We heard a song in church yesterday morning whose words moved me so much that I had to sit down and write them out.
I won't formulate an expository interpretation of the song because the words stand for themselves. Maybe they'll speak to you as much as they did to me.
The song is called "All to Him" and here are the words:
For every mountain that is high, He is higher
For every burden that is great, He is greater
For every valley that is deep, He is deeper still
More than we can know
For every fear that closes in, He is closer
For every doubt that comes on strong, He is stronger
For every battle that we face, He has conquered all
More than we can know
Our promise is Jesus
Our answer is Jesus
All to Him
All to Him we owe everything
Our savior is Jesus
Our future is Jesus
All to Him
All to Him we owe everything
We know the great God
We serve the great God
We owe the great God
Everything all to Him
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Thursday, May 17, 2012
The glass factory
It felt as if we were dropped in the middle of an Alice in
Wonderland storybook.
I could not believe my eyes as I took in our surroundings.
It felt like a dream, but this is no fairytale.
While enjoying dinner with some friends at our house
recently, we asked them about their favorite thing to do in this city.
There are no real “tourist attractions” where we live. (There
are almost no tourists here, so why would there be fun things for tourists to
do?)
That’s why we’re always looking for new ideas of interesting
things to do as a family.
Our friends told us of a place that they like to go to
whenever they have visitors come to town. They said it used to be one of the
largest “tourist” attractions in our city before Cyclone Nargis came and almost
destroyed the place.
It was a glass factory back in the day. Large groups would
come through to see first-hand how the beautiful glass pieces were made.
Hand-blown and fired in huge kilns, stunning artwork was the final product.
Our friends told us the factory was now just a shadow of its
former glory, that it was completely devastated after the cyclone. They said,
however, that now it’s an even more unique experience, and quite the worthwhile
trip.
So we met them one afternoon to make the short drive to the
glass factory.
We had just barely turned off the main road when we arrived
at a hole in the wall. Literally, we drove through a small opening in a long
cement wall. The main entrance to the factory had been rendered unusable by the
cyclone damage pushing mounds of dirt and mud against the original gate.
Our driver maneuvered through the new “entrance” and into a
jungle-like setting. There were trees all around the dirt path we drove down,
barely leaving enough room for a vehicle to get through. I couldn’t help but
wonder how many snakes were out there…
I was just considering the idea when the road stopped – a
dead end with more trees.
“Um, is this it?” I asked. There was nothing to see but
trees and vines.
“There’s a path through the brush,” my friend replied.
It was about this time I was wondering what I had got myself
into.
We unloaded the van and filed one by one through a narrow,
winding path. Thankfully, it was a short path and it opened up at clearing
revealing a building whose walls were no more. There were table displays in the
open-air setting overflowing with glass vases, dishes, bowls, figurines and
more. There was a gorgeous green and blue glass chess set and a small nativity
scene made up of several pieces of hand-fashioned glass.
There were cabinets filled to capacity with every size and
shape of glass, flute, goblet, chalice and cup. Every surface was covered with
various and quite unique forms of crystal. It was amazing…
But then the manager of the place told us that there was
more, much more.
There were paths leading away from the damaged structure. It
looked like huge mounds of dirt overflowed along the sides of each path at
first glance, but just then sun rays broke through the trees and I noticed
flecks of colors glistening from the mounds.
The mounds were filled with dirt, but also with every kind
of glass vessel as I had seen in the showroom.
Apparently when the cyclone came through, the water and mud
spilled over all the glass but when the water finally receded, it left all the
pieces mixed in with the soil and sludge in these huge masses.
Everywhere you looked there were piles and piles of glass
heaps.
Even mixed with the soil, you could see brilliant colors of
red and gold creating mini rainbows against the backdrop of the greenery surrounding
the area.
But what amazed me most was that so much of the glass was
unbroken. That’s where the factory’s business now comes from.
The cyclone destroyed the factory. The once humongous kilns
now sit in a mass of broken down rubble. The tools all rusted and evaporated
into the mud heaps.
All that remains is yards and yards of beautiful glass.
Now, individuals can come to the glass factory and sift
through the mounds. Find what you want and buy it as is. The tricky part is
getting the piece you want out of the mud without breaking it.
It was like a glass garden, but instead of pulling carrots
out of the ground, it was unique vases and jars, light fixtures and pieces of
chandelier.
Everywhere you looked, there was glass. It was absolutely
amazing.
I pulled out of the dirt a small, yellow giraffe with brown
specks running down its back. There were multi-colored, fish-looking wall
sconces. I found drinking glasses fashioned in the shape of wood logs.
Once you found something you liked, you could give it to one
of the staff workers and they would take it and clean it, removing the caked on
dirt and debris. They could make any item look as good as new.
After much searching in pure amazement at all that was
there, I discovered a tall, turquoise, bubbled-glass vase. In the states, the
urn would surely cost more than a hundred dollars, and I almost hesitated to
ask the manager the cost of my desired object.
She looked the piece over as she brushed some dirt and
cobwebs out of the inside.
“Twenty-five dollars,” she quoted a price.
“It’s mine!” I said, trying to keep my cool before she
changed her mind and asked for more.
“What are you going to do with that huge, old vase?” CJ
asked me as he got out his wallet.
“I don’t really know,” I said. “It’s just so beautiful, and
I want to remember this day and this discovery.”
The truth is, I kept thinking how much those precious pieces
of glass were like life. We were all fashioned by the Great Artist, each one
His beautiful and unique creation. But we get swept away by the world, and the
storms of life mess us up leaving behind something dirty and hollow.
The Master doesn’t leave us or stop loving us though. No
matter how far we wander from our Creator, He seeks us out. He gently lifts us
out of the muck and cleanses our souls. He restores us to something that is
beautiful and reflects who He is to others.
As I looked around the glass garden at the vast and
immeasurable number of vessels there, I kept thinking of all the people who
live in this country and in our home country that are just waiting for someone
to tell them about Father.
Sometimes it seems overwhelming because there are so many,
and I can’t do it all on my own. I wonder who else will do their part to share
the Living Water with those who need to be rescued? Could it be you?
It’s not that hard. You don’t even have to do the cleaning
or restoration work. You just have to let the Light shine through you, so that
others can be found from within their dark places.
I know I’ll never forget the experience of the glass
factory, and likewise I hope that every time I look at my beautiful turquoise
vase, I’ll be reminded of those who are just waiting to be rescued.
Psalm 63:1-4
O God, you are my God, earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts
for you, my body longs for you in a dry and weary land where there is no water.
I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and
your glory.
Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify
you.
I will praise you as long as I live, and in your name I will
lift my hands.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
I know you!
The purple shades of morning had not yet cast their rays against the gray sky.
As a bustling city began to show signs of waking early on a Sunday morning, we departed for a short journey into the outskirts of a nearby village.
We must have looked like a scene from a circus as all eleven of our teammates (including four adults and seven children) poured out of our vehicle when we reached our destination.
We appeared to be at the intersection of two nondescript, dusty roads. There was a large, fairly-new looking, white building sitting in the corner of the interchange surrounded by a high cement wall along its perimeter. There were no people around and no noise to be heard except for the rare “cock-a-doodle-do” from roosters roaming somewhere beyond the nature which blocked sight of our surroundings. The morning was still and calm, and we felt the heat descending around us as the sun began to make its daily climb. The heat is one reason why this gathering group gets such an early start and why we had made our trek there before the break of day. With no air conditioning inside the gathering group’s two-story structure, it’s nearly impossible to bear the temperature later in the day.
I was struck by the serenity of the setting. Surely there was activity and life going on somewhere nearby, I thought to myself, but it was so peaceful I began to have doubts.
Then from the corner of my eye, I spotted a slender, aged man appear from the greenery beyond. He walked to small covered shelter that I had not yet noticed and pulled on a long rope hanging from above. All of a sudden, a bell began to toll. The sound produced by this single bell, hidden beneath its shelter, was loud yet ironically muted. It wasn’t the type of ringing that hurt your ears or grated on your nerves. It was the kind of sound that melts your heart emoting images of a bygone historical era.
As the bell rang, people began pouring into street one by one as they made their way to this gathering group building. I couldn’t figure out where they were all coming from. It wouldn’t be until later that day that I would discover village homes in the distance camouflaged by the greenery around the area.
The service that morning was with a tribal group known for their long-standing relationship with Americans and their fluency in English. After having only been in this country for three months and lacking any conversant skills in their language, it would be almost impossible to do any kind of “seed sowing” or training without their knowledge of OUR language. (I keep reminding myself that you can’t learn a tonal language overnight. In time, it will come.)
There’s a passage in the Good Book that Father has seen fit to put in my path continually in the last few weeks. It was on the t-shirt of a young man that we met during Water Festival (see previous blog), it was the point in a message I was recently listening to on the internet, and then, on this Sunday morning as I ascended into the interior of this gathering group building, I discovered it on some signage hanging from the rafters. I knew that, once again, He was speaking to me.
In the sixth verse of the fourteenth chapter of the book of John, the Son is answering some questions from his followers. In this passage He says, “I am the way and the truth and the life.”
You know, Father has many names, and I’ve always enjoyed studies focused on His names prior to coming to this new country. Now, I’m even more fascinated by the names used for Him here which take on completely new meanings. Because the people here believe in many gods, we have to use names to distinguish when we’re speaking of the One True God. Those titles include the Most High God, the Creator God or, my personal favorite, the Eternal God (towerah pay yah thakin).
Names are special. To call someone by their name is to say, “I know you.”
Now, I’ve never professed to be a theologian, but what I think He is saying here in this passage is huge. The Son could have expressed who He was using specific, identifiable names, yet He answered the disciples’ question using broad, generic terms.
When we call upon the name of the Lord using any of his many names to give Him glory and praise, we are saying, “We know you. We want to know you more. We recognize who you are.” But when He says, “I am the way and the truth and the life,” he is saying to Us, He – knows – US! He knows ME!
As I sat in this desolate building in, what felt like, the middle of nowhere I was struck by the thought that He knows right were I am.
When you move from a town of 5,000 to a city with more than 5 million, it’s easy to feel lost. Sometimes I’ve even wondered “what in the world am I doing here?”
I think that’s why Father keeps putting this Good Book passage in my path. I think He’s telling me that He knows where I am and why I am here. He knows my direction and my purpose. He knows my history and my future. He knows me.
When this realization dawned on me sitting in my pew, while sweltering in the morning heat, I knew I had to come home and write down this message to share with others. After all, this message is not just for me. He wants you to know that He knows you too. Wherever you are. Whatever you’re doing. Regardless of your past, your faults, or the path you’ve taken to where you are now, He wants you to know that He knows you and He loves you.
I’ve seen the Father go through unbelievable methods to get a message to someone who needs to hear it. I can’t help but wonder if everything I experienced this morning was not just for me, but maybe for someone else too.
See, you don’t even have to move to a third-world country to get the message like I did. But heed my warning, if you don’t listen to Him, He may just send you here to get your attention. :)
As a bustling city began to show signs of waking early on a Sunday morning, we departed for a short journey into the outskirts of a nearby village.
We must have looked like a scene from a circus as all eleven of our teammates (including four adults and seven children) poured out of our vehicle when we reached our destination.
We appeared to be at the intersection of two nondescript, dusty roads. There was a large, fairly-new looking, white building sitting in the corner of the interchange surrounded by a high cement wall along its perimeter. There were no people around and no noise to be heard except for the rare “cock-a-doodle-do” from roosters roaming somewhere beyond the nature which blocked sight of our surroundings. The morning was still and calm, and we felt the heat descending around us as the sun began to make its daily climb. The heat is one reason why this gathering group gets such an early start and why we had made our trek there before the break of day. With no air conditioning inside the gathering group’s two-story structure, it’s nearly impossible to bear the temperature later in the day.
I was struck by the serenity of the setting. Surely there was activity and life going on somewhere nearby, I thought to myself, but it was so peaceful I began to have doubts.
Then from the corner of my eye, I spotted a slender, aged man appear from the greenery beyond. He walked to small covered shelter that I had not yet noticed and pulled on a long rope hanging from above. All of a sudden, a bell began to toll. The sound produced by this single bell, hidden beneath its shelter, was loud yet ironically muted. It wasn’t the type of ringing that hurt your ears or grated on your nerves. It was the kind of sound that melts your heart emoting images of a bygone historical era.
As the bell rang, people began pouring into street one by one as they made their way to this gathering group building. I couldn’t figure out where they were all coming from. It wouldn’t be until later that day that I would discover village homes in the distance camouflaged by the greenery around the area.
The service that morning was with a tribal group known for their long-standing relationship with Americans and their fluency in English. After having only been in this country for three months and lacking any conversant skills in their language, it would be almost impossible to do any kind of “seed sowing” or training without their knowledge of OUR language. (I keep reminding myself that you can’t learn a tonal language overnight. In time, it will come.)
There’s a passage in the Good Book that Father has seen fit to put in my path continually in the last few weeks. It was on the t-shirt of a young man that we met during Water Festival (see previous blog), it was the point in a message I was recently listening to on the internet, and then, on this Sunday morning as I ascended into the interior of this gathering group building, I discovered it on some signage hanging from the rafters. I knew that, once again, He was speaking to me.
In the sixth verse of the fourteenth chapter of the book of John, the Son is answering some questions from his followers. In this passage He says, “I am the way and the truth and the life.”
You know, Father has many names, and I’ve always enjoyed studies focused on His names prior to coming to this new country. Now, I’m even more fascinated by the names used for Him here which take on completely new meanings. Because the people here believe in many gods, we have to use names to distinguish when we’re speaking of the One True God. Those titles include the Most High God, the Creator God or, my personal favorite, the Eternal God (towerah pay yah thakin).
Names are special. To call someone by their name is to say, “I know you.”
Now, I’ve never professed to be a theologian, but what I think He is saying here in this passage is huge. The Son could have expressed who He was using specific, identifiable names, yet He answered the disciples’ question using broad, generic terms.
When we call upon the name of the Lord using any of his many names to give Him glory and praise, we are saying, “We know you. We want to know you more. We recognize who you are.” But when He says, “I am the way and the truth and the life,” he is saying to Us, He – knows – US! He knows ME!
As I sat in this desolate building in, what felt like, the middle of nowhere I was struck by the thought that He knows right were I am.
When you move from a town of 5,000 to a city with more than 5 million, it’s easy to feel lost. Sometimes I’ve even wondered “what in the world am I doing here?”
I think that’s why Father keeps putting this Good Book passage in my path. I think He’s telling me that He knows where I am and why I am here. He knows my direction and my purpose. He knows my history and my future. He knows me.
When this realization dawned on me sitting in my pew, while sweltering in the morning heat, I knew I had to come home and write down this message to share with others. After all, this message is not just for me. He wants you to know that He knows you too. Wherever you are. Whatever you’re doing. Regardless of your past, your faults, or the path you’ve taken to where you are now, He wants you to know that He knows you and He loves you.
I’ve seen the Father go through unbelievable methods to get a message to someone who needs to hear it. I can’t help but wonder if everything I experienced this morning was not just for me, but maybe for someone else too.
See, you don’t even have to move to a third-world country to get the message like I did. But heed my warning, if you don’t listen to Him, He may just send you here to get your attention. :)
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Surely my cup runneth over
I’ve heard “Thingyan” described as an Asian Mardi Gras, but
it’s just not the same.
The Water Festival is a celebration of this country’s new
year. Lasting four or five days, people of all ages stand on the sides of the
street or even elaborately built stages to spray water on other people driving,
biking or walking down the road.
There are little kids with plastic, colored bowls scooping water out of giant drums to toss on the passersby. There are also long hosepipes stretching out to the street from the homes nearby used to spray water. I’ve seen everything from empty cans to ornate water guns wielded to splash water.
There are little kids with plastic, colored bowls scooping water out of giant drums to toss on the passersby. There are also long hosepipes stretching out to the street from the homes nearby used to spray water. I’ve seen everything from empty cans to ornate water guns wielded to splash water.
People cram into flatbed trucks, jeeps and open top buses just to drive down the road and get sprayed. Almost every street has spray stations set up by the people who live nearby. We live on one of the main streets through our city, and I can see nearly 10 spray stations from my bedroom window.
It’s almost impossible to go anywhere because the streets
are clogged and jammed with all the people and vehicles.
You’d never know it is the dry season here because the
streets are puddled with water.
There’s music blaring from loud speakers, and it’s, in
general, a party atmosphere.
The festival is a celebration of an ancient Buddhist holiday, but to say that Water Festival is promoted by Buddhists is about the same as saying the Easter Bunny is promoted by Christians. It’s more of a patriotic practice than religious celebration.
Thingyan can definitely be a hassle if you’re trying to get
anywhere, and since every business (including grocery stores and gas stations)
are closed for the week, it’s almost as if the whole country shuts down.
But there’s a blessing in disguise…
I remember after Katrina noting that without electricity and
water, the residents all came out of their houses and really got to know their
neighbors.
I feel the same about Thingyan. It’s been difficult to reach
the people who live in our apartment building until this week. Normally they
exist behind locked gates and we don’t see them, but this week, they’re all
down on the street sitting, eating, chatting and having fun. It’s been a great
opportunity for our family to establish connections with them and begin to
share with them.
While the children are playing with the water, CJ and I have
been able to sit with the parents and talk to them about their life. It’s
through these connections that CJ was invited to go to a village just behind
the main road where (they told him) no white person has ever visited. He was
able to visit homes there and meet people, giving them Good Book tracts in
their language. They invited him to come back again when he can.
Yesterday, I brought some popcorn down to the street as I
watched my girls playing and sat next to a young mother and her toddler. The
sweet child looked at me with curious eyes as I held out to her a handful of
popcorn. Within minutes, the little girl was sitting in my lap munching from
the bowl while I conversed with her mother using the little language I know.
It’s just a start, I know, but a journey of a thousand miles begins with a
single step, right?
The best part of the week though came when I encountered a
young man coming out of our apartment building wearing a t-shirt that said, “I
am the Way, the Truth and the Life!” I asked him if he knew the meaning of his
shirt.
“No,” he answered me. The shirt belonged to a friend, and he
couldn’t read English.
In the limited language that I knew, I tried to explain to
him where the words came from and what they meant.
It was a difficult conversation and I wished that I could
speak to him from my heart using his language. I was comforted in the knowledge
that this is just the beginning and in time, I will be able to do just that.
Thingyan has been quite the experience. We’ve been exposed to
an event and the underlying culture that are dear to this people. We’ve been
soaked to the bone by all the youngsters who love spraying the foreigners while
we worked to communicate and establish relationships with their parents and the
other people here. But most importantly, we have made small steps towards open
doors and hopefully open hearts that Father will use to spread His message and
His love.
During Thingyan, the locals spray water to commemorate their
new year, but it is our hope that they will come to know the Living Water that
can overflow from their soul. Would you please pray that Father would grow the
relationships with our new friends and that we would be able to share with them
the promise of salvation through faith in Him? It is our hope that these are
people that we’ll know not just for a few years, but for an eternity!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
It's a powerful story...
“Mom…. I can’t sleep,” Mia pouted as she snuck into our bedroom.
“I know baby. I know,” were my words as I tried to comfort her unsuccessfully.
You expect it to be dark at night when you go to sleep, but darkness from a power outage has a completely different feel to it.
The darkness is not just an absence of light; it’s a stillness that almost takes your breath away.
At the grocery store yesterday, I saw a friend who asked me if I had heard about the upcoming power shortages?
“Uh, no. They’re turning off the power?”
“Yep,” she replied. Another friend had told her that we could begin to expect electricity 12 hours on followed by six hours off continually beginning April 1 through July.
“Woh…” was all I could say.
I did later learn that there was a sign posted on our bulletin board in our apartment building, but as we’re not yet able to read their script, it blended in with all the other signs that we can’t understand.
We’ve experienced a loss of power a few times since we’ve been here, but most were for just short periods, and they were unexpected from some kind of situation or accident – not planned in advance by the authorities to be turned off.
I hoped that my friend was wrong. Maybe she misunderstood. Maybe it didn’t mean OUR area. It’s the hot season after all! I rationalized a multitude of reasons why this maybe wouldn’t affect our home, and as I went throughout the rest of the day, I put the thought behind me.
Monday nights, CJ teaches English at a school downtown, so it’s just the girls and me for most of the evening.
We had made dinner – homemade pepperoni pizza – and we were still sitting at the table, stuffed from our delicious meal discussing which movie we wanted to watch when the lights went off.
“Well, no movie,” Mia said matter-of-factly. “What are we going to do now?”
I love the innocence of my children. She wasn’t worried about the food in the refrigerator. They didn’t know that our apartment was about to become very warm with no a/c or fans to even circulate the air.
Zoe was the first to grab a flashlight. “Let’s light some candles!” she said.
Have you ever tried to search for a lighter or some matches in the dark?
I knew we had brought one of those long gas-grill lighters, I just couldn’t remember where we had stored it.
Ultimately we decided to go take a walk outside. We needed some exercise anyway after that big dinner. We weren’t gone long though. Before we got too far down the road, Zoe spotted a big, black rat on the sidewalk ahead of us thanks to her handy flashlight, so we unanimously decided it would be best to go the other way. Quickly!
We walked a little in the other direction, but it was just too dark, so we called it a night and headed home. Thankfully, by the time we got there, CJ was walking in the door, and he knew just were the matches were.
Sleep was impossible that night – it was just soooo hot. Your skin is sticky from perspiration and the heavy, damp air clings to your body like a wet glove. The heat presses against you in such a way that makes it hard to breathe like you’re suffocating.
It’s almost painful to move, so you recline on the bed as still as possible. You lay there with your head against your sweat-soaked pillow wondering if you will ever see the light again.
I could hear Mia whining in her room. I knew my poor baby was miserable, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t even help myself. We drank lots of water and put ice-filled cloths on our foreheads and necks. I would’ve put the girls in a bathtub of cool water if we had one, but we don’t.
“Mommmmmmmyyyyyyyyy, I’m hot…” she said. The temperature had reached 103 degrees that afternoon, so I didn’t doubt her anguish.
“Just lay very still and don’t move. It’s almost 11:00. Try to get some sleep,” I called to her from my room, not wanting to get up or move around.
Eventually, the whining stopped.
But then that made me worry. At least when she was whining, I knew she was ok.
Those motherly concerns kicked in like they had when we had just brought our new baby home from the hospital. Back then, I would sneak into her room just to make sure she was still breathing.
And on this night, I did the same.
It took every ounce of energy I had in my body, but I rolled out of bed and crept to Mia’s room.
I knew Zoe was still awake… I could see the light from her flashlight making circles on the ceiling in her room.
I checked on Mia and she was fine. She was soaking wet, but she was sawing logs in her light sleep.
I crawled back to my own bed and positioned myself on top of the covers. Finally settled, I breathed out a deep sigh and closed my eyes when all of a sudden out of the blue, the power came back on.
“Thank you JESUS!” I shouted.
The first thing I did was grab the remote to the air con unit and set it to “COLD.”
Then CJ and I went about the place turning on the girls a/c units and checking the fridge.
We had survived our first real, serious power outage.
Ironically, this morning when our language teacher arrived she said, “I read you had your power out from 5:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. last night.”
“Huh? Where did you read that?” we replied.
“There’s a sign by the elevator that tells you when your power will be off. Didn’t you know?”
“Ha. NO! But can you teach us how to read those signs so we’ll know when to expect our power to be off everyday and can plan in advance?”
“Of course!” she said.
Wouldn’t that have been helpful?
Oh well, we’re still learning, but it’s all good.
There are so many things I’ve realized I didn’t appreciate back home. Like never having to worry about the power going out. Complaining about being hot as I sat in an air-conditioned room. I never valued the fact that clean water came out of the faucet. When I wanted to brush my teeth, I turned the water on and did so. If I wanted to wash my face, I turned on the water and did so.
I never considered going to get a bucket of clean water to do those things. I never thought about having to boil water before I could wash dishes or even just to have hot water.
But I have learned that for many in the world, this is everyday life.
And honestly, I’m grateful to learn these lessons, even if it is the hard way. I’m grateful that my children are learning these lessons too.
You should try it sometime. You know, just turn off the power one day or night. Try not using faucet water – only bottled water or boiled water – for a whole day. Try going one night in the summer without a/c, and when you do, be reminded to speak to Father on behalf of the millions in the world who go without these conveniences on a regular basis.
“I know baby. I know,” were my words as I tried to comfort her unsuccessfully.
You expect it to be dark at night when you go to sleep, but darkness from a power outage has a completely different feel to it.
The darkness is not just an absence of light; it’s a stillness that almost takes your breath away.
At the grocery store yesterday, I saw a friend who asked me if I had heard about the upcoming power shortages?
“Uh, no. They’re turning off the power?”
“Yep,” she replied. Another friend had told her that we could begin to expect electricity 12 hours on followed by six hours off continually beginning April 1 through July.
“Woh…” was all I could say.
I did later learn that there was a sign posted on our bulletin board in our apartment building, but as we’re not yet able to read their script, it blended in with all the other signs that we can’t understand.
We’ve experienced a loss of power a few times since we’ve been here, but most were for just short periods, and they were unexpected from some kind of situation or accident – not planned in advance by the authorities to be turned off.
I hoped that my friend was wrong. Maybe she misunderstood. Maybe it didn’t mean OUR area. It’s the hot season after all! I rationalized a multitude of reasons why this maybe wouldn’t affect our home, and as I went throughout the rest of the day, I put the thought behind me.
Monday nights, CJ teaches English at a school downtown, so it’s just the girls and me for most of the evening.
We had made dinner – homemade pepperoni pizza – and we were still sitting at the table, stuffed from our delicious meal discussing which movie we wanted to watch when the lights went off.
“Well, no movie,” Mia said matter-of-factly. “What are we going to do now?”
I love the innocence of my children. She wasn’t worried about the food in the refrigerator. They didn’t know that our apartment was about to become very warm with no a/c or fans to even circulate the air.
Zoe was the first to grab a flashlight. “Let’s light some candles!” she said.
Have you ever tried to search for a lighter or some matches in the dark?
I knew we had brought one of those long gas-grill lighters, I just couldn’t remember where we had stored it.
Ultimately we decided to go take a walk outside. We needed some exercise anyway after that big dinner. We weren’t gone long though. Before we got too far down the road, Zoe spotted a big, black rat on the sidewalk ahead of us thanks to her handy flashlight, so we unanimously decided it would be best to go the other way. Quickly!
We walked a little in the other direction, but it was just too dark, so we called it a night and headed home. Thankfully, by the time we got there, CJ was walking in the door, and he knew just were the matches were.
Sleep was impossible that night – it was just soooo hot. Your skin is sticky from perspiration and the heavy, damp air clings to your body like a wet glove. The heat presses against you in such a way that makes it hard to breathe like you’re suffocating.
It’s almost painful to move, so you recline on the bed as still as possible. You lay there with your head against your sweat-soaked pillow wondering if you will ever see the light again.
I could hear Mia whining in her room. I knew my poor baby was miserable, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t even help myself. We drank lots of water and put ice-filled cloths on our foreheads and necks. I would’ve put the girls in a bathtub of cool water if we had one, but we don’t.
“Mommmmmmmyyyyyyyyy, I’m hot…” she said. The temperature had reached 103 degrees that afternoon, so I didn’t doubt her anguish.
“Just lay very still and don’t move. It’s almost 11:00. Try to get some sleep,” I called to her from my room, not wanting to get up or move around.
Eventually, the whining stopped.
But then that made me worry. At least when she was whining, I knew she was ok.
Those motherly concerns kicked in like they had when we had just brought our new baby home from the hospital. Back then, I would sneak into her room just to make sure she was still breathing.
And on this night, I did the same.
It took every ounce of energy I had in my body, but I rolled out of bed and crept to Mia’s room.
I knew Zoe was still awake… I could see the light from her flashlight making circles on the ceiling in her room.
I checked on Mia and she was fine. She was soaking wet, but she was sawing logs in her light sleep.
I crawled back to my own bed and positioned myself on top of the covers. Finally settled, I breathed out a deep sigh and closed my eyes when all of a sudden out of the blue, the power came back on.
“Thank you JESUS!” I shouted.
The first thing I did was grab the remote to the air con unit and set it to “COLD.”
Then CJ and I went about the place turning on the girls a/c units and checking the fridge.
We had survived our first real, serious power outage.
Ironically, this morning when our language teacher arrived she said, “I read you had your power out from 5:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. last night.”
“Huh? Where did you read that?” we replied.
“There’s a sign by the elevator that tells you when your power will be off. Didn’t you know?”
“Ha. NO! But can you teach us how to read those signs so we’ll know when to expect our power to be off everyday and can plan in advance?”
“Of course!” she said.
Wouldn’t that have been helpful?
Oh well, we’re still learning, but it’s all good.
There are so many things I’ve realized I didn’t appreciate back home. Like never having to worry about the power going out. Complaining about being hot as I sat in an air-conditioned room. I never valued the fact that clean water came out of the faucet. When I wanted to brush my teeth, I turned the water on and did so. If I wanted to wash my face, I turned on the water and did so.
I never considered going to get a bucket of clean water to do those things. I never thought about having to boil water before I could wash dishes or even just to have hot water.
But I have learned that for many in the world, this is everyday life.
And honestly, I’m grateful to learn these lessons, even if it is the hard way. I’m grateful that my children are learning these lessons too.
You should try it sometime. You know, just turn off the power one day or night. Try not using faucet water – only bottled water or boiled water – for a whole day. Try going one night in the summer without a/c, and when you do, be reminded to speak to Father on behalf of the millions in the world who go without these conveniences on a regular basis.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
He keeps me singing
Ever since I was a little girl, I always loved to sing.
It’s no surprise really since both my parents are singers and have been active in all types of choirs. I grew up listening to classical music and some of my favorite memories of my childhood include attending the concerts of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra which my parents were a part of.
Of course, voice lessons, piano lessons and other instrument lessons filled my younger days. I wish I had been more focused on learning to play the piano back then, but all I wanted to do was sing.
As an older teenager, I sang in a rock band. Yes, I admit it. A rock band. I sang lead and there was a guitar player, pianist, drummer and bass player. The five of us practiced every afternoon at the guitar player’s grandparents’ farm out in the middle of nowhere. We had all the instruments and equipment set up in an open barn that looked out to a field of grass and cows. I sang my heart out for those animals. Then my mom and I would scour the thrift shops on the weekends looking for unique outfits that I could wear when we performed. Those were great times!
As an adult, I loved singing in the choir. LOVED! There’s just something about many people coming together to raise their voices in different vocal parts and harmonies that just soothes the soul, ya know?
At our home gathering place, you could always find me every Sunday in my seat in the choir loft. It was a special joy that I got to sit next to my mom in the choir, and I loved the way our voices blended together.
It’s also one of the things I’ve missed most about the States… choir music and singing with the group. It’s one of those things that you just don’t appreciate until you don’t have it anymore.
Even in Canada, we were in small house groups every Sunday and the music was mostly accapela. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed leading the small group in praise style music. I just missed choir.
I still do.
But Father knows the desires of our hearts, and He continually blesses us in ways that we don’t even know to ask for.
A few months before arriving in this country, I received an email from one of our teammates saying that she had written a song about the 200 year anniversary of Adoniram Judson coming to this place which will be celebrated throughout 2012 and 2013.
“How cool!” I thought when I read the words.
When we finally arrived here, I noticed right away all the many ways my teammate, Carmen,* and I are alike. We both like chocolate and peanut butter ice cream, and we both prefer being out of doors rather than being inside. We have encountered many similar experiences throughout our lives, and we both just happen to be reading through the same book of the Good Book unintentionally. Our greatest similarity though, is our tremendous love of music.
Our very first full day in country, we went to our teammates’ house and before the day was over, Carmen sat down at the piano to play for me the song she wrote about Judson.
It was so beautiful and the words were so moving that I was in near tears before the song was halfway through. I found myself harmonizing in my usual habit to her melodious, soprano voice, and when we were done, we both were struck by how well our voices blended together. Even our spouses sitting nearby commented that we sounded as if we had been singing together all our lives. It was really almost uncanny.
Carmen has an amazing talent for composing music and lyrics, and it’s been such a joy to just listen to her play her songs. But the real fun comes when we sing together, and we do that as often as we can.
We’ve become accustomed to the fact that whenever you visit a Sunday gathering somewhere, they always ask you to speak or sing for the group. It was only our second Sunday in country when Carmen and I first performed a song together. Since then, we’ve been singing almost every weekend at different Sunday gatherings.
Then, because her special song about Judson is so amazing, she was asked to record the song for publication and distribution. When she told me we were going to a recording studio to lay the track, all I could think was, “There’s a recording studio in this city?!?”
Sure enough!
The experience was a once-in-a-lifetime event. I met some amazing musicians who all exhibit rare talent. I kept thinking, “If they lived in the States, they’d surely be very rich because of their gifted abilities.”
Whenever Carmen and I had performed the song before, we had been doing it with just piano, but the track we recorded included drums, guitars, bass, strings, horns and more. After a long day of practice, all the instruments were recorded individually and then Carmen sang her part. I was the last one of the day to be recorded, and even after nearly 10 hours of working and waiting, I was so excited to walk in the booth, put on the headphones and sing.
The whole time I was singing, the same thought kept running through my mind: Father blesses us with the desires of hearts before we even know what those desires are. Thank you Father for blessing me with an amazing teammate and for giving me the opportunity to sing.
I know I keep using that word ‘amazing’ but I can’t help it. I am amazed. My cup runneth over. I had almost given up on the idea that music would be a part of my life over here. I just figured my singing days were behind me.
Oh, how little faith I exhibit.
I’ve often heard that Father is not as concerned with our happiness as He is our holiness.
That may be true, but He sure has made this girl happy.
“He keeps me singing as I go…”
* Not actual name.
It’s no surprise really since both my parents are singers and have been active in all types of choirs. I grew up listening to classical music and some of my favorite memories of my childhood include attending the concerts of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra which my parents were a part of.
Of course, voice lessons, piano lessons and other instrument lessons filled my younger days. I wish I had been more focused on learning to play the piano back then, but all I wanted to do was sing.
As an older teenager, I sang in a rock band. Yes, I admit it. A rock band. I sang lead and there was a guitar player, pianist, drummer and bass player. The five of us practiced every afternoon at the guitar player’s grandparents’ farm out in the middle of nowhere. We had all the instruments and equipment set up in an open barn that looked out to a field of grass and cows. I sang my heart out for those animals. Then my mom and I would scour the thrift shops on the weekends looking for unique outfits that I could wear when we performed. Those were great times!
As an adult, I loved singing in the choir. LOVED! There’s just something about many people coming together to raise their voices in different vocal parts and harmonies that just soothes the soul, ya know?
At our home gathering place, you could always find me every Sunday in my seat in the choir loft. It was a special joy that I got to sit next to my mom in the choir, and I loved the way our voices blended together.
It’s also one of the things I’ve missed most about the States… choir music and singing with the group. It’s one of those things that you just don’t appreciate until you don’t have it anymore.
Even in Canada, we were in small house groups every Sunday and the music was mostly accapela. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed leading the small group in praise style music. I just missed choir.
I still do.
But Father knows the desires of our hearts, and He continually blesses us in ways that we don’t even know to ask for.
A few months before arriving in this country, I received an email from one of our teammates saying that she had written a song about the 200 year anniversary of Adoniram Judson coming to this place which will be celebrated throughout 2012 and 2013.
“How cool!” I thought when I read the words.
When we finally arrived here, I noticed right away all the many ways my teammate, Carmen,* and I are alike. We both like chocolate and peanut butter ice cream, and we both prefer being out of doors rather than being inside. We have encountered many similar experiences throughout our lives, and we both just happen to be reading through the same book of the Good Book unintentionally. Our greatest similarity though, is our tremendous love of music.
Our very first full day in country, we went to our teammates’ house and before the day was over, Carmen sat down at the piano to play for me the song she wrote about Judson.
It was so beautiful and the words were so moving that I was in near tears before the song was halfway through. I found myself harmonizing in my usual habit to her melodious, soprano voice, and when we were done, we both were struck by how well our voices blended together. Even our spouses sitting nearby commented that we sounded as if we had been singing together all our lives. It was really almost uncanny.
Carmen has an amazing talent for composing music and lyrics, and it’s been such a joy to just listen to her play her songs. But the real fun comes when we sing together, and we do that as often as we can.
We’ve become accustomed to the fact that whenever you visit a Sunday gathering somewhere, they always ask you to speak or sing for the group. It was only our second Sunday in country when Carmen and I first performed a song together. Since then, we’ve been singing almost every weekend at different Sunday gatherings.
Then, because her special song about Judson is so amazing, she was asked to record the song for publication and distribution. When she told me we were going to a recording studio to lay the track, all I could think was, “There’s a recording studio in this city?!?”
Sure enough!
The experience was a once-in-a-lifetime event. I met some amazing musicians who all exhibit rare talent. I kept thinking, “If they lived in the States, they’d surely be very rich because of their gifted abilities.”
Whenever Carmen and I had performed the song before, we had been doing it with just piano, but the track we recorded included drums, guitars, bass, strings, horns and more. After a long day of practice, all the instruments were recorded individually and then Carmen sang her part. I was the last one of the day to be recorded, and even after nearly 10 hours of working and waiting, I was so excited to walk in the booth, put on the headphones and sing.
The whole time I was singing, the same thought kept running through my mind: Father blesses us with the desires of hearts before we even know what those desires are. Thank you Father for blessing me with an amazing teammate and for giving me the opportunity to sing.
I know I keep using that word ‘amazing’ but I can’t help it. I am amazed. My cup runneth over. I had almost given up on the idea that music would be a part of my life over here. I just figured my singing days were behind me.
Oh, how little faith I exhibit.
I’ve often heard that Father is not as concerned with our happiness as He is our holiness.
That may be true, but He sure has made this girl happy.
“He keeps me singing as I go…”
* Not actual name.
Monday, March 5, 2012
A little laughter is the best medicine
Language learning has been fun, and one month in, we officially have just enough language to do some real damage.
In other words, we don’t really know enough to communicate accurately what we’re trying to say, but we do know just enough to be able to spout out a few words usually with the wrong tone which can drastically change the whole meaning of the word.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to say, “It’s nice to meet you.” When what I’ve actually said is, “I have diarrhea.” Of course it’s always said with a smile on my face which makes the people I’m talking to think I’m completely crazy.
When all else fails, we resort to a made-up form of sign language to attempt to communicate with the local people – especially when there’s something specific we need – which is just what happened last night…
Sunday night, CJ started not feeling good. Monday morning he was no better, but we had things to do so he trudged on. Monday night he went to work to teach his English class downtown, but by the time he got home he was really sick. He felt nauseous and was having stomach cramps. We couldn’t nail down anything specific that he had eaten that would’ve made him sick. We eat all our meals together these days, so if it had been food related, we would’ve likely all been sick. But the girls and I were fine. It was just him, poor baby.
Have you ever been sick and known exactly what the problem is and exactly what medication would fix your ailments? Of course, in the states, even if you know what medicine you need you have to first see a doctor to get a prescription, right? When you’re feeling bad and just want medicine, it can be a hassle, but not so here.
In this country, you don’t need a prescription for medication. Nope, you just walk up to the pharmacy and tell them what you want, and if they have it, you buy it. Simple as that.
I’ve seen everything from Amoxicillin to Viagra on the pharmacy shelves here, and you can actually buy medicine pretty cheaply. Pretty cool, eh?
So last night when CJ got home looking green in the face, he begged me, “Would you please go down to the store and get me some medicine?”
Now I have to confess, we brought with us a good amount of over-the-counter medicines from home, but we had nearly drained our complete supply of Pepto Bismal in the month that we’ve been here. Plus, he needed something a little stronger, not to mention maybe something to help him sleep. (He had been up sick all night on Sunday and was in dire need of some rest.)
“What’s that medicine that we used to get at home to ease stomach pain and get you to sleep?” he asked groggily.
“Dramamine?” I replied.
“No, stronger than that,” he muffled while laying face down in his pillow.
“Phenergan?” I asked. That had to be it cause he didn’t answer.
“I’ll try,” I said as I put on my shoes rushing to get downstairs before the store closed.
Little Mia decided to tag along with me to provide assistance should I need it.
We were greeted by two girls and one guy at the little pharmacy section of the “superstore” downstairs. They were all young, but eager to try to help us.
I scanned the glass case holding all the medicines. They appeared to be in alphabetical order, but I wasn’t sure of the spelling in English, not to mention that most of the medicine labels were written in their local script – which is completely undecipherable at this point in our language learning.
So I attempted to ask the workers, “Phenergran?”
Their smiles waned. They obviously had no idea what I was saying.
“You write,” the male asked nicely implying that maybe if I wrote down what I wanted he might understand and could find what I needed.
To no avail though, writing it down didn’t help.
So I tried the little bit of language that I knew.
“Amu tha ma goun boo:” which translates, “Husband sick.”
“Bite naw day:” – “Stomachache.”
“Ahhhh,” the workers replied in unison with their smiles returning.
The male reached beneath the counter and handed me a package of tablets that had no English whatsoever on the package.
“Uh….” I really didn’t want to buy medicine that I didn’t know what it was or how to take it or what it would do.
“What - is - this?” I spoke super slowly thinking that maybe that might help them suddenly understand MY language. It didn’t.
I handed the medicine back to the worker.
That’s when I decided to try sign language. I gave them the universal symbol for stomach sick. I stuck my finger in my mouth and said, “aaack.”
The workers looked at me confused.
I did the sign again trying a few other words this time.
“Throw up.”
“Nauseous.”
I rubbed my stomach and said, “Yucky!”
Nothing worked.
That’s when other people in the store who happened to be shopping near the commotion we were causing joined in to try to help Mia and I.
People were huddled all around us, and we looked like a roving band of Charades players all motioning and speaking different languages.
I looked at Mia in the midst of hubbub and started to laugh. It was just too funny.
Eventually one of the female workers behind the counter handed me a box of medicine with English words.
“Excessive gas, bloating and flatulence,” was what the box read.
As I read the words out loud, Mia started laughing even harder.
Pretty soon, everyone there was passing around the box and laughing.
“Amu tha?” they were all asking and pointing at the box. “Husband?” they laughed.
I realized that these people must picture my husband walking around our apartment tooting everywhere he went and my precious daughter and I were seeking some relief.
By this point, the laughter was outrageous. Have you ever been like really stressed out, and all you can do is laugh. First a little snicker sneaks out, then it grows until you’re just laughing uncontrollably at the insanity of the situation.
Eventually I realized that we were not going to be able to buy any medicine that night. CJ would just have to make due with what we had at home.
I thanked the workers who were still laughing heartily as Mia and I walked away empty handed.
It’s a shame that what should be such an easy process – procuring medicine without any prescription needed – was so completely problematic.
Mia and I were still giggling as we returned to our apartment and I prepared to give CJ the bad news.
Ironically, we discovered CJ completely sacked out in the bed, sleeping soundly.
Even if I had bought some medicine, I don’t think I could’ve roused him to make him take it.
CJ woke up this morning feeling a little better. I haven’t had the heart yet to tell him to expect some funny faces staring at him when he goes down to the store. I guess I’ll just let him figure that out on his own… :)
In other words, we don’t really know enough to communicate accurately what we’re trying to say, but we do know just enough to be able to spout out a few words usually with the wrong tone which can drastically change the whole meaning of the word.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to say, “It’s nice to meet you.” When what I’ve actually said is, “I have diarrhea.” Of course it’s always said with a smile on my face which makes the people I’m talking to think I’m completely crazy.
When all else fails, we resort to a made-up form of sign language to attempt to communicate with the local people – especially when there’s something specific we need – which is just what happened last night…
Sunday night, CJ started not feeling good. Monday morning he was no better, but we had things to do so he trudged on. Monday night he went to work to teach his English class downtown, but by the time he got home he was really sick. He felt nauseous and was having stomach cramps. We couldn’t nail down anything specific that he had eaten that would’ve made him sick. We eat all our meals together these days, so if it had been food related, we would’ve likely all been sick. But the girls and I were fine. It was just him, poor baby.
Have you ever been sick and known exactly what the problem is and exactly what medication would fix your ailments? Of course, in the states, even if you know what medicine you need you have to first see a doctor to get a prescription, right? When you’re feeling bad and just want medicine, it can be a hassle, but not so here.
In this country, you don’t need a prescription for medication. Nope, you just walk up to the pharmacy and tell them what you want, and if they have it, you buy it. Simple as that.
I’ve seen everything from Amoxicillin to Viagra on the pharmacy shelves here, and you can actually buy medicine pretty cheaply. Pretty cool, eh?
So last night when CJ got home looking green in the face, he begged me, “Would you please go down to the store and get me some medicine?”
Now I have to confess, we brought with us a good amount of over-the-counter medicines from home, but we had nearly drained our complete supply of Pepto Bismal in the month that we’ve been here. Plus, he needed something a little stronger, not to mention maybe something to help him sleep. (He had been up sick all night on Sunday and was in dire need of some rest.)
“What’s that medicine that we used to get at home to ease stomach pain and get you to sleep?” he asked groggily.
“Dramamine?” I replied.
“No, stronger than that,” he muffled while laying face down in his pillow.
“Phenergan?” I asked. That had to be it cause he didn’t answer.
“I’ll try,” I said as I put on my shoes rushing to get downstairs before the store closed.
Little Mia decided to tag along with me to provide assistance should I need it.
We were greeted by two girls and one guy at the little pharmacy section of the “superstore” downstairs. They were all young, but eager to try to help us.
I scanned the glass case holding all the medicines. They appeared to be in alphabetical order, but I wasn’t sure of the spelling in English, not to mention that most of the medicine labels were written in their local script – which is completely undecipherable at this point in our language learning.
So I attempted to ask the workers, “Phenergran?”
Their smiles waned. They obviously had no idea what I was saying.
“You write,” the male asked nicely implying that maybe if I wrote down what I wanted he might understand and could find what I needed.
To no avail though, writing it down didn’t help.
So I tried the little bit of language that I knew.
“Amu tha ma goun boo:” which translates, “Husband sick.”
“Bite naw day:” – “Stomachache.”
“Ahhhh,” the workers replied in unison with their smiles returning.
The male reached beneath the counter and handed me a package of tablets that had no English whatsoever on the package.
“Uh….” I really didn’t want to buy medicine that I didn’t know what it was or how to take it or what it would do.
“What - is - this?” I spoke super slowly thinking that maybe that might help them suddenly understand MY language. It didn’t.
I handed the medicine back to the worker.
That’s when I decided to try sign language. I gave them the universal symbol for stomach sick. I stuck my finger in my mouth and said, “aaack.”
The workers looked at me confused.
I did the sign again trying a few other words this time.
“Throw up.”
“Nauseous.”
I rubbed my stomach and said, “Yucky!”
Nothing worked.
That’s when other people in the store who happened to be shopping near the commotion we were causing joined in to try to help Mia and I.
People were huddled all around us, and we looked like a roving band of Charades players all motioning and speaking different languages.
I looked at Mia in the midst of hubbub and started to laugh. It was just too funny.
Eventually one of the female workers behind the counter handed me a box of medicine with English words.
“Excessive gas, bloating and flatulence,” was what the box read.
As I read the words out loud, Mia started laughing even harder.
Pretty soon, everyone there was passing around the box and laughing.
“Amu tha?” they were all asking and pointing at the box. “Husband?” they laughed.
I realized that these people must picture my husband walking around our apartment tooting everywhere he went and my precious daughter and I were seeking some relief.
By this point, the laughter was outrageous. Have you ever been like really stressed out, and all you can do is laugh. First a little snicker sneaks out, then it grows until you’re just laughing uncontrollably at the insanity of the situation.
Eventually I realized that we were not going to be able to buy any medicine that night. CJ would just have to make due with what we had at home.
I thanked the workers who were still laughing heartily as Mia and I walked away empty handed.
It’s a shame that what should be such an easy process – procuring medicine without any prescription needed – was so completely problematic.
Mia and I were still giggling as we returned to our apartment and I prepared to give CJ the bad news.
Ironically, we discovered CJ completely sacked out in the bed, sleeping soundly.
Even if I had bought some medicine, I don’t think I could’ve roused him to make him take it.
CJ woke up this morning feeling a little better. I haven’t had the heart yet to tell him to expect some funny faces staring at him when he goes down to the store. I guess I’ll just let him figure that out on his own… :)
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