I have a friend in Thailand named Yom. He is sixty one years old, smokes two packs of cigarettes a day, has a pet cat named Kemai, and is a Buddhist monk.
Today, myself and two other members of my squad headed to Wat Sai Moon Myanmar where Yom lives to stop by and say hello before we continued on our prayer walk for the day. As often happens on the Race, God had other plans waiting for us, plans much, much sweeter than anything we could’ve ever dreamed.
We entered the grounds, passed the wat with its jeweled dragons guarding the door, and around the corner of a golden stupa. Despite being in and out of wats daily, I never fail to notice the grand iconography and how the atmosphere changes immediately when you enter through the gates.
Immediately, sound from the street becomes distant, and the air is heavy with emotion that varies from wat to wat. Wat Sai Moon actually carries a lot of peace, one of the reasons we enjoy returning.
We found Yom in the back of the grounds, standing under an awning. His attention was focused on the wooden post in front of him where he was painting something. As we approached, he peered at us from the glasses perched on the tip of his nose and broke out into a massive gap toothed grin.
“Oh. Hello! Sit,” he said, gesturing to the shiny red plastic chairs under the awning. He welcomed us as if we were old friends from years and years ago.
Yom doesn’t speak the best English, but it’s enough. Through his broken words, we learned more about him. He went through his daily schedule with us, his duties, discussed the four novice monks he is responsible for, and showed us pictures of his friends—pictures he kept on his smartphone. During the conversation, he lit a cigarette, informing us “I read. Buddha okay. Smoking okay.”
Despite wearing an orange robe and shaving his head, Yom is just another man.
After the cigarette, he turned and opened a door under the awning, revealing a room no larger than one hundred square feet—his bedroom.
The room was small, and seemed even smaller as nearly half of it was occupied by a massive personal shrine to Buddha. The shrine contained dozens of different Buddhist figurines, food offerings, candles, and incense. Most of it glittered gold and the figures were meticulously placed and maintained.
The empty eyes of these figurines watched us as we entered, sat, and continued speaking with Yom. He showed us how he meditates, gave us each a bottled sweet yogurt drink popular in Thailand, and let us pet his cat.
Somewhere along the conversation, which with a monks always inevitably returns to Buddha, I asked him, “Does Buddha ever talk to you?”
“Yes. Book. Buddha bible. He speak.”
And as clear as a bell, the Holy Spirit told me, “Unsheathe your sword.”
Smiling, as The Lord continues to beat this lesson about the power of His word over my head, I pulled my Bible out of my backpack where I’ve taken to carrying it with me everywhere I go.
“This is my Bible. It’s Jesus’s—Yesu’s—book. My God speaks to my heart, and he also speaks to me through this book.”
I placed my Bible—coffee stained, the cover turning black from handling, the pages bulging with all manner of notes, dried flowers, and drawings I’ve taken to shoving in there for safe keeping—on the floor between Yom and myself.
The shrine to Buddha easily dwarfed my Bible in size, cleanliness, and impressiveness, but I was blessed and humbled to know that far greater power resides in those sweat stained pages than in a single one of the figures towering over us.
I think in some way, Yom knew this too.
He curiously considered my Bible before taking it from Nano, my male squadmate, as monks cannot accept anything handed to them by a woman.
Yom placed it on the ground before flipping to the first page.
“See. Read English.” His wrinkled finger underlined the world on the page as he considered them. “Holy. Bible. H-O-L-Y B-I-B-L-E. Holy Bible!” He looked up and smiled his full smile which makes all his wrinkles stand out especially bold and reveals a few missing teeth on the left side of his jaw.
He flipped to the table of contents and began reading the books of the Bible aloud. Nano leaned in close and helped Yom through the ones he had more trouble pronouncing.
Sitting before a shrine to a dead god, on a bedroom floor in Thailand, with an elderly monk’s hands carefully leafing through its pages, my Bible became a precious treasure to me. It was all I could do to keep my tears in.
I love God so much. His word is so good. I am so blessed to have Truth sitting in my backpack, accessible at any moment, and a God whose gracious ears are always open.
Based on what he believes, Yom does not have those things. Perhaps during this divine appointment, God blessed us with the opportunity to be the first people to place true Truth in Yom’s hands. Perhaps we have planted a seed, a hunger, which will lead Yom on a new spiritual journey than the one he’s been walking.
Kingdom follows us wherever we go. I’m so mind blown to be traveling this wild path the Lord has designed for me. Onward, to more chats with monks, more divine appointments, and more opportunities to bring life with us wherever we go!
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Currently: Zion Hostel, Chaing Mai, Thailand | 11:20 PM | 86% Funded | “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” Micah 6:8
