For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
-Romans 8:38-39
I used to joke that I was born in the wrong century: I should have been born in Victorian times, where pale skin and plumpness were highly sought after. I would have been praised! Now I realize that I was born in the right century, just the wrong country. I should have been born in Cambodia.
White skin is treasured here. I am stared at and gawked over, as if I were a celebrity. Every day, without fail, I am sitting around many Cambodian children, who poke my tummy and say “poh tom” (big tummy) and poke at my legs to see how white they are. I was warned that because Asians are so small, it is not unusual for them to ask Westerners why they are so fat. But for some reason, this question was never asked of me in Thailand, so I suppose I forgot that it was a norm. However, the first few days of living at the orphanage in Cambodia, the children love to say things in Khmer about how fat and white I am, and then laugh. And I don’t think they mean it negatively, it is just fascinating and different for them to see someone who looks like me. But if you know me, you know that this is a very sensitive subject, and so I receive it as mocking. What are they really saying? I don’t know if they are teasing me or just admiring me, but it feels hurtful. Of course, I already feel like a giant every time I am around Cambodians, but then to be called a giant just adds fuel to the fire (however, for the first time in my life I have been called “tall,” and I don’t mind that so much!).
How do I sit at dinner with 10-year-olds who are making fun of me in a foreign language, and choose to love them instead of pouting and throwing a pity party? How do I sit in the back of a truck with two teenage girls who show me affection, but who are made fun of by the teenage boys in the truck, while I can say nothing to defend them because I can’t speak the language? Is this what Jesus meant when He said to rejoice in my sufferings? I doubt it, but it sure hurts. And despite the joyous moments I have experienced here, many of my moments here have felt like suffering for Jesus.
And not just my sufferings. I feel the suffering, the mocking that the children direct at each other. The teasing. The injustice. And the arrows at their hearts, by childish jokes and teasing, can leave scars of a lifetime.
Jesus made the walk to Golgatha, beaten and bloody, carrying His own means of execution. After a brutal physical torture, He was ridiculed, spit at, and mocked, experiencing the depth of emotional torture. And still He loved them. Jesus loved His enemies. Jesus loved me, knowing I would continue to mock Him and spit at Him, and keeps me safe in His love though I torture Him.
Love is such a vague concept to me. It has been the subject of most of my recent blogs. It is what I question the most, and seek the most, but understand the least. But I know that somehow, somewhere, the love of Christ is real and fragile and true…and it brings healing to the scars and the arrows we, as broken humans, cause to one another.
“Diff’rent” is nice, but it sure isn’t pretty.
“Pretty” is what it’s about.
I never met anyone who was “diff’rent”
Who couldn’t figure that out.
So beautiful I’d never lived to see.
But it was clear,
If not to her,
Well, then… to me…
That …
Everyone is beautiful at the ballet.
Every prince has got to have his swan.
Yes,
Everyone is beautiful at the ballet.
