the marrow of life

[sorry for load times, lots of pictures on this lengthy post – you can see them all on my flickr]

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately,
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,
To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die
Discover that I had not lived.�

From Tuesday until Friday, I had the privilege of heading off into the middle of the Malaysian jungle to work on a farm with some incredible brothers – Michael, Matthew, Chris, and Clint. It was a great opportunity to get our hands dirty and grow closer to one another in my most trying conditions thus far on the race, which was a refreshing change of pace. You really never know what you’re going to get on the World Race. As Thanksgiving was this past Thursday, I’ll walk you through our day, as it was a pretty indicative of our days in the bush. I’m in the mood for a writing exercise, so you can enjoy my foray into excessive description and unnecessary vocabulary. It’s probably not a good example of blog etiquette due to length and lack of heart-wrenching emotional content, but at least I’ll throw in some pictures for you to enjoy.

I rise with the sun, eyes easing open, glancing at my watch, debating whether to allow myself to fully rise or take advantage of those moments of half-sleep to doze off again. Without electricity to stave off the night’s darkness I had committed myself to bed earlier than usual, though this foreign land still managed to afford me less than the ideal rest. I untangle from my sleeping bag liner and mosquito net and ease myself off my sleeping pad, careful to keep my feet balanced on the supporting beams undergirding the thinner bamboo flooring (it’s a miracle we went our whole time there without anybody putting a foot – or more – through the floor). I walk out to the front porch of our humble abode of a bamboo hut perched picaresquely by a river, a pleasant trek down from the main village. I look down to the water, deciding if I want to rinse off before I start my day and realize that heavy rains overnight made for a much dirtier bathtub than when we first arrived. Thankfully, I took advantage of the storm as it rolled in the previous night, briefly rinsing off in the rain draining off the thatched roof before crawling into bed. Rainfall or filthy river, it’s important to keep your standards of cleanliness before heading into the fields.

My companions slowly rise from within their mosquito netted resting places, mumbling wishes of a happy Thanksgiving with an acknowledged sense of amusement at our circumstances on this holiday morning. Here we stand, as pilgrims embarking upon a new world; in the physical sense of traversing to the opposite side of globe, but seemingly more significantly in emotional, relational, and spiritual terms as we explore uncharted territory amongst a community of men intent on understanding and embracing the full presence of God. Our time together was gratefully characterized by digging down to a level of vulnerability and honesty that is foreign to many communities, of men specifically, and a similarly unfamiliar encouragement founded on the truth and love that united us to begin with.

“The world is perishing for lack of the knowledge of God and the Church is famishing for want of His Presence.”

We begin our hike to the church for breakfast, suppressing dreams of Thanksgiving feasts a world away. From our hut, we step into the forest of bamboo trees amidst knee-high grass, stepping with ever-increasing boldness despite a vast assortment of creatures that are surely scurrying from beneath our shoes. Our route through the trees seems to change every time, trying to trace back the patterns of our previously trampled grass. Our course eventually dead-ends into the river, considerably higher due to the night’s rainfall. What is typically a more manageable knee-high trek through the water is now a murky, upper-thigh journey, yielding either pulled up shorts and the subsequent exposure of awkward, untanned thighs or the soggy pants of resignation (or both, should your attempts fail, making for maximum dejection). The path on the other side is clearer than through the palms, though the awaiting uphill hike is made all-the-more interesting given the night’s rainfall. What may have once been some steps carved into the hillside have long eroded into a sharp incline, leaving us grasping for overhanging branches and each others’ outstretched hands to ascend. We rise out of the jungle, an amusing sight of backpacked, water-logged, sweating Americans amidst the chickens and naked indigenous children running between the huts.

We enter into the small church building, an odd architectural oasis of cement, doors, and tiled flooring juxtaposed against bamboo huts, trees, and fields. We assume the familiar positions sprawled out on the cool tiling, awaiting breakfast while recovering from our morning commute. We soon take our assigned seats around the card table, staring around at our makeshift family for this most beloved of American holidays. Breakfast is a delicious batch of white rice with a slew of succulent morsels of egg, fish, and onion, companioned by a strange translucent pink beverage, a taste reminiscent of bubble gum through a slight medicinal odor. Meal-time conversations are a sure highlight of our time together, tackling topics as diverse as the odors we’ve managed to accrue in a mere couple days.

Our meals are regularly joined by our pint-sized companion for our few days, Echo, one of the young sons of the village pastor. I have little confidence that “Echo” is an effective representation of his real name – a testament to the persistent language barrier – but for my purposes here it will suffice. Echo speaks little English, though we find that his very limited vocabulary still places him amongst the most fluent of the village. Furthermore, regardless of his lack of cognitive understanding, about half-way through our time he begins to habitually join us around the meal table with an obvious joy at our reception. Our attempts to actively include him in our conversation are essentially futile, though he seems remarkably content simply in our presence, observing the interactions of our little community. I pray that our communities are consistently this attractive.

“you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe”

Upon the completion of our meal, Echo leads the way down to the main village and surrounding crops to begin the days work. Our ragtag parade marches on with Echo as our inverse pied-piper, enthralled by the attention of the strange Americans following him close behind, oversized water bottles in hand. We continue down the path, passing the field of the previous day’s work, curious what will be bringing the sweat to our brow today. We bear right off the path, stepping down the aisles off crops and hopping creeks that run along the field’s border. Cresting a hill, we find ourselves gazing upon an assortment of older village women speckling the hillside, grabbing aggressively at an assortment of branches and brush littering the ground. By this point we know not to assume the luxury of formal instruction, so we drop our water bottles and come alongside the work being done.

The next few hours are spent reaching into an endless assortment of vegetation, moving it off the hillside and to the edges of the surrounding forest, seemingly to prepare the field for seeding.  A small women gestures for my help in carrying her latest load of branches laid upon an old grain sack, and as we empty it upon the swelling scrap pile she gives me an appreciative nod and a joyful, beautiful smile. Small moments as this were characteristic of the day, surpassing the language barriers but instead finding contentment in the relationships that could be built around shared smiles and laughs, scrapes and water breaks, sore hands and sweaty brows.

As noon rolls around, one of the village farmers exhausts his English vocabulary in beckoning us to head back up to the church for lunch, to which we eagerly oblige. We again unsuccessfully attempt to refrain from dwelling on the feasts that are characteristic of the day, but still manage to find nourishment and some enjoyment in our awaiting meal of rice with some unquestionable assortment of fish and greens. After breakfast Michael had discussed with our contact, the village pastor, the latest plans for the extent of our stay. Returning with the news of our pending departure the following day, we decided to spend our third and last night up in the church, abandoning the bamboo hut that has served us well the last couple days. Lunch is followed by a brief stint sprawled upon the church tiling before beginning the trek down to the hut to pack up our bags, praying that the river has lowered since our morning commute. It seemed wiser to retrieve our belongings now than after our afternoon shift, given the early sunset and fairly regular rainfall. The transition goes without significant complication, though the river crossing and hill climb require an additional dose of patience and humor after we have donned our packs for the return trip.

The afternoon shift back on the hillside is much like the morning; our thanksgiving dinner is much like our thanksgiving lunch and our thanksgiving breakfast, which were really not that much different than the previous days. I never gave much thought to Paul’s words in 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 to “make it your ambition to lead a quiet life, to mind your own business and to work with your hands, just as we told you, so that your daily life may win the respect of outsiders and so that you will not be dependent on anybody.” These are days of a quiet life. Yes, for us it may seem dramatic in itself to come out here and get our hands dirty, living on rice in a bamboo hut without electricity, but there’s a simple contentment about it. I’m trying hard not to sound too painfully cliche speaking of the “simple life,” but there is an undoubtable profoundness to it.

“Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another – and all the more as you see the Day approaching.”

If nothing else, this was an incredibly rich time of investing in relationships with my brothers on this trip. It has definitely proven to be a reminder of the value of intentional disconnection from the distractions that so innocently invade our relationships. I think I have largely focused on the technological category of these distractions, but I’m sure the root goes much deeper. During these days we found work that we could do alongside one another in a manner that continue to facilitate conversation and growth, staying productive but not as slaves to efficiency at the cost of community. I want these days to serve as a reminder and as a model, to embrace a season of abandonment of distractions to see with new eyes and a new appreciation for the things and people that have been there all along.

There was surely more to this day, like showering in the rain after dinner and chasing children around the church before crawling into bed, but you’re probably tired of reading, and I’m probably tired of writing. Hopefully somebody out there enjoyed this, I at least applaud if you made it through it all. Tune in next time, as we will (most likely) resume your regular programming. Well…as “regular” as what and how I typically write.