.
I ask if we can see the church upstairs. Perhaps it’s a defense mechanism, a way of
giving myself and the Team a chance to get out of the unbelievable, up to where
we can breathe. We climb the steep stair
case and are welcomed into a simple but clean sanctuary, with a smooth ceramic
floor, a small elevated platform with a pulpit, and folding chairs.
The children sing for us.
Strong and joyful praise. I’m
losing it again. I’m asked if I’d like
to say a few words. I don’t know if I
can.
But I do. Tutu is my
interpreter. I thank them for their warm
hospitality and for letting us come to visit them. I tell them that I am from the upside down
country of Canada where everything is very cold and people would just be
starting to wake up on this day they have already had. I tell them I am glad to have made such
delightful new friends.
I tell them that I see
they are well behaved children. I
encourage them to keep studying hard in school.
I encourage them to obey their parents and be kind to each other. I tell them I believe that God has big dreams
for them, and if they do these things and cooperate with God, then they will
grow up to be and do many wonderful things for Him. I tell them God loves each one of them very,
very much.
As I speak to them they fix their eyes on me. Even when Tutu repeats my words in their
language, their eyes look at me. I am
looking into the eyes of real human children who live in the cellar of a church
and call that home. The eyes of children
who have known more grief and fear and confusion in their few years than I will
likely ever see in my life time.
Children who have been discarded, beaten, left to beg. Children who have known hunger and
desperation. Brown eyes, all of
them.
Then I hear it. As clearly as we hear these things. I believe it to be the very serious voice of God speaking slowly and certainly, "These are My children. Do something."
In English we sometimes describe experiences as having
“knocked us over”. This is a wrecking
ball to the gut. I said it out loud
before I left for this tip, that I was willing to 'let my heart be broken with the things
that break the heart of God.' What a
foolish naïve thought! I had no idea
whatsoever what I was talking about.
Tonight my heart is smashed.
I am glad that even before getting on the plane, I was
inclined to present to the Elders that we take the Hot Springs home as our
Asian partners. I am glad, because I
fully recognize the effects of the heat and the fatigue in how I’ve experienced
tonight. Without the little bit of
cognitive processing that has gone on before tonight, this would run the risk
of being a totally emotional knee jerk reaction. Compassion gone rogue. We will think this through together,
the Team here, the Elders as we send word home. We will make a good
decision and be careful not to promise what we can’t deliver. You don’t do that to desperate people.
But tonight is still a defining moment. Tonight partnering with Suradet and the Hot
Springs home isn’t just an idea any more.
It’s people. It’s thirteen children who are looking at me. And their faces, their eyes are burning into
my heart.
On the way home in the car, Tutu tells us more. These children recently went with Suradet
into the bamboo forest to forage for shoots to eat. His personal resources are being stretched
the max. The church is trying to help,
but all of the people who make up this little community of faith are of simple
means themselves.
She talks about two of her friends, growing up, who were too
poor to go to school. They succumbed to
the despair, and committed suicide. Both
of them. They were 11. She’s crying.
I’m crying.
We arrive back to the
Guest House and everyone is very quiet.
Rev. Ruth Anne Breithaupt, MDiv.
Canadian Representative/Missionary in Residence
New Family Foundation/Highview Community Church
The mission of New Family Foundation is to
provide a loving home for at-risk and
orphaned children in Northern Thailand to
help them achieve their best potential in
education, vocation and service to society.
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