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.
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.
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.
