The Language we all Speak

-By Erin

But I don't speak Thai. 

This was probably my number one anxiety from the moment Dave and I first began the conversation about this trip to Thailand last September.

Of course, I wouldn't be the only one. Bring a team of seven "farangs" (white people) to Thailand and everyone on both sides of the equation expects that lots of charades and patience will be needed for even the most basic communication to take place (thank you; yes, I'm full; where is the bathroom?).

But for me, it was more than that.

It won't be any big shocker to hear a pastor say that she loves words. Words are the tools or our trade. We use them to preach, counsel and teach. We pour over them, weigh them, measure them, sift them and dispense them with the greatest care. We stir them together into sermons we hope will penetrate to the heart. Words, the right words, can be for our people, a window into the mystery and love of God. Words matter.

But my obsession with words goes deeper still. 

I have always been articulate, as long as I can remember (and my mother assures me that this began even before that time). I always felt that words were like obedient pets, always ready to do my bidding. Always ready to take me where I needed to go quickly and efficiently. Expressing my thoughts succinctly while keeping my feelings safely out of arms reach. More than tools, words are my armor. 

But not in Thailand. 

In Thailand, my words are more like a few bare threads, unable to express very much of anything.

Swa-tee-ka! (Hello); Kup-koon-ka (Thank you); Prajao oi porn (God bless you).

 In Thailand, words expose so much more than they protect. I knew it would be like this, and this is why I was so afraid to come.

But, as it turns out, taking off my armor feels a lot different than I thought it would. Lighter.

I am less protected, yes. Less shielded with the facade of competence and independence that I wear so well at home, but in the absence of words I am finding myself translated into a new and different language. Difficult to learn, but easier in its expression and more beautiful in its form.

This is the language we all speak. It is the language of badminton and chess. It is the language of friendship bracelets around little wrists. It is the language of smiles and silly made up games. Of french braids and ping-pong and elephant rides. It is the language of peek-a-boo, of a shared meal, of humble service, of friendship and of love. 

This is the language that brought two churches from opposite sides of the planet to work together as partners in the redemptive work of the kingdom of God.

I’m nowhere near fluent. Sometimes, I’m sure, my thick accent of pride makes me nearly incomprehensible, but I stumble along. Because being here has me increasingly convinced that love is the trade language of the Kingdom, a primal language, pre-Babel, full of Edenic influence and Revelation notes, an ancient, heavenly language whispered to us in the dark while God knit us each together in our mother wombs.

This is to which our souls long to return. This is the language we all speak.