Here’s a glimpse into comical World Race life reality: My wardrobe
consists of 3 pairs of $2.00 pants that I bought in India (which most
people think are not only a fashion ‘no-no’, but are truly hideous),
shirts that are officially ‘hole-y’, and a couple of raggedy hats.
Actually, if you saw me in the mall in States, you’d probably think I
was homeless and might offer to buy me a Taco Bell for lunch.
Today I went to
check out the Siam Paragon Mall in Bangkok, because it’s one of the
largest malls in Asia. I was in sensory overload with everything
springing into competitive action to grab my attention… So many
smells, lights, sounds… I felt I’d entered a world that was somehow,
for some reason, familiar to me… almost as if I’d lived it in another
life…
In my overloaded daze, I stopped to stare at a brightly colored dress
hanging on a mannequin with a very long giraffe neck and no head. I
felt eyes on me from somewhere, and noticed that, to my left, there was
a woman with a name tag, a crisp tailored suit, and a look of disbelief
(or disgust, I don’t know) on her face. She was starring at my feet.
she must be thinking about my feet, which were, by the way,
thoughtlessly accented by my hideous $2.00 pants. She looked up at my
eyes, then took a glance at my ratty hat.
for having such ugly feet. I mean, lets just be honest here– I’m
surrounded by Gucci, Armani, and Calvin Klein. I don’t blame her. She
probably doesn’t see many homeless-isque people in the Siam Paragon.
I looked down at my feet in their cracked sandals and saw the lack of
beauty, especially contrasted against the pretty, vibrant, swirly
designed carpet. Once again I looked up, feeling a little awkward that
we’d just spent at least 45 seconds silently discussing our obvious
social status. I smiled again.
I wanted to answer her unasked question by saying, “You don’t know
where I’ve been.” But instead, I told her that the dress was beautiful
and to have a good day, and turned to watch my Rainbows take me outside
the shop.
One step– Peru.
Carmencita. Aldolfo. Axel. Nicole. The ruins of the earthquake. The
stories of family death. The disease in the refugee camp. Overwhelmed
at how much needed to be done and how few resources we had.
Two
steps-Nauta. VBS. The kids who naively played the ouiji board. The
jungle. The heat. Squad boat breakfast. The brilliant lightening storm;
we sang “How Great Is Our God” in such awe and reverence; the
lightening seemed to flash right on cue to the beat.
Three
steps-Iquitos. The drunk woman no one would talk to. The church
services. Spanish songs. Holding little Sally. Mud fights with kids.
Knocking on people’s doors and telling them all about Christ.
Four
steps-Africa. Orphans. Starvation. AIDS. Malawi. Miles to the remote
Muslim villages in the heat. Harvest was plenty. Workers were few.
Five steps-Johannesburg. Gunpoint.
Six steps-India. Spirit of mass confusion. 600,000 different gods. Enough ‘sacred’ cows to feed the entire starving country.
Seven
steps-Bangkok, Thailand. The bars. Beer spilt on my sandals by some
drunk guy hanging on one of our new Thai friends as he took her to his
hotel.
Eight
steps-Phomn Phen, Cambodia. The stench of poverty. Human trafficking.
Yelling “FREEDOM!!” from the rooftops. The beggars on the streets, the
children playing in the trash. The Killing Fields.
I wasn’t feeling
defensive, just very aware of the misunderstanding gap between us. Siam
Paragon’s world is all about image, and me and my feet were just not up
to par. Though they’ve led me to some of the most beautiful people I’ve
ever met, and into the most tragically, beautiful redeemed places I’ve
ever been, the world doesn’t see that. When they see me, they see an
aesthetic disaster.
Those well-weathered cracks in my shoes tell stories. They have beer
stains on them because I was introducing girls to Jesus in the strip
bars. They look full of dust because, well, they are. They are falling
apart because they’ve walked hundreds of miles… side by side with
these other World Racers who have become my family, through some really
deep stuff.
They don’t fit well in a world that says, “Newer is better”, and “Shiny
is IN”. But what I’m wearing is all I have. The truth is, I was tempted
to go buy myself a pair of jeans and a normal t-shirt just so that
everyone would stop staring and snickering at me. But I didn’t come out
here to pretend to be poor. I actually really am. In comparison to the
places we’ve been this year, living on $4 a day for food and carting
around a backpack of stuff makes us kings and queens, but by America’s
standards… I’m waaaaaay below the poverty line. And I wouldn’t change
that. Not for all the money in the world.
Or even for a pair of high heels and a pedicure.
think love looks messy. Dusty. Well worn. It’s smelly. It isn’t well
packaged with a bow on top, shiny and put together. Love has war scars,
which would look horrible in a photo shoot. Things aren’t always what
they seem, and what we expect may not be at all what we need. I mean,
they expected their Messiah to come and take over the Roman government,
clothed in gold and with every high school marching band within a 50
miles radius to preface His arrival… not be born in a manger, work as
a poor carpenter, ride in on a donkey and die a bloody, humiliating
death.
Taco Bell for lunch while you sit and listen to the stories of where
they’ve been and how they got there. Chances are, what they say will
blow your mind, and you’ll have just brought Kingdom to earth in Taco
Bell.
