Factoring In The Fear

And oh the wild adventures of the missionary life!

I'm often asked about the risks of being so far away from home in a country so differently dangerous, and whether or not it makes me afraid. 

And the answer is no.
And the answer is yes.


Let's just talk about the roads for a minute.

Twice I've been in a car that just narrowly missed a head on collision, Thai style driving being what it is.  I've been in a car that passed a large, slow truck as we were coming around a hairpin turn on our way up the mountain.  I've been in a car that barely skidded around a large water buffalo with a death wish, who was calmly munching his lunch on the other side of another hair pin turn, unseen until that crucial moment of avoidance.

Let's just talk about critters for a moment.

I've brushed by a scorpion in my bare feet (which I've written about before).  I've showered with a scorpion on more than one occasion.  I lived for two weeks with cobra lurking the underbrush until the day he was cornered and crushed and taken home by the neighbours for lunch.  I've had to run a little to avoid the charge of a wild boar.   There's been a seven foot snake in the kitchen and brightly coloured, small orange-sized spider on the threshold.  Another spider, the size of my hand and apparently quite venomous was just above my head the entire time I was on the toilet, and I didn't see him until I got up.  I've been pushed aside quite suddenly so as not to step on the 20 cm centipede whose sting is worse than a tarantula and will send you to the hospital for days of painful recovery.

Let's talk about the elements for a moment.

I've been in a shelter when a sudden, violent storm blasted through, clutching frightened children as the metal shingles were being ripped off above us.  I've been literally shaken out of my bed by a 4.9 earthquake whose epicenter was just 77 km away.  I've slept blissfully unaware while a brush fire came close enough to the house to require a small brigade to beat it back, and cause a layer of ash to settle over the entire property by morning. 

"Aren't you afraid?", folks will ask.  And about these things, I would have to say, no, I'm not.

Surprisingly, even to myself, I seem to take each circumstance in stride.  It's part of the adventure.  Gives me lots of material to write about.  We don't take stupid risks, of course.  There are ways to make yourself more aware of the kinds of things we might encounter in Thailand that are not unlike how we bear-proof our cottages, or protect ourselves from ticks, or cope with ice storms and power outages. 

So no.   These things don't scare me much.

Impressed with my courage?  Don't be.  I'm about to out myself as a coward.

Because there is on thing that almost instantly fills me with over the top anxiety and almost paralyzing fear.

It's getting sick.

No one likes to get sick.  And no one who's traveling likes to get sick in the way travelers often do get sick; the ways you take Dukoral for, shall we say.  And I haven't really gotten all that sick in that traveler's kind of way, not for all the trips I've taken over the past eleven years.   But if I do, even just a little bit, it triggers no end of fear for me.

Perhaps it's because it's happening to my body, and there's something about being so far away from home when something is happening to your body that's particularly stressful.  Perhaps it's because I am far away from home and the kind of medical care I'm used to.  And very likely it's related to the fact that one time, when I was in Thailand, I fainted.  Passed out.  And I didn't feel right for a few days after that.  And it was just before I was set to fly home.  By myself.  And what if I passed out again on the layover in Korea?  And I'm by myself?  And what if, for whatever reason, they have to take me to the hospital there?  Did I mention that I'm by myself?

I'm not by myself in Thailand.  There is family there to care for me, make sure I get the best treatment possible.  And they have done that, over the top, no matter what I might be dealing with, even if it's just that nasty cold I picked up on the plane. 

But all I know is, that if I get just a little bit unwell, I'm not in a good space, having to talk myself down from the ceiling. 

It's quite amazing how many times the Bible talks about fear.  It's practically the first words out of the mouth of any angel messenger.  "Don't be afraid."  Moses speaks into the fear of the Israelites over and over again. Valiant warrior King David isn't shy about voicing his fears to God, as peppered throughout the Psalms. 

During my last visit in February I ran into some difficulty, and parked myself in Psalm 31.

"In you, O LORD, I have taken refuge:

let me never be put to shame;
deliver me in your righteousness.
Turn your ear to me,
come quickly to my rescue;
be my rock of refuge,
a strong fortress to save me.
Since you are my rock and fortress,
for the sake of your name lead and guide me.
Free me from the trap that is set for me,
for you are my refuge.
Into your hands I commit my spirit;
redeem me, O LORD, the God of truth."
Psalm 31:1-5

Over and over I would read this out loud as I lay in my bed, waiting for the shakes to pass.

And right now I would so much rather be writing about how I said these verses over while the earthquake was happening because it sounds so much more dramatic and - well - necessary to picture it that way.  But that's not what scared me.  This did.  And I needed to run into God's strong, safe place of being in charge.  Every time, when I would get to that phrase, "Into your hands I commit my spirit"  - those being, of course, words Jesus chose to recite back to God in His own moments of agony and terror -  that would bring a deep sigh of release.  And the more I pressed into His absolute sovereignty over my life, and the more I surrendered any outcomes to Him, the more I stopped fighting what was happening in my body and welcomed the easing of my mind.

Funny what makes us afraid.

And I am amazed that God knows what we need, and is so available, even in the most humbling of moments, to meet us there in our fear.   And I am grateful, so grateful, that He pours His courage into me. 

The M Word and Things Not Mattering Anymore

The moment when it doesn't matter any more, I am jumping.

For probably 25 years this one praise song has had me bounding three times right, three times left, lifting hands higher than the sky, and dropping down deeper than the sea.  I've declared God's everlasting love like this with countless kids, back at my home church in Kitchener, up at our cottage church in Cognashene, in Thailand and Cambodia that first trip 11 years ago, at Day Camps over the years both sides of the planet, and now here at Hot Springs for, oh I don't know how long.  It's an exuberant explosion of music and joy and, based on the repeated requests from the kids, it never gets old.

I do.  And I feel it when the song is done, I'll just be honest and - heaving breath - say so.  But.  So. Much.  Energy fills the room!  Every time!  It's as if we just get lost in the joyful mystery of His everlasting love.   Every time.  And it's happy and wonderful and good and fun and beautiful and ridiculously satisfying.

And I am jumping three times right and three times left when suddenly it doesn't matter any more.

So now I have to get all transparent and admit that no small amount of my challenge in this past year has been adjusting to a perceived 'loss' of status.   Yes.  That.

Everyone totally knows that it's not in the best interest of our overall mental health if we identify too closely with the work we do and any titles or status that comes with.  And we might all just shrug it off as not being a thing, not affecting us, as long as we're doing our work and - let's face it - enjoying the titles or status that come with.  But when that work is gone and the titles are gone and the status is gone, it kinda turns out that it mattered after all.  It's not supposed to.  But it kinda does. 

It's not like being Pastor has such a huge standing in the general world anyways.  That part I got used to long ago.  But at least it seemed to help in my ministry world.  And even somewhat cynical extended family members seemed to allow me a tad more respect when I was ordained and actually received the title Reverend.  (A credential I still hold but rarely use, but feel necessary to mention here only because you knowing that still matters somehow -- even when it shouldn't.)

When I came back from my initial time away, I noticed something had changed.  It became obvious that much of what I had previously taken for granted in terms of a general respect and regard was attached to the role, not the person.  Not with my closest friends, of course.  And I was amply loved through the entire process, without question.  But in terms of some of the subtle ways these things are played out, it was clear.  I just wasn't as important now.  Being a missionary didn't have the same clout, clearly.

I was even told I might not want to call myself that, because....well there's lots of negative stuff around the title.   There was that weird guy last November who got shot by arrows, remember?

Except around here, no one calls me Pastor anymore, so what am I left with?

And it's not supposed to matter but....it does.

Until it doesn't.  Because....jumping.

And it's the middle of the song when I am overwhelmed by a Presence of shalom in the most unexpected and breath-snatching of ways.  And I realize that this - what I'm doing right now - is exactly what I want to be doing - right now - in this moment of it not mattering.  Because you can call me anything you like or nothing at all if this is where I get to be.  Here right now in the circle of treasures of immeasurable value that poverty said should not be here.  But they are here, thriving and shining, and in the throes of joyful worship, no less.

And somehow, by some appointment not orchestrated by me, I have been invited into the best of the best.  So it doesn't matter.  Call me what you want.  Or nothing at all.

Just let me jump with the kids.

The Strong Girls

 

It happens in the briefest of moments at sunrise while we’re moving the table outside.

Every day following morning worship, I’m accompanied back to my room by the three youngest girls, Any, Gam and May, who are carrying my Bible and note book, slippers if it has been cool enough, and basically anything I might have in my hands.  Ahjahn Ruth is not allowed to carry her own things, apparently.  This we do for her.

Sometimes in the evening this is harder work.  I will have filled my two Sobey’s bags full of all that was needed for the lesson; the speaker I plug into my computer for learning One Way Jesus in English, the small lesson-related token that will be added to their themed paper bag (or various other ways to collect them), the flip cards for our 100 words vocabulary, the phonics book I’ve read with gusto, pens, papers, large pink dice.  Like that.  And perhaps we’ve even had a completed reader in the group who will be receiving their prize, so all of that has come along too.  On those nights I politely express my concern that perhaps my bags will be too heavy.  These children are healthy and strong, but they are comparatively little wisps of things on North American growth charts.

And every time I express my concern, these girls reassure me.  Mai ben rai, Ahjahn Ruth.  Mai nak!

‘Never mind, Ahjahn Ruth.  It’s not heavy.’

And every time I make the comment.  Pooying kemkrang.   ‘Girls are strong.’

I’m being rather intentionally subversive in this. 

Thailand is a mixed bag when it comes to attitudes about women.  In the cities things are modern enough and opportunities for women are noticeably improving as the effects of conducting international business and the desire to do well in the global economy influence both attitude and practice.  Still, this is, at its deepest core, a tribal culture steeped in thousands of years of tradition.   And in that tradition, one of the most prominent characteristics of femininity is the ability to sit down, be quiet, and do as you’re told.   At its worst, this cultural bent contributes insidiously into the sex trade industry.  Submissive Asian women are part of the attraction for certain kinds of tourism.

At Hot Springs, girls are treated with great respect, without question.  [And it’s actually an interesting side story as to what Suradet and Yupa initially thought about making a partnership with a church that had a female pastor, but I’ll leave that for another time.]  But some of the culturally-ingrained mind-set about gender roles is present.  And this leaves me in a delicate place.  How can I demonstrate biblical equality without imposing my own cultural mores?   How can I make sure not to impose Western ideologies that do not represent a gospel priority?  And how do I discern what does and does not represent the gospel?

I do not call myself a feminist, with great respect to my friends who do.  I prefer the term ‘egalitarian’ because of how passionate I am about women AND men working TOGETHER towards the plans and purposes of God.  In my years of serving in varying capacities as a woman leader, the scenarios where true partnerships of reciprocity and respect existed, are the ones that have been the most effective, and I don’t think one has to be a theologian or a sociologist to figure out why.   

When I come here, there are no end of ways of thinking and doing things that are very different from my own culture.  That does not mean my own culture is correct.  Nor does it mean this culture is correct.  But somewhere in between there is a biblical ethic to aim for.  And in all of this I am careful.

But I’m still intentional.  Girls are strong.  They just are.  So I say it.  Every time they heave those bags onto those tiny shoulders and beam that smile of self-confidence at me.  Yes, these girls, my girls are strong.  I want to speak that into them.

Which is why when it happens in the briefest of moments at sunrise while we’re moving the table outside, I can’t help but be ridiculously satisfied.

We’re moving the table because I will be working outside for the morning.  That’s the normal rhythm of my day; to work outside writing sermons and preparing lessons, and emails and such for work still happening back home that the world wide web makes possible no matter where you are.  The table is not heavy, but it’s a little awkward for me to do by myself.  So after they drop off my things, I just ask if someone could pick up an end of the table and we’ll just take this outside.

And we’re in the middle of doing that, and I am thanking them for their help.  And one of them says, without my prompt,  Pooying kemkrang.  ‘Girls are strong.’

Oh yes, little warrior, they are.  You are.  Don’t forget it.  Long after I am able to come here and be with you, I hope this will ring in your ears, in your heart.   And I hope you will say it to yourself as often as you need to.  And I hope, even more, that you will add an essential dimension to this mantra.  A Thai phrase you know well and have actually taught me.

Prajao sum gum lung.

God is my strength. 

Because He is. 

And in Him you can do anything.

 

A Very Special Thank You

As I post this blog, Highview is in the happy throes of our annual Haiti Dinner and Silent Auction.  This has been an 11 year effort, raising funds for badly needed building projects to support the amazing people of Haiti and our partners there.  I find it ironic that there is something of a bookend thing happening here.   I was not at the very first Haiti Dinner because I was here, in Thailand, leading that now historic first trip to Southeast Asia.  

It is hard to express how overwhelming it is to watch God do this kind of stuff!!!!!!!
Oh the richness of what has happened in hearts at Highview, at Hot Springs and in Haiti over this past decade.  I can hardly wait to see what He's going to do next!

______________


We marked an important moment at Hot Springs today.  All the official documents and releases have now been signed, transferring the care of the children here from our previous umbrella agency,  Asia’s Hope, to the newly formed New Family Foundation.

This is the result of a long and careful process that included a sincere desire to end our time with Asia’s Hope well.  That could not happen without a proper acknowledgement of the support and care we have been provided over the past ten years, and all that we have learned from Thailand’s National Director, Tutu.

I could write pages about the work and legacy of this woman.  She has literally helped to change the lives of thousands of children in locations all around this country, in various circumstances and through different, creative means.  She’s been dubbed the “Mother Teresa” of Thailand, and it fits her well.

She was the one who connected Hot Springs with Asia’s Hope, and with then Highview in the first place some 11 years ago.  So we wanted to say thank you in the best of ways possible.

We’ve been planning since I arrived (and before), but today was the flurry of activity to make sure all the details were in place.  Flowers and fronds and magnificent archways decorated the church sanctuary.  More flowers were gathered into bouquets for presentation later on.   Food was specially purchased and prepared. 

Tutu, her son David and his wife, and a friend from France, were our honoured guests who arrived around 4:30 p.m. and we enjoyed an early supper together.   We then moved over to the church for our time of thanks.

Songs and thank yous and presentations.

 

For my own tribute, I could not think of a better way to acknowledge this remarkable woman than by recounting something that happened the first time I came to Thailand.

I struggled a lot that first trip.   The heat, the jet lag, the lack of control over when things happened, the crazy way all I thought I was ‘bringing’ to these people ended up in a heap of debilitating culture shock and slippery ego.  The day we went up to Wang Pa Pao to set up a clinic for the villagers there, I was still licking my wounds from the fiasco that was our supposedly sensational children’s program that had bombed the night before. 

I wasn’t expecting to take blood pressures.  I was a pastor and a leader and a preacher, not a nurse.  I felt useless in my areas of competence already.  And now they wanted me to pretend to be a medic?  My comfort zone was way back there somewhere, and as simple as it sounds to me now, at that moment I felt pushed to my limits.

But after the first few attempts, and once I got the hang of what I was doing, the afternoon settled into a gentler rhythm of greeting each person with a wai and a smile, wrapping the cuff around a thin brown arm, writing down the numbers and sending each person to the next line for treatment.   My heart began to settle somewhat into the physicality of it all.  These beautiful strangers and I were, for a brief moment, connected by touch and proximity.  Their blood coursed past the stethoscope and their heartbeat  echoed in my ears.

But it was Tutu that truly anchored me that afternoon. 

At one point she came to just sit with me as I took the blood pressures.   Quietly, unassumingly, as is her entire life and demeanour.    And at one point she said to me simply, “Thank you for loving my people.”

Oh.  Yes.  That.

I cannot tell you how much I needed to be reminded in that moment that love was the most important thing.  That love does not need language.  Love does not need to know everything about culture.  Love does not need to have a fancy program that goes well.  It doesn’t even need to be particularly competent in the ways I like to be competent.  Love is just sitting quietly all afternoon with beautiful people and showing them that you care.

This I learned from Tutu that long and gentle afternoon.

We move into a new era now.  But we do not forget what we have learned from astonishing people along the way.  How grateful I am to have been taught by such a woman, from the depths of her spiritual wealth.

So many pictures and hugs later, our time together was over and Tutu and our guest left.  Because it was still so early, the children asked if please could we still have our normal time of worship together.  So that’s what we did.  And with the last 30 minutes of the day we celebrated again with an impromptu dance party. 

We kind of couldn’t help it.

It had been that kind of amazing day.   

Good Night Gorilla

Evening worship is done and I’m putting away the night’s lesson materials on Abraham, our first Bible Hero in a unit of nine.  I’m in my ‘office’ at Hot Springs, a desk-table arrangement in the corner of a room in one of the extra buildings here.   Simple, but cool, and a good place to organize all the lesson materials, craft supplies, sermon manuscripts, and, now, all the binders and documents for the New Family Foundation.

Praweet stands at the edge of the porch and calls my name.  That’s how you ‘knock’ around here.  The children do the same over at Suradet and Yupa’s house if they need a bandage or some toothpaste or more cleaner when it’s their time to do the bathrooms.   Praweet’s little gravelly voice, and that he’s approaching me like this, and that I know what he’s doing makes me pause for a small swell of happy.  These are the intangible moments that anchor me here; that say I belong.

He’s come by to see if I would listen to him read.  We started our Reading Record cards today, but he was away at a Saturday cricket match all day.  Not to be outdone by the girls who seem to him to have had a significant advantage, he’s asking if he could please choose four books – the daily limit.

I’ve mentioned this before, but having a good understanding of English is a significant advantage in Thailand.  It is taught as a core subject in the government run schools starting in grade three.  But mastering Thai itself is quite a challenge with its 44 consonants and 21 vowels, and plethora of permutations on pronunciation.   Most of our children are from the Karen tribe and Thai is already a second language.   As it should be everywhere, doing well in school is both highly regarded and individually nuanced.  I’ve been impressed by Suradet and Yupa’s commitment to helping each child find what they love and are good at, and providing whatever they can to help them excel.

Praweet excels at cricket, not reading, but he’s not dissuaded from participating due to a lack of skill.  I love that about him.  He’s the smallest by far, and small for his nine years, but spunky and expressive and most of the time cheerful to the point of mischief.  He wants to be able to choose one of the prizes that will be his prerogative once twenty four books have been read and all the squares on his Reading Record are filled in.  Four books per day. 

May, Any and Eak

He selects four of the simpler reads and we tuck into the wicker chair outside.  He’s the only one small enough to do this.  We read about farm animals, and little bug’s house.  We try to find the right snow man, and say goodnight to the gorilla in the zoo who somehow sneaks in with a mouse to join the zookeeper and his wife in their big comfy bed.   With that last book Good Night Gorilla by Peggy Rathmann,  I pause to show him my grandson Zachary’s quick message inside the front cover.  Written in his own hand, it says, “To my brothers and sisters at Hot Springs.  Love, Zach.”  Yes.  Another small swell of happy, and marvelling again at our connections.

When we’re done reading and Praweet has made certain I’ve filled in the squares properly, he says “Good night” in English, and heads over to the campfire.  Normally I would join him where the others are also lingering for a few minutes before bedtime.  But I’m more inclined to take my slightly spinny head to bed early instead.

It’s taking a little longer to feel physically all here this time. 

I blame the ice storm and all the delays and the crazy forty-five minute dash that replaced a reasonable three hour layover and the ridiculously long, hour and a half line up at Thai customs that made this one of the more difficult trips here, hands down.   My personal blog Bread and Honey (link) tells that story, so I’ll the leave the details there.  But, no, I’m not all turned around to Thai time, diet and climate quite yet.

I’ll get there.  Life here will make sure of it.  The easy rhythms of waking and worship, eating and resting, worship again, then ending the day around the campfire, provide the healing balance to whatever stresses my body still needs to shake off, and the work I’ve come here to do.  The work that, if I’m honest, isn’t really so much about all the lesson plans and sermons or even the meetings that are now required to ensure our Foundation is following every stipulation down to the finest details.  Yes, all of that is very important and does receive a good portion of my attention, both here and when I’m at home.

But what just happened here on the porch with Praweet....that’s really the most important work.  To be here and quietly available, partnering in what Suradet and Yupa have established in their own way with the gifting and ability God has given them.   To be here contributing to the children’s well being in whatever ways I can and am invited.   This is a deeply needed reminder to reorient me in the midst of a what has at times been a psychologically disruptive change of status.  But that’s another blog post I think.

So here comes Sunday and I didn’t sleep well at all last night.

Glad for the cooler, refreshing mornings.

Glad for the anticipation of worshiping together with my Thai beloveds.

That First-Last Hot February

It's been a heat-seeking kind of day.

Winter is roaring outside and the cold is seeping in.  Frugality prompts the continuation of the furnace set-back long practiced when no one was in the house Tuesday to Friday,  The only-heat-the-room you're-in contingencies are struggling to keep up in wind chills of -21 C.  I can hear it, the wind.  And the sound makes me tuck into my fleece blanket more snugly, here now in front of the fire I've just lit in the family room.

January is howling into February.
And actually, I don't mind.
I'm just about to swing back over to Thai life.

I just checked.  In Chiang Mai the projected high for Tuesday, January 29 is 32 C.  That's without the humidex.  That means in just over a week I'll be making something like a 55 degree adjustment in temperature.  Yup.

Back to the heat of Thailand I go, there for the second time this winter.  This has been the shortest turn around ever.  Only two months in between.  Two exceptionally full, strategically important, and robustly challenging months for me personally, and in the story of this like-family partnership that Highview stepped into with Hot Springs eleven years ago. 

February is significant.

It was a hot February when we first ventured out to see what God was doing in Southeast Asia.  It was a hot February when we first met two remarkable people who were risking their own well-being and livelihood in order to feed and clothe and love desperate children.  It was a hot February when God gripped my heart, and the hearts of others who went, and the hearts of those who even just heard about it after we got back.   And we signed up and signed on.  That was when we all - Suradet and Yupa, all the children, and every Sponsor, every person who's support this - stepped into something that none of us could have imagined would turn out this way.

And here we are, so many trips later.  And I'm pretty sure that this will be my first trip there in February since that first-last one.

I'm smiling at myself right now.

Strewn in systematic chaos across the pool table downstairs are supplies for twenty seven Bible lessons, random ESL materials, twenty five surprise Valentine's creations for Sponsors, beads and books and badges, random Canadian trinkets from the Dollar Store, printouts for four sermons, and various and sundry bring-next-time items from my list made in November.  The planning is intense, because now I have at least some idea of what I'm supposed to do when I get there.

Back then, that first time?  Not so much.

And what's sobering me right now, as I remember not just the first trip, but many, many trips in those first early years, is how very patient and respectful they all have been with me as I have stumbled my way into having any meaningful contribution at all.   The mistakes I've made!  The grace I've been offered!  So many good and wretched lessons in humility.

The reason for such a quick turn around this time, is to be there when New Family Foundation takes on the responsibility of the children officially.    More strategically important and robustly challenging meetings are in the works for sure.  And there are moments to mark, people to thank, and some brave servants of God to encourage and cheer.  And of course, there's the children.

I seek the heat today, but soon I will be in heat-avoidance mode.  I'll be glad of the AC in my room and ice cold bottles of water and the fan that I can set up if I want to sit outside.  I'll be careful not to catch a cold in the bone chilling 19 C temperatures that can happen overnight.  And the only howling I'll hear is the pack of wild dogs that run through the neighbourhood when everyone else is in bed.

February will howl into March.
I will swing back again into Canadian life.
Two book-end Februarys in between.

-----

Some dates fyi:

Sunday, February 3 - Speaking at Highview Community Church for the first of the "Go and See" series.
Wednesday, February 6 - On my way.  Flight leaves 11:40 a.m.
Sunday, February 10 - Haiti Team Report at Highview, second of the "Go and See" series.

Wednesday, March 6 - Arrive home at 9:15 a.m.

Stay tuned for more stories and adventures from Thailand.

Scorpion on the Threshold

It's the first night of our visit last November.

I've just settled Evangeline into her guest house next door, making sure that, as a first time visitor, for her first ever night in Thailand, she has everything she needs.   Now I'm back in my own room trying to think.

It's always a tricky bit of time, this arrival-and-straight-to-bed-thing.  It's approximately 30 hours door to door; 30 hours since we left our own beds; 30 hours since we had a place to stretch right out and lay down.  Jet lag is definitely in play and for us it's really only lunch time.  But the fatigue and general sense of disorientation makes it hard to unpack the barest of things we'll need for the morning, before collapsing into a desperately needed sleep.

Maybe that's why I don't see it on my way out to put something in the garbage can on the porch.

With bare feet - of course, it's Thailand - I open my door to the warm night outside to get rid of the plastic wrap around the toilet paper.  I do have a garbage indoors, but it's small and I'd rather not fill it up with this one thing.

Only on the way back do I see a mostly-legs, small-plum-sized spider poised smack in the middle of the threshold I had just crossed.  In bare feet.  At least I think it's a spider.  And I think it's alive.  Not really sure because it's not moving, and it's a little dark in the doorway.  Never mind.  It's big enough that I'd rather be certain of its demise before I climb into bed.

No one else is around.  Suradet and Yupa have gone back to Hot Springs.  And I'm certainly not calling them back to squish a spider, even the size that it is.  I do not see any tell-tale bright colours to warn me that it's particularly poisonous.  So I take my flip flop and smack it dead.

It takes two smacks.

And then.

It's not squished down as a spider.  In its eviscerated state, it's all spread out and elongated and not a spider at all.

It's a scorpion.

I've seen four scorpions, total, in all my visits to Thailand.  One in the shower just as I was finishing.  One running out from between my feet as I sat on the bench under the dining shelter.  One very large and very dead, being devoured by about 7 million fire ants.  And this one.

So, yeah.  There are scorpions here.  Not an every day occurrence, but still.  And this one.  This one I should have stepped on.  In my bare feet.

The reason I thought it was a spider was because it was actually curled up over itself in striking pose.  Clearly I had come close.  Did I mention I was in bare feet?

A deep breath-sigh escapes from me involuntarily.  I pause for some somber reflection.  And then a thank You.  Again, thank You.

I mention to God that this was a rather disconcerting thing to happen on the very first night, flick away the remains of my close encounter using my flip flop, roll up a towel under the door, and go to bed.

There's a song we sing at Highview by the Robbie Seay Band.  It's titled "Rise" and it's a call to give ourselves away for love.  The song itself is full of contrasts, starting with an invitation to just be in the moment, be still, be here, be now.  But it builds to this reckless declaration that takes the worshiper to a defiant statement of truth for anyone who dares to give themselves away like this.

"We're not safe!  We're not safe!  But we will rise!"

Before the scorpion on my threshold, almost a year before, for some insane reason, I chose Perpetua as the subject of a research assignment in my History of Christianity course.  It was insane because Perpetua was a martyr, a nursing mother who chose to be gored and torn to pieces by a mad bull rather than disown her Jesus.

Researching martyrs is a grim business.  When I was finished the assignment I knew I was done with the subject for some time.  Let's talk about the something happier pa-lease!  But I also took away a new respect for the fact that those who first called themselves Christians did so in the face of certain persecution, the likes of which make a scorpion encounter just an interesting story.

Even so, we all face the dangers, those determined enough to follow wherever God would lead us.  Whether to a far away place with dangerous vermin, or into virus-infected epidemic zones, or the classroom of  a violence-prone school, or a group therapy gathering of sexual offenders, or the bedside of a dying friend, or behind the pulpit of a trusting congregation, or into the lives of teenagers with chaotic homes, or alongside the darkness of depression, or around the table of hostile family, or within the circle of warriors brave enough to pray against the enemy.

We subject our bare feet and bare hearts to no end of harm.

We do.  Or else we just stay home.

We're not safe.  Safety is an illusion.  That is, if we're willing to rise and give ourselves away in any capacity whatsoever.

I head back to the scarce-but-still-there scorpions on February 6th.  But I also head back to 26 incredible children and their heroic parents and caregivers, to rise with them and give and receive the love that makes it all make sense.

Of course I'll be careful.  I'll make sure all my vaccinations are up to date, take my Dukoral, travel with my ID and wallet close to my body.  When I get there I will wear copious amounts of insect repellent, put on my seat belt, only drink bottled water, keep my eyes out for the vermin, and listen to the cautions of Yupa when she tells me the coffee is dangerous (that's another, lighter-side story though).

But climbing into bed that night that the scorpion was on my threshold, I knew again without question, safe or not, this is what God has called me to do for this time of my life.

I don't think that I'm particularly brave.  I just know there's no other place I'd rather be than where God has compelled me to go.