Its hard to believe I’m sitting on a plane right now. Its hard to believe the amount of places and people that I have fallen in love with in such a short amount of time. Its hard to believe how quickly these past 11 months went by. But in a few short hours, I will be boarding my connecting flight that will take me back to America.
There are so many different things that I have learned this year. So many experiences, so many revelations, so many stories that I am excited to share with you all when I return. Until then, here are a few short stories of love, persecution, convenience, lost and abundance from my travels.
Swaziland (Day 263) Love
I inhale deeply as I take in the view I am surrounded by; an endless mountain range. I have been walking for 10 minutes up the hill and past the seemingly lost cattle with blank stares who are overtaking the dusty dirt road. It’s not much further before I will arrive.
Over 100 kids are at my carepoint in Timbutini every day. Kids who are hungry for food and for attention. I’m surrounded by the laughter and cries of kids who seek affirmation. Who seek approval.
The approval seeking isn’t limited to 10 and 12 year olds. Today, profanities are being screamed from the other side of the carepoint. I can feel the fear inside the kids who are running away from him – from the 20 year old who seeks affirmation just as much as the young boys. I can feel my own uncomfortably growing inside.
The carepoint shepherd walks over to him and hugs him. He shows him love, just like he shows the kids love. If I am being honest, I am surprised to see how calm he is. There is no trace of frustration across the shepherd’s face – only love. And the 20 year old respects him.
What does it look like to love someone where they are? To meet them in their needs, rather than putting a limit on who you love and when you love.
Laos (Day 187) Persecution
We have been stared at for the past 6 months – every street we walk down, every bus we jump on, every boarder we cross. And always accompanied by a photoshoot. I wonder how this could become mundane, when I am handed a baby and another picture is being taken. Privacy is unknown, its foreign.
Yet, I’ve found myself in a country where now privacy is more important than nearly anything else. We pile into our hostel room, and double check that all doors and windows are shut before speaking at a whisper level. There are 10 people sitting in various positions around a central speaker who is letting us into their secret mission of being here. Though we’re in confinement, code words are still used to describe “M’s” (Missionaries) and “STS’s” (Short Truthful Statements). I can feel the urgency that accompanies the fear in their voices as we are debriefed on the do’s and don’t’s while in this country. It isn’t illegal to be a Christian here, but it is illegal to be a missionary.
Being white brings about stares and suspicion. If the government finds out that we are missionaries, we will only be kicked out of their country. But the real persecution lies with the brothers and sisters who are citizens of the country. If discovered, they may face death. Their physical lives are on the line to proclaim the Gospel day after day. And yet they stay. They remain to share this truth with the unreached.
Panama (Day 1) Convenience
We’ve been hiking for over an hour now. Watching our footstep as we jump over slippery rocks and wade through rivers. We’ve crossed a footbridge and have passed a couple straw huts along the way – not more than a dozen. We were told we were going on a half hour hike up a mountain to visit an injured pastor and his family.
We are being guided by a girl who can’t be more than 8. Dressed in a traditional blue Ngabe dress, trimmed with faded yellow and red triangles. With a loose thread that hangs from her right shoulder cuff. The mountainous terrain surrounding us is so beautiful and desolate, I wonder how anyone could live here permanently. But the girl’s sweet smile she wears across her face reminds me that this is her home. We continue to climb up the narrow path marked out by this adventurous spirit, leading us to the top of the mountain. Once we reach it, an hour and a half away from the start, we are greeted by a slow moving and peaceful man – her father, the pastor.
We are each handed a recycled bottle of some sort, and are guided again by the girl to a flowing river a short walk away (short being subjective of course – a 5 minute walk to their own natural “running” water source.) I listen, with no avail, to Spanish being spoken back and forth between the locals and a few fluent speakers traveling with me. We hand off the bottles one by one, assembly line style, in order to fill the bottles in the quickest manner before carrying them back to their hut.
Many people around the world walk everywhere they need to go; to get water or food or to go to a doctor. They don’t have indoor plumbing and they don’t have a doctor that lives in their village an hours walk from civilization.
Cambodia (Day 210) Lost
The moon is the only light that illuminates our footpaths. We are walking into the night, with bags that carry the sweet aroma of fried rice (along with the real thing). Directed by a few ambitious tuk tuk drivers, we head in the direction of the river – in hopes of finding people who are homeless and hungry.
We make our way past bars overflowing with westerners and their drink of choice. Living in oblivion, they seem to be unaware of the girl across the street digging through the trash they couldn’t force down during dinner. The music grows louder as the evening turns into night. We continue past the tourist trap and make our way to the river.
A 10 year old boy wearing a grey and white torn and unbuttoned-button up shirt is standing near the river, with the look of curiosity across his face and bare feet that meet the cold pavement. I hold out my hand, and he puts his in mine. I hear the sweet laughter escaping the young boy as he opens up to trusting us. I give him one of our servings of fried rice we brought to hand out.
His name is Sa Pun.
The air is making for a brisk night. The shimmer of street lights bounces off the river as we have to say goodbye. Goodbye to a boy who doesn’t have a mom or dad, doesn’t have anyone to look after him, doesn’t have a home, doesn’t have anything more than his shorts and torn shirt.
Malaysia (Day 120) Abundance
Tables, chairs and everything else 6 foot and under has been overtaken by a vicious flood. The damp walls are saturated with cracked mud, the smell is intoxicating and there is no escape.
We are scraping, soaking and chipping off multiple layers of mud and dirt to reveal the restaurant – and the grill to make roti canai, a deliciously sultry Malaysian Indian bread we have grown accustomed to eating with every meal. The scrubbing feels endless. Fresh running water is accidentally splashed against my skin (relieving the heat for only a moment) as we scrub multiple pots, pans and utensils. Various shades of brown and gray are slowly being washed away to expose vibrant blues and reds.
The restaurant owner cleans off a few cans laden with mud to quench our thirst. If I’m being honest, who knows how long those drinks have sat there, or if it even is mud that encompasses the can. Her 10 year old son scrapes together a few coins he has in order to buy us ice cream cones from the man who pulls up on a moto with an attached freezer he totes around.
What does it look like to live in abundance? To live like you have unlimited resources – not irresponsibly, but lovingly and generously. This family lost everything they had due to a natural disaster. They lost their restaurant, their form of income. Yet they gave to us as if they had unlimited resources. It was a simple gesture to offer a soda and ice cream, but it was a gesture that offered more than just a tangible item.
