The first time it happened I was standing in the kitchen with a bunch of friends at a Homecoming party. We were calming talking about what countries I had been to, my favorite foods, the bathrooms, you know–the typical post-race questions. I am sure I was entertaining them with some wild storytelling and everything was great.
One minute I found myself recounting the finer points of Thai food and the next it was like I had been transported back in time to Phuket, Thailand. I felt the thumping techno music, saw the flashing lights of the bars, felt the heaviness of spiritual oppression and the faces of the bar girls flashed through my mind. I heard them asking me to play Connect Four, offer me a drink, and ask about my travels; I saw the pain in their eyes and the fake smiles.
I saw myself smiling and playing Jenga, Connect Four, eating lots of popcorn and drinking countless cokes. I saw myself breaking inside when men would walk into the bars and us girls would be all but abandoned as the Bar Girls tried to get business for the night. They might return and sit beside me and we would continue playing Jenga and pretending the men hadn’t come in and left. We would pretend that this was normal. Time would pass and eventually I would hug them and whisper a prayer in their ear as we left. Promises to return the next night and get beat in Connect Four were made and we would disappear into the busyness of late night Phuket.
My storytelling came to an abrupt halt and I steadied myself discreetly on the counter top while I tried to get my bearings. I wasn’t in the bars of Thailand, but rather in Nicole’s kitchen in KY and a lifetime removed from the pain of those eyes. I couldn’t escape the oppression, couldn’t push past the memories. I can’t forget the faces.
The more time I am home the more it happens. I can feel places. They are forever etched on my heart and soul. Some are buried deeper than others, but they are there nonetheless. I feel the smiles, the laughter, the music, the prayers, the pain, the whispers of hope. At first I was kind of weirded out by the flashbacks. 
It seemed strange to be in one place and to not be there at the same time. To be physically in one location, but to be emotionally and spiritually somewhere halfway around the world. I was always caught off guard and not sure what to think. Now, I have come to relish the memories. I long for moments when I can disappear from this foreign American society and vividly remember times, places and faces that are a part of me.
I can feel the streets of Cambodia as I ride along on a Moto, the hospital in Nicaragua, the orphans in Swazi…
Lord, don’t ever let me forget. Never let me get too busy or too distracted to remember the precious faces, their eyes of pain and hope and their faith in a Jesus who heals. Never let me forget their hope. I want to feel those places again.
