Highview, You're Just Spectacular!

Dear Phenomenal People of Highview,

Having just finished my first week back after a three-month absence, I couldn't be more convinced at what an amazing community of faith you are.

While I was away 'sabbaticalling' you were here being "The Church' in the midst of a fall that held some significant surprises.  The surprises came in the midst of a time when we were already in a 'not normal' kind of plan in order to accommodate my time in Thailand.  Almost every area of the church's ministry, already in an unusual mode, felt the impact to some degree.  

But you.  You stepped up.  You rallied.  You kept on going.  You extended grace to one another.

You were 'The Church.' 

You need to know that my heart for Highview is such that, had I known about the surprises ahead of time (which by the way didn't just happen at Highview but in my own family quite personally as well) I would NOT have gone away.  I would NOT have removed myself from the work here.  I would have stayed to shoulder it together with you.

Apparently, that wasn't what God had in mind.  The timing of things seems to suggest other plans were unfolding instead; plans that needed me to be away in order for God to do what He did and allow you all to choose what you chose, which was love and grace and self-sacrifice and tenacity.

Amazing.

And wonderful.  So wonderful for me to come back to such a warm welcome.  So wonderful for me to come back to stories of how you've cared for one another.  So wonderful for me to come back to TWO baptisms this Sunday!  So wonderful for me to come back and realize again what incredible people call Highview their church.

Christmas is just one week away as I write.   And with all my heart I want to thank you and bless you.  My hope and prayer is that each and every one of you will have exactly the kind of Christmas your soul needs it to be.  Not perfect in a stereotypical 'Hollywood' kind of way, because we all know that's just the fluff.  But in a way that is exactly what needs to happen for you and your family, and for this church, in order to allow Jesus the room to bring His hope to your heart.

2016 will bring new things for Highview, at least in the first months.  An unexpected fall seems to be giving way to a fresh kind of winter, and ministry morphs once again under the sway of God's good guidance by virtue of realities we can welcome with curiosity.  And joy!  And excitement!

Because God's like that.  YOU are like that.  And together we can continue being 'The Church.'

For my part, know that my time away was everything and more that I needed it to be.  I promise you that this was not wasted or taken for granted, and the work God did in my heart these past three astonishing months will continue as I commit myself to cooperating with His Holy Spirit towards even more discoveries and awakenings.  Thank you 'very so much' for releasing me for this. 

Comfort and Joy to you, all my dear brothers and sisters.  Comfort and Joy and Peace and Blessing.

You amaze me, over and over again.

Ruth Anne

Last Things

Last starry predawn walk in the quiet cool that lays like misty nurture every morning between the guest house and the children.



Last sleepy worship, little Thai beloveds wrapped in blankets to warm their icy hands and feet in the drastic dip to 18C.  Last around-the-circle recitation of ancient Scriptures by same, now warmed by robust singing and being together first thing.



 




Last breakfast from Yupa who, without question, creates the best Thai food on the planet from her modestly-appointed, lizard, live-crab and chicken inhabited,Thai-style kitchen, like a magician, only without the pomp.  

Last market stroll, being the only farang in a sea of beautiful Asian faces.  Last time to surprise the vendor with my Thai, still woefully inadequate but sufficient enough by now to ask for another colour and a lower price.    Last moment of amazement walking past baskets of bugs for sale by the scoop, to have for breakfast or just a quick snack later on. 


Last conversations, all day long.  At the table, in the car, walking up the hill to the house.  Full of wonder, grace and truth,, our words; full of gratitude that goes so deep words in Thai or English just don't cut it.  Throats tight with love that spills, messy in all attempts to be controlled, as polite Thais must do, and all culturally-sensitive farangs must learn.  But this time formality gives way to the tears of family facing long separation, and stumbling words, and beautiful, honouring, holy moments I so do not deserve. 

And oh the last goodbyes.  Those wretched last goodbyes.  Seated in the centre with Thai beloveds gathered, hands laid on in prayer and singing.  And every time I lose it then.  I'm fine until they start singing that family-love song they sing to say goodbye.  And every time, every time I am undone by the way it heals me somehow.  No life-hurt, no confusion,rejection or betrayal, stands a chance against this.  "And all of a sudden, I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by glory, and I realize just how beautiful You are and how great are your affections for me.  Oh! (David Crowder)." 

Last pictures at the airport.  Last, desperate jumping and waving on the other side of the window as I pass through security and immigration and I shamelessly wave like a fool in the middle of many travelers who can't help but look back to see why.  And all those hands.  All those hands.

All those hands are the last thing I see.

"Sometimes sorrow, sometimes bliss.  Every union knows of this  (Steve Bell)."  And this union knows it all too well.  Such is the love that has to be stretchy enough to reach around the world.

How remarkable!  How astonishing!  This my soul-song will ever be.  That God saw fit to take the dreams of an awkward and mostly timid 11 year old girl, the regions-beyond desires of a extraordinarily ordinary community of faith, and the vision of an obscure and poverty-imprinted mountain boy-now-a-man, along with his faith-feisty wife, and perfectly time the masterpiece He had in mind all along.  This masterpiece.  This shared ministry of justice and peace.

And there are really no last things.  Because I think, as any new starry predawn day begins, God is just getting started.

Grangrene Joy

He's the brightest light in the little circle gathered around his hospital bed.  His voice is strong and positive.  His smile is wide and involves every muscle of his scarred and weathered face.  He repeats his praise for a God who loves him and his hope for all good things that are ahead.

He has gangrene.

Both feet.

Can't walk.

One of the expected but still surprising gifts of this prolonged stay at Hot Springs Church, and particularly with a focus on pastoral ministry this time, has been the opportunity to know better some of the deeply faithful people who make up this simple community of faith.  Yoot is one of them. 

Tall for a Thai, his presence is not easily missed, and not just because of his size.  He's probably one of the most positive people I know, rivaling Highview's own Colin Chandler who himself has quite a reputation for always being able to see what God's up to, and rejoicing in that.  Whatever Colin has, Yoot's got it too.  He's full of gratitude for his ability to walk, a part of his story that had him at one time bedridden and told he would never move on his own again.  He still has a slow, stiff gait, but his faith that God has spared him, and his joy in every step is obvious.  Often as not, he'll express his delight in life through song; original compositions that have an odd but intriguing mix of Western country and Thai nasal wail (the latter of which I am growing to appreciate more and more; we won't comment on the former.). 

It's his former difficulties that have led to the gangrene now, however.  Poor circulation, shoes that were too small, and a job that requires standing for lengths of time in the heat, all contributed to an infection that was left untreated and quickly escalated.  When he arrived to the hospital he was told that had we waited one more day, amputation would have been certain. 

Both feet.

Suradet asks if we can see.  With enthusiasm Yoot pulls off the blanket that had been covering his feet.  I fight to maintain my composure.  His feet are charcoal black with patches that are covered in gauze to hold back the oozing.  The skin is dull and lifeless.  One section is deeply cracked and rough and looks as if it would crumble off at the slightest touch.  He continues chatting enthusiastically, pointing at various locations to indicate where the infection started, how it spread, how badly curled in his toes were when he first got here. 

Some of the girls that have come for the visit have had to leave the room.  Later they will tell me that the sight of his feet didn't disgust them as much as it frightened them.  They live in a world where these things happen to people they know.  And they know the doctors can't always do anything about it.  They worry that one day such feet might dangle lifeless at the ends of their own legs.   I realize that in my entire life I have never worried about getting gangrene.

I ask Yoot if he feels pain.  He responds with a shout of delight.  "Yes!  There's pain!  And I'm glad for the pain.  It means the medicine is working!  It means life is coming back to my feet!"

Even before Yupa translates, I understand him.  And for a second I am held still in a holy moment.  Because it occurs to me that I am sitting at the end of the bed of someone who understands far more about life, about how it all actually works, than I might ever will. 

I am feeling pain myself that day.  Mom has gone, and I wasn't there, and I am still working out in my own soul what that meant and what God was thinking when He worked out that particular part of my story.  Her story. 

I have felt pain before, of course I have.  Anyone living 58 years and counting will have experienced pain.  And we never like it.  We seek to avoid it, alleviate it, as much and as fast as possible.  Who likes pain?  Who is glad for the pain?

Yoot is.  And he has taught me this night.  This simple man with a job that has him standing in the heat for a good part of the day in shoes too tight and legs and circulation already weakened by pain he's known before.  This joyful man who has so much life and light and joy and gratitude for every day, every stay, that it overrides the gruesome condition of his feet right now, and fills the room and spills over to the other 11 people in the beds around him.  Spills out and fills up the little group who's come to encourage him, but have been encouraged instead.  Challenged instead.  Taught and perhaps even rebuked, instead, although that would never have been his intention.  No, he's way too gringjai for that.

He's taught me though.  Pain means life.  Yes it does.  If you never feel pain, you're probably dead.  And it's in the living of life that we embrace the pain with the joy and know that life is flowing through our beings.  

We pray.  He's covered up his feet again, but over top of the blanket I gently lay my hands on the decaying flesh beneath.  And I pray.  It's woefully inadequate, and not because my Thai is still so limited.  But because my soul is humbled, and I realize that I don't even know how to pray in the presence of such greatness. 

Last Sunday surprise!

We'll visit again.  And it won't seem like there's been any progress.  But then, on the night of the village Christmas party, he'll show up unexpectedly.....walking.  I'll see his wife Pok first, and give her a hug and ask her how Yoot is doing.  And she'll smile and point to the other end of the table where I see him standing.  My surprise and joy will make me forget how a woman my age is supposed to behave in public in Thailand.  I'll shout and run over and - almost hug him.  But then I remember and wai and say about 52 "Thank you God!"s.  And he'll be smiling.  Whole-faced.  And saying that God has helped him once again, and don't we serve such an amazing God.

We do.

And soon enough I will feel more pain.  I will now take myself away from a people I have let ruin my heart.  I already know it will hurt.  Because it does every single time.  This time, after three months, I don't know what it might be like.  I don't want to think about it.  Not yet anyways.

But when the pain comes, I'll remember Yoot.   I'll remember that it means there is life and love and these are good, good gifts, and there's no loving and being loved without pain.  No life, without the stuff that makes us realize what life is, and how this whole thing works.

Awkward

I am awake too early on the tenth last day, finding myself in an awkward space.

At first I don't know what to call it.  Limbo.  Transition.  These are words often used to describe the place of not being exactly anywhere in any solid kind of way.  These are words that float around in my sleepy but not sleeping head.  Whatever it is, it's vaguely uncomfortable and somewhat annoying to wake up to.

I decide to get a head start on this awkward tenth last day, and get myself up out of bed.  And when I do, I find that there is an uncharacteristic mental muttering going on as I shower and dress and prepare for the day.  Normally, I love mornings, and look forward to what lies ahead for any particular day.  But today, I mutter, mentally. 

Ten days.  Ten days!  Why don't I know more Thai?  I'm still so curious about how this gringjai thing works.  What's it like to actually spend Christmas here?  And hey!  How did three months get reduced to ten days in such a short period of time?  How is it possible that in ten days I will be done this once-in-a-lifetime experience, planned for, for over two years?  How can it be that in ten days, this gift will run its course, and I will end something that has provided so much deep enrichment to my soul?   And while I most certainly intend to come back, right now I can't see how it will ever be for this period of time, this kind of intense deal, ever again.  And there's a sadness for me in that.

And then comes the awkward part.  Because I want to go home too.

Three months is long enough to be away from home.  Three months is too long to be away from Ken and my family.  I miss Christmas, the Christmas that happens before Christmas. And I need to be home for Christmas. And then there's the hard but true fact that in three months many things can happen in a family, and they did.  And I need to get home and be part of those things.  And in three months so very much can happen in a church community, and they have.  And to that church community I am still very clearly - in my mind for sure - called to love and lead.   I want to go home.  And there's a deep longing for me in that.

Awkward. 

These three months, the fresh cool of the morning is my first joy each day, walking in the dark with the stars along the road between the guest house and Hot Springs.  And it's in the fresh cool on this tenth last day that I decide something important. 

I will embrace the awkward.

I am here, right now.  I will embrace being fully here, right now.  These last ten days no doubt hold the same abundance of grace and wonder and life that has lavished me the last three months of this stay.  I would be a fool to miss out on any of it just because this space is awkward.

And I am going home.  In ten days.  And I will embrace the journey and the arrival and the "Bam! It's Christmas" and all the catching up there is to do, and, oh yes, the jet lag, and the missing of my Thai family, and the Celebration of Life for my Mom.   And I will let that be wonderful and disorienting and awkward and hard and delightful.  And I will be patient with myself, because coming home will be no small deal this time.

I arrive to morning devotions un-awkwarded and ready.  I realize with some pleasure that I can almost sing all of the songs in Thai as Fruk leads on the guitar.  And Suradet's lesson, given in Thai is also pretty much at an 80% comprehension level.  This is new, and a bit of a relief after two weeks of what felt like a regression due to the serious mental distraction of first stages of grieving Mom.

Ten days.  Ten whole days left.  Let's see what God's saved for the last.

"Gola" Part 3 - Of Mothers and Fathers

The last of three reflections on my mountain village visit, in honour of my Mom who taught me to finish what I begin.  At Bread and Honey.

Gazing Into Glory

I am not yet finished reflecting on my mountain village visit.  However, something takes precedence today.  Remembering my Mom at Bread and Honey.

"Gola" Part 2 - Being There

Here's the next installment of last weekend's village visit at Bread and Honey.

"Gola" Part I - Getting There

My most stretching experience in Thailand thus far - an overnight visit to a remote hill tribe village.  But first we needed to get there.  There's joy in the journey at Bread and Honey

Mountain Weekend

So far I've only ever been able to admire them from a distance.  The big mountains, I mean.  

We've gone for day trips sometimes.  Little visits to a Wat (temple) or garden lookout.  I've been on a few winding roads, lurching upwards with gears grinding.  A drive that maybe took 30 minutes, if that.

But tomorrow we're heading to the mountains for real.  An eight hour drive straight up, I'm told.  And when we get there, we'll be in a remote Karen village, Suradet's home.  

The purpose of our weekend mountain getaway is to visit with Suradet's parents, and worship with the church that meets there.   I've prepared something to say for Sunday morning, because I've been asked to preach.  But honestly, I have no idea what context I'm coming into, and am heading into this completely open to the learnings I fully expect will be waiting up there for me.

This will be an offline experience.  No internet, no connections.  I'm not even sure they'll be running water.  Only the mountain, my Thai family, and God's good gift of yet another adventure.

Pictures and stories to follow.

Right Here. Right Now.

Marking two points in time at Bread and Honey. 

The Difference

Some thoughts about being different, inspired by ginko poop and a strange breakfast.  Check it out at Bread and Honey.

 

"Are You A Banana?" And Other Linguistic Riddles

 Basically this is my language learning strategy right now.

One of my hopes and a specific goal of my time here these three months is that I can dramatically improve in my Thai language skills.  I know it seems a stretch to think that I could actually gain any level of competence in any new language at my age, let alone one that has a completely different script and is inflected with five different tones.  But I'm ignoring the stats and forging ahead anyways.

It's slow work.

My guess is that at this point, despite all my valiant efforts at home between trips, and when I'm here immersed in it, I still sound basically like a toddler.   It would be the Thai version of  'pasgetti' instead of spaghetti, most of the time.  

My teachers are all so very patient and encouraging, which helps.  And I've perfected the tones of a very few phrases so that I seem to be understood even by strangers in the initial exchange of first meetings and small talk.  Hello.  How are you.  Did you sleep well?  Why yes, I slept very well, thank you.  Nice day.  Today I'm going to Chiang Mai. God bless you.  Please and thank you.  That sort of thing.

One of the most important hurdles to overcome in learning a new language is the fear of making a fool of yourself.  It's very humbling to realize you sound like a very young child.  Hard to manage an image this way, that's for sure.  And you have to be willing to make mistakes, which is harder for the more perfectionistic personalities like mine. 

But sometimes, the mistakes are just fun.

Handy snack dispenser.

Two words that sound very similar to my untrained ear are the word for banana - gloo-way (emphasis on last syllable with a rising tone. I think) - and the word for fear - gloo-wa (emphasis on first syllable, with a falling tone. I think).  The emphases and tones are subtle, however and hard to hear, for me.  For my Thai friends they are two completely different words.  And as an English example, say the words 'shirt' and 'church' out loud.  To a Thai that's exactly the same sound. 

I learned the names of fruits pretty early in my studies, and the word for fear came up later in a real-life situation (best learning moments usually).   Gloo-way, that is, 'banana', seems to roll off my tongue much easier. 

So when one of the children tells me they have a school test tomorrow, for example, it's actually not uncommon for me to ask them, "Are you a banana?"  This is confusing to them, I find.  Until I see the titled head and confused look, realize my mistake and correct my pronunciation.  At that point we usually have a good laugh at my expense.  "Of course I'm not a banana!  Oh Ahjahn Ruth, you are so silly!!!!"

Yesterday in the car I was trying to remember the phrase for 'good mood.'  It was how we were all feeling, I think, given Yupa's Mom only had to wait three hours to see the doctor instead of eight, and we are all happily heading back to Hot Springs with the afternoon before us. 

My mind was able to retrieve part of it.  'Aroom', which is the word that most closely corresponds to 'mood' in English.  But I added 'jai' to the end, which means heart.  'Aroom jai.' This was a logical guess given that many words in Thai seem to focus around the word for heart. 


'Di jai' means 'happy' or, in the right context, 'happy to see you.'
'Noon jai' means 'encouragement'.
'Tok jai' means 'fright', literally 'fall-heart'.
'Tom jai' means 'humble', something language learning will help you along with quite nicely.

So for me to put 'aroom' and 'jai' together seemed like it might work.

Apparently not. 

I collected my sentence and then spoke out loud "Too kuhn aroom jai wani," I said with unmerited confidence.  'Everyone is in a good mood today.'

Slight pause.  Then the car erupted in laughter.  I was corrected very quickly.  'No, no....Aroom di. Oh Ahjahn Ruth!!!'  and dissolving into laughter again.  I suspect I said something quite inappropriate and/or embarrassing, but I can't be sure because they refused to tell me what 'Aroom jai' actually means.  And here I run the risk of perhaps having just been vulgar a few times again, merely by repeating this story!

As the laughter settled down, Suradet wanted to reassure me, so he said in English, "Ahjahn Ruth, no fear.  If you no speak straight, I tell you."

My turn to laugh, not so much at the mistake but at the irony.  So I repeat an agreement we have between us already in this mutual language learning thing we're doing.  "Thank you Ahjahn Suradet.  And if you don't 'speak straight' I will correct you as well."  They got it.  More laughing, all of us.

We certainly were in a good mood, by then.

Isaiah 50:4 has been an intriguing verse for me throughout my journey into ministry.  It has taken on even more meaning now.

The Sovereign Lord has given me an instructed tongue

to know the word that sustains the weary.

He wakens me morning by morning,

wakens my ear to listen like one being taught.

I wonder if the point Isaiah was making was that you can't hope to have any sustaining words for weary others until you've spent a lot of time just listening and learning yourself.  It certainly reminds me that, right here and right now, I am very much in the posture of receiving, of student, of someone who can only speak baby talk. 

I will confess to a moderate amount of mental fatigue at this point in my stay.  One month in, I recognize the extra effort every conversation requires, and the new neurological pathways my brain is courageously trying to create, every single day.

But the fun of it, the joy of it, the knowing deeper my Thai family, their culture, how their thinking thinks and feelings feel....so worth the effort. 

And basically, it all puts me in 'aroom

di'.

New Territory

Today I am Samwise Gamgee, pausing at the edge of the Shire.  With a sudden stop in his stride, and not a little anxious, he marks a line.

"This is it.  If I take one more step, I'll be farther away from home than I've ever been."  

Only for me, it's not one more step, but one more day.  Tomorrow I will pass the three week mark.  That's the longest I've ever been in Thailand before.

To be honest, I almost didn't notice.  This day has been just one in a string of increasingly pleasant days as the jet lag and preparation/travel fatigue have worn off and the temperatures have come down just a little.  One day among others that are settling into good rhythms of work and rest and play.  There's a normalization happening.   I'm finding my groove, and it's good.

Leave the guest house in the dark at 5:15 a.m. to head over for morning worship.  Spend the first 30 sleepy minutes of the day focused on the Someone who brought me here in the first place, in prayer and song, and in Suradet's morning encouragement to the children.  Breakfast is always a pleasant surprise.  Then some solid concentration time at the table with my computer and/or kindle reader soulishly engaged in the learnings I've come here to acquire, ponder.  Or preparing sermons for Sunday morning or the prison visit planned next week.

By 10 or 10:30 the heat has built up and it's time for a break anyways.  So I might head down to the dining shelter and bring markers and paper and initiate a creative frenzy of sorts....if the children are not at school.  Or just sit for a few moments in companionable silence with Pi Dao (cook and nanny),  Or or go for a walk with Yupa and sundry kids in tow, to the chicken house to see how the dog-wounded ones are faring, and maybe feed the fish in the pond.  After lunch I retreat to my room, read, usually nap in spite of myself, put final touches on tonight's English/Devotional lesson.  And then almost every other day, go for my 1 km swim.  Back in time for supper, then evening worship (where we've advanced to verb tenses!), and then back to the guest house to do some processing and writing until I just can't stay awake any longer.

Embedded in the day is this perpetual language learning that presses me mentally enough that the times alone in the guest house become as much about resting my brain as escaping from the heat.  And inherent in that language learning is the need and the joy of being fully present with whomever it is I'm talking to.  Focused attention, deeply engaged, fully present; there's a lot of that.

And it all feels more and more normal.

There's always a few odd and unexpected moments when I am reminded that I'm 'not in Kansas anymore'.  Like when there are live crabs in a bag on the kitchen counter.  Or when I come across a squirming mass of large, bright orange fire ants swarming over a dead scorpion.  Or when I'm the only 'farang' at the market and it's clear, from the not so discrete double-takes and the surprised comments directed towards Yupa, that this small village doesn't get a lot of tourists.  In those moments I remember that, actually, I'm not at home.

But most of the time, I feel at home.  With the advantage of this being my 15th time here, this life is feeling more and more 'normal'.

In an odd way, maybe it's this normalization that marks this never-before part of the adventure.  I'm not sure I've been here long enough to feel quite this acclimatized.

At least, that's how it feels this side of tomorrow.  Tomorrow is a new thing.  A never-before thing.  And there are some potentially disorienting events planned, not the least of which is an overnight stay at the village where Suradet's parents live.  I'm told it's an 8 hour gut-churning drive up the mountain to stay in a one room house with no running water and the need to sleep in a mosquito net.  I'm wondering how 'at home' and 'normal' I'll feel then.  

Frodo's response to his friend seems full of the foreshadowing great stories are famous for, and make me curious as to what these next weeks will reveal.

 

"Come on, Sam. Remember what Bilbo used to say: 

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. 

You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, 

there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Set Back in the Chicken House

One of the things I admire so much about both Suradet and Yupa is their initiative and creative stewardship of the resources they've been given.  The new chicken house is a great example of this.

Way back on the new piece of property recently acquired with the help of the Korean Methodist Church, this project has been a focus of time and energy for the past several weeks.  By the time Ken and I arrived on September 16th, it already housed 10 hens and one rooster.  Then, just last week, 20 more birds were added to the collection.

The idea is to have fresh eggs, and also, as is prudent, fresh chicken to feed the kids.  Not unlike many Canadians who are concerned about where their food comes from, Suradet and Yupa seek to glean as much from the land as possible.  Only their motivation is more economic than anything else.

So when the full allotment was completely installed in the chicken house, there was a certain sense of, "Yes, here we go with this project.  Let's see what these birds can produce."  Suradet especially seemed very excited.  I think that was Friday.

Sunday afternoon there was a special event involving the young teenagers here.  It involved excited kids packing up music equipment and musicians, and heading off to Doi Saket, about 30 minutes away.  Someone was required to feed the chickens just before we left, since we wouldn't be back for regular feeding time.  And that someone, in their rush to be ready to leave, left the door to the chicken house unlocked.

That's when some neighbourhood stray dogs saw their advantage.  Must have been noisy, I imagine.  Because when it was all over, all but 19 chickens were dead.

Monday morning Suradet informs me.  I find myself truly sad and disappointed and perhaps even angry.  Come on!  These are people of meager means, doing their best to be participate in meeting their needs.  We just got those chickens!  With no time for any turn around on the investment, not one egg laid, this would be a complete write off.  Hardly seems fair, somehow.

Suradet observes my face, and smiles.  He gives a Scripture reference in Thai, and I look it up.

1Thessalonians 5:16-18

Be joyful always, pray continually;

give thanks in all circumstances

for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. 

The irony of this is not lost on me.

See, this is not a patronizing pastor too quickly defaulting to platitudes when attempting to correct the attitude of someone experiencing trouble.  I've seen these verses used that way, and to be honest, I've done it too.

But in this moment, this is not that.

This is the afflicted one reminding the angry privileged one  - who expects life to go her way all too often - that joy is a choice, and prayer and gratitude are better weapons any day against life's set backs and challenges.

"We will start again", Suradet affirms, "And tonight we eat lots of chicken!"


And while I'm not all that sure how I feel about eating meat that was slaughtered by wild dogs, I realize that I have been corrected in the most startling and gentle of ways by someone who clearly has so much to teach me. 

A Two-Things-Only Day....Wait, Make That One

At one point this week I started to map out my lists. 

As much wonderful fun as it is to be at Hot Springs, the true fact is that I am here primarily to fulfill the requirements of not just a Pastoral Internship, but also a Directed Reading and Research credit through Tyndale.  There's work to do.  And if I don't map it out, don't 'reverse engineer' it all, then by default I'll come to the end of my time here and it won't be pretty.  Not academically, at least.

Today is Friday.  I have to remind myself, because in the first-days disorientation of so-not-my-regular life, nothing feels like a normal day at all.  Not yet.  So today is Friday, and my first day here without Ken (the hard goodbye I'll save for another blog post when I'm over it, I think, maybe), and I had it in mind to start on the lists as a means of distraction.

But Yupa needed to go for a regular check up, scheduled with her doctor at Lanna Hospital in Chiang Mai.  Would I like to go?  This was totally optional.  Yupa warned me that she didn't know how long it would take, but she also said that afterward she'd like to go to the downtown core, uber-Thai-style food market for some regular groceries.  Having been to both the hospital and the market on previous trips, I knew more or less what I was in for, and I really loved that particular food market, so I said, Sure. 

The market is fascinating.  Think St. Jacob's Farmer's market only without any refrigeration, safety or health restrictions, and a lot of really weird things for sale to eat, like bugs and stuff.   And then jack up the temperature to about 45 C, cooking under a metal roof in cramped quarters.  Lots of fish.  Lots of flies.  Smells mostly like fish.  Yeah, like that.  And since I'm in for experiencing Thai life as much as possible, the food market was somewhere I was keen to go.  The hospital, not so much, although I learned a lot from my last visit.  And the wait, no worries.  I have my Kindle reader with a LOT of required reading loaded onto it.  I was good.

So, putting my own list aside, I embraced Yupa's Two-Things-For-The-Day list of the hospital visit followed by the food market.  

We left Hot Springs at 7:30 this morning.  Sky was overcast which helped to keep the temperature down a bit.  Dropped Bao off to school for 8, then headed through 20 minutes of stop and go construction traffic before arriving at the hospital.  Parking lot was full, so we added another 15 minutes by using the off site parking lot complete with over-sized golfing cart to take you to the front door.  Seats 6 but apparently up to 9 people can be accommodated....sort of. 

By the time we got into the building and took our number for the first station - #189 - it was 9 a.m.  And so began the waiting.  First bit we moved through quite quickly.  Yupa first had to register, then wait.  Then have her vitals taken, then wait.  Then have her blood work done, then wait.  After the blood work, she was told it would be two hours before the results would be sent up, and then the doctor would see her.  Bear in mind, this is her regular doctor.  Felt more like a walk in clinic, but no.  She had an appointment and this is how appointments with the doctor go. 

We found a spot (praise God for padded waiting room chairs) in the tight rows of benches, and set about to pass the time. 

Without a doubt, if Yupa and I were both bilingual or at least spoke the same language well, there would be no lack of conversation.  Even as it is, one of the things I enjoyed about today was the chance to just connect with my friend in a very relaxed sort of way.  We practiced English and Thai as we chatted together about the children's school progress (who's doing well and who's not), and about her mother's health (she had a small stroke when we were here last year), and reminisced about their time in Canada in January of this year.  Both Suradet and Yupa always ask about Highview, and specifically about people they now know.   The conversation is slow, as we struggle for words.  But we were waiting, so no hurry.  As we passed the two hour mark, she apologized, and thanked me for coming with her.  I said not to worry.  I was here for three months, so we had lots of time.  This makes us both laugh.

And besides, we only had two things on the list today.  This, and the food market.  Low expectations reduce frustrations, and I had already let go of my own list for the day, so.  Granted, the 'waste' of a perfectly good morning didn't entirely escape my notice.  I kept comparing what had been accomplished so far this day -  like, nothing - with what I might like to accomplish on any given morning at home.  I'm an early riser, and I do my best concentrated work between 7:00 and 10:00 a.m.  Lots can get checked off a list between 7:00 and 10:00 a.m.  But not today.

Approaching the three hour mark lunch was now being threatened.  But Yupa and I had both packed snacks, so we managed.  But - three hours?  This didn't feel like a walk in clinic any more.  It felt more like a trip to emerg.  But this wasn't random walk in accidents and the like.  This was a regularly scheduled appointment.  We were sitting where we could see people go in to sit with the doctor.   I started timing how long it took.  Thirty seconds.  Not a word of a lie.  The average time any one person actually engaged with the doctor was half a minute.  If something was really wrong, then you maybe got a full minute. 

At the four hour limit Yupa got the 30 seconds due her.  Good news is all her blood work came back normal and she was instructed to keep on doing what she's doing.  Yay!  Finally, we can go.  No, actually.  Yupa motioned for me to follow her to one more station where we waited another hour, no I'm not kidding, to pick up her prescriptions.

So now it's 2 o'clock in the afternoon.  I'm tired and I'm hungry.  But it's okay, because the second thing on the list is the food market, which is what I really wanted to do today anyways.  Except Yupa tells me, no, the market would be shutting down by now.  It will have to wait another day. 

Oh.

I am here to learn.  "Morning by morning he awakens me; he awakens my ear to listen as one being taught."  Isaiah 50:4  So, what did I hear today?

That a one-thing-only day is still a good day.  That Canadian health care is pretty amazing.  That some things are better accomplished by abandoning lists and letting life unfold.  That letting go of expectations, and in the company of a beautiful soul, frustration doesn't really even have to be entertained.  That my friend Yupa is enjoying good health and that is a gift worth devoting an entire day to.  That my list is still important, but it wasn't the boss of me today. 

However....I did get to check of "Blog about hospital trip with Yupa".   Sigh.  I'll get there.

My Thai Guy

It took some convincing, I'll admit to that.

With our two sponsored children Thim and Eg.

For the past almost nine years I have come to this place without Ken.  That's 15 times.  Not my choice to leave him behind, but his.  He's been more than wonderful to stay home and support my far off adventures, holding down the fort and offering over and above out of our own resources to make it happen.  In all of that time, he has been completely dedicated to the care of the children that Suradet and Yupa have gathered.  Even when he has been himself inconvenienced, he's never complained.  For all the times I've come without him, he has in so many ways been completely 'with' me in this.

Giving greetings from Highview on Sunday morning.

But at last, at last, he's here in the flesh.  And I admit that it took some convincing.  Strange to think of it now.  All the 'reasons' he had for not coming seem to have dissolved in the mountain morning mist.  Because this guy, it turns out, is so Thai!

He's good at Thai manners, conscientious and holding back, always waiting for the cues, never pushy or too loud.  He slow and clear when speaking English to new English learners.  He smiles a lot, which proves a helpful tool when in 'the land of smiles'.  And he's even trying out new food!  Anyone who knows Ken, knows this is probably the biggest deal of all.  My meat-and-potatoes guy has really pushed past his culinary comfort zone, and all with gentleness and grace and love. 

Decked out in Thai Pants at the King's Garden

He's even looking the part.  Upon arrival we realized that we hadn't really thought of how exactly he'd carry around his epipen (bee sting allergies).  An extra 'manly' Thai bag of mine provided the answer, and to please me mostly, he carries it everywhere.  Then, when visiting the King's gardens yesterday, he was required to rent some Thai pants in order to comply with the dress code (no shorts).   All of a sudden, my 'please-don't-make-me-go-to-Thailand' husband looks like he totally belongs here.

And he's acting it too.  And feeling it.  Feeling it in the deeper places sometimes when, as he described, he suddenly realizes just how happy God must be about all this - this small children being rescued thing, lives transformed thing, love and gentleness being nurtured in this sometimes dark and crazy world of ours thing.

It is hard for me to adequately express just how enormously I am delighting in his presence with me right now.  For one, we're about to experience a three month separation unprecedented in our marriage thus far.  I'm trying not to think about that too much.  Not yet anyways.  We still have three more full days together.  And in each moment, I'm delighting in and enjoying the fact that he's actually here.  He's here!  At Hot Springs!

But as well, there's just this fact that he came, all this way, pressing through his own reservations, just to see what all the fuss was about, and what has captured his wife's heart so thoroughly.

My Thai Guy.  Have I mentioned he's my hero? 

Love you so much, Ken.  Can't thank you enough for all you do to make so much possible.

Silly "Paw Ken"!!!!

Mot Leuri

Day two.  Settling in slowly and just trying to be here 'completely.

Full report this time on Bread and Honey.

I promise some pictures soon.

Tomorrow

Some random thought fragments, as I settle in to my last sleep at home.

Calmer now than the past two hours or so of impossible-to-avoid last minute packing.
Releasing into the adventure whatever I have forgotten to do or pack.
Stepping outside for a furtive thank you to my patio 'garden' for such a great summer.
Opening myself mentally and spiritually to the 30 hours of travel ahead.

Reveling in the fact I don't have to say goodbye to Ken just yet.
Enjoying that sweet deal it is just to be in your own bed.
Laying my spirit down into the One who is Sovereign.

So here I go.
It begins tomorrow.
Or perhaps, in all the fragments of thinking required to get to this moment,
it's begun already.

Photo Credit: Dave Driver

Spacious Hearts

 
 What is it about kids that just renovates your heart?

You think you've reached a capacity, that you couldn't possibly love any bigger, and then another one moves in and, well wouldn't you know, there's lots of room!

I've been thinking about this a lot in these last days of preparation for spending three months away from home, at home with 26 kids who have found room in their hearts for me.  And even in using the word 'home' twice in that sentence, I understand what is implied.  That my heart has at least two homes.

The crazy thing about it, one home doesn't diminish the heart-space for the other.   Just as loving one child doesn't 'use up' love meant for another, or being part of one family doesn't push out the space for being part of the other, there always seems to be more than enough room.

It's part of my motherhood story that what I had deeply longed for was a large family.  Didn't happen, not out of my own body.  And our two adult children are amazing and I'm proud of them both, and the partners they've chosen, and I'm glad for the way of being family we have become.  But there was a time, a long time actually, when I felt unfinished.  Eventually I was able to let that go and embrace a new thing, a new way of nurturing, through the opportunities I have been given to serve as a pastor.


And I love what I'm allowed to be and do among my phenomenal faith community.  But it's also part of my pastor story that there have been difficult, desolate chapters.  Times of unmitigated stress and anguish, of grief and bewilderment.

And then, after a while, more children did arrive.  Three in the astonishing gifts of grandchildren.   And then, who knew!, twenty six more in the gifts of reclaimed treasures half way around the world.

So I look up now, and wonder, where did all these amazing children come from?

I am reminded of a similar question put into the mouths of a displaced people by a prophet, long, long ago.

"But Zion said, 'The LORD has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.'
"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has born?
Though she may forget, I will not forget you!
See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands....
Your sons hasten back, and those who laid you waste depart form you.
As surely as I live," declares the LORD, "you will wear them all as ornaments;  you will put them on, like a bride.
"Though you were ruined and made desolate and your land laid waste,
now you will be too small for your people....
The children born during your bereavement will yet say in your hearing,
'This place is too small for us; give us more space to live in.'
Then you will say in your heart,
'Who bore me these?  I was bereaved and barren; I was exiled and rejected.
Who brought these up?  I was left all alone, but these - where have they come from?"
Isaiah 49:14-21

It was in the middle of some of those dark and bewildering times that these words first captured my heart and gave me some hope to wonder on.  Being careful not to take this outside the realm of the prophet's original intent - there was an original audience for this after all - there still seemed so much that described my feelings and circumstance at the time.  And in the text God does seem to want to bring reassurance to a discouraged people.

At the time, being a typical pastor focused on church growth, I wanted these words in Isaiah to be some sort of reassurance about Sunday morning attendance at Highview.  I now see how small a dream that was.


Because hearts and imaginations and dreams and God's ways are far bigger than the limits of my self.  We love because He first loved us, it says.  And our capacity, apparently, can grow to the degree we let go and let Him do whatever His expansive heart desires.

I expect more expanding renovations will happen for me while I am away.  They are sometimes painful and messy, so I should expect that too.  But in the right Hands, the finished product is always a beautiful thing.