Thailand has simultaneously offered me joy and wonder paired with sadness and grief.
Before heading to the community we live in now, we spent a few days in the city of Bangkok and went to an international church. One of my favorite moments of, potentially, my whole life was looking around and seeing so many nationalities represented: American, Congolese, Canadian, Vietnamese, Thai, Pakistani, and even more than that, singing and worshipping the same God. What a dream.
So I looked on in awe. This is what heaven is like, I thought to myself. This is the kingdom of God.
A few days prior, I had heard that one of the girls I connected with the most at a place we had served at had been having anger issues and had threatened to kill herself. I could not come to terms with this.
So I cried. I was just another person who didn’t stay, I thought. Just another person who loved her and left.
We had a worship night as a squad and God said, “just get up there and write a song on the spot.” I said, “I’m sorry, what??? I can’t do that.” God said, “but I can.” So I did. So He did.
So I was overcome with peace. This is what purpose feels like, I thought. This is what music was created for.
That has been my life recently— a mix of emotions every day. I don’t even call them good days and bad days anymore. I call them good hours and bad hours.
A good hour looks like this: I love my team. We have such a close bond and great, meaningful conversations and we’ve gone through so much together. I love seeing how eager my students are to learn English. God has entrusted us with such purpose here. I can’t believe my first niece or nephew arrives this month! Wow! I think I’ll go outside and play with the kids. This hibiscus cake is amazing. What a cool life I get to live. God, use me for even bigger things than this.
And then a bad hour: I just realized that I haven’t had a solid hour by myself in months. If I have to respond to one more person’s comment or make conversation with another human today, I might jump off of this balcony. The love of children was not a gift I have been given. I can’t believe my first niece or nephew arrives this month and I won’t be there. I can’t believe I’m missing October and Halloween back home. I miss my church. I miss my family. I am so ready to go home.
Don’t worry, friends, I have mostly good hours. Bad hours come, but way less frequently than they used to. I blame Jesus. Walking with him is so good, so freeing, so full of life, that bad hours don’t even seem that bad anymore.
See, it’s month 10, and it’s taken me ten months to get here, but here I am: I’m finally at a place where I want Jesus more than anything else. It doesn’t matter if I ever find a boyfriend, or if I get my dream job, or if I don’t end up getting to play with elephants here in Thailand. When you have Jesus, you already have everything you need. Everything else is just a bonus.
Surprisingly, we’re not working with Thai people here. We live in a community of asylum-seekers who are an ethnic minority (one I won’t mention specifically by name, just for added internet caution) in several different Asian countries. They had to flee their homes because of religious persecution and now, most are waiting on the UN to give them refugee-status and hopefully a resettlement somewhere. Asylum-seekers, regardless of refugee status, are not very welcome here in Thailand, so the people we live with have to live in secret for fear of being exposed as non-Thai residents and being arrested.
We teach English to both the kids and the adults, because it gives them all a leg up in eventually gaining refugee status and getting resettled somewhere. I love living in this community. The leaders in the church take care of everyone and families all look out for each other. It’s a beautiful thing to witness and be a part of. This is real community: people who protect, serve and sacrifice for each other. They make the best of their time here together.
I have roughly 7 weeks until I get to go home. They most likely will never get that same opportunity.
It’s hard to see lives in limbo, waiting on things they can’t control, and not be able to do anything about it for them. It’s hard seeing brokenness and living among it. It’s hard being broken yourself. It’s like you cry out to God: “I can’t put these pieces back together.”
And then, gently, He whispers: “but I can.”
