I grew up on War stories and Super hero movies. My father told and embodied both. He is a Vietnam veteran and my own personal superman. He has always been the strongest, bravest, and toughest man in the room. I however, have never heard my father yell. I wouldn’t even know what it sounded like. He just loves me and my mother. That in my book, is his greatest strength, his love. But I have seen this Superman meet his Kryptonite more than once.
I held my father as he told the story of how my birth saved his life. He was scheduled for a mission. My mom was an “At-Risk” pregnancy.
Her test came back positive.
“Webb!” His C.O called out, “Pack up, you’re grounded, going stateside, your wife’s pregnant… We’re all hoping this one makes it.”
See, my beautiful mother had lost 6 children previously, and she couldn’t take another death. She needed my father there. The Navy agreed.
Through sobs I heard my father will these words; “I should have died. The man that took my place, he died. He was in MY seat in that helicopter when it was shot down. It was MY mission, I had found the intelligence. I was supposed to die… but you saved my life.” War is hell, even if it’s only a mental battle.
Other than his father’s funeral, that had been the only time I had ever seen my father weep. I was 14 years old.
I on the other hand can’t get through a week without crying. My tears are usually about things that touch my heart, like the sheer beauty of Jesus and this amazing missionary life just causes visceral reactions. He’s so good. He’s so amazing. I echo my father’s sentiments in that, I am fully aware that I shouldn’t even be here, but Jesus saved my life. He gave me a second chance and I’m not taking it for granted!
I am a crier, that is, until Thailand. During our orientation to Lighthouse in Action, we were told that Buddhist’s believe that tears are a negative emotion and should we feel tears in our eyes while doing bar ministry, we should quickly excuse ourselves and pull it together. “Crap! Jesus I’m going to need your help!” These were my exact thoughts.
I looked at our instructor, “Are you serious?”
“Very serious.”
For the whole month of August I cried twice, that’s a miracle. I was thankful and scared at the same time.
Over the years, as a coping mechanism, I put things in files in my mind and process them when I have time to let the full spectrum of emotions happen. I have also learned that if I’m not careful and intentional, some of these files that I should process, I ignore. I would like to forget about them, but Abbi pulls them out and puts them on the table. This habit comes in handy during difficult times. But what does one do when, if my emotions are an unstoppable force, and it constantly meets an unmovable God? Tears. Tears happen.
I was proud of myself the first night I met Kaew (sounds like Gail). She was a ladyboy that worked in the “Shamrock” bar in Chiang Mai’s red-light district.
A ladyboy is a man who looks and dresses like a woman. We call them trans-genders. She was beautiful, and it’s a little hard to not get insecure when a man looks better as a woman than you do.
We followed up with Kaew for the next few weeks and heard a bit of his story. He always wanted to be a woman. Both his father and his brother tried to beat it out of him. Finally, around the age of 15, his father gave up, and Kaew began taking hormones. During the whole time that we were talking to Kaew, he would incessantly check himself in the mirror, fixing, primping, fiddling with his hair, his nails, his make-up. Insecurity at it’s finest. I know it well. But, what caught me was when he spoke of being beaten by his father, his eyes vividly remembered every blow. I felt the tears. “Deep breath Kimberly, just breath.” The tears left, and into the file cabinet it went.
My friend Carrie took to Kaew and he to her. On our last day, she bought Kaew a mirror, and told him this, “Never forget that you ARE beautiful, you’re not a mistake.” Kaew got tears in his eyes…
I almost lost it the first night I met Surada. Those of you who follow me on Facebook you know this little gift, I’m talking about. She was the little girl selling flowers throughout the bars. My first night meeting her was a hard night. I watched as old, foreign men called her over, pinched her little cheeks and purchased her roses. They bought them for the prostitutes they were hopeful to purchase that evening. My lip curled in anger, as I saw their interactions. My heart screamed at these men, “DON’T YOU EVER TOUCH HER!” but I sat, and breathed and prayed.
I called Sue over, gave her some of my soda and invited her to play connect 4 with Lori and I. As she sat on my knee, I placed my hand on her tiny back. My whole hand covered the majority of her spine. “Pray for her, baby girl.” I heard Beloved say. So I prayed like fury. I could feel her little heart beat as I prayed. Sue is 4 years old. She’s the right age, for all the wrong things that happen in the red-light district and she was in every bar on the strip.
Walking home that night, my mind raced as I tried to put these thoughts into their proper files. I distracted myself a little as I listened to Lori process with me what happened. Then I thought of Sue. “Thank you for loving her like a mother to a daughter tonight.” I heard Abbi say. I could feel the burning in my eyes, “Not yet, not yet, Oh Lord, please not yet!” I got back to our hostel, walked up the stairs, got into my bed and cried.
“She’s so little!!! Why?!?!?!”
I didn’t get an answer to my question, but I got an answer to the hurt in my heart. His arms, His voice, His love, it wrapped all around me that night.
Sue recognized us for the rest of the month. She would run up to our table and smile. She would thumb wrestle with us and drink our sodas and eat the snacks. Our last night, she was shadowed by her mother. Never allowed to linger near our table, but I asked for a hug, said one last prayer while I could hold her and then I let her go. I had to let go. Tears again, this time they were rebellious and I had to get out.
I don’t think I’ve fully processed everything that happened in Thailand, but I’m thankful for the pain. I’m thankful for the tears. I’m thankful that after 9 months of seeing some of the darkest places in the world, it still hurts. But I’d rather have pain than emotional leprosy. Thank God nothing feels numb.
One of my favorite quotes is from a war movie and is something I live by, “You know what the best thing about pain is? It lets you know you’re not dead yet.”
Right now, in the midst of this memory, in the eye of this emotional hurricane, I am ALIVE.
2 Corinthians 12:8-11
“Three different times I begged the Lord to take it away. 9 Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. 10 That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
I used to beg God to make me less of a crier. I felt like it made me weak in other’s eyes. After Thailand, I’m thankful I cry. I want to feel every bit of every emotion. Yes it’s exhausting, and I feel weak, but the reality is, when I’m weak, HE IS STRONG.
