"Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
1 Thessalonians 2:16-18
My friends,
On an evening such as this, just writing you feels almost as if I were sitting beside you. I sit, though, in Bangkok, after a nine hour bus ride from the far northwest of Thailand to where I just read via Yahoo news is the happening site of a building two-week protest by Thai citizens outside the headquarters of their Prime Minister. Thailand parades its King on banners as far as the eye can see and curses its Prime Minister on his doostep. So it goes, and perhaps tomorrow morning I'll check the scene.
But this afternoon, an afternoon that dragged into the evening! I hurried bright-eyed off the bus as it came to a still, eager to find my hostel, toss my bags, and look to some sticky rice and hardboiled eggs for dinner, thinking I might wander the neighborhood streets as evening came and retire like usual with my reading before bed. Wander I did, for two hours, though not on my neighborhood streets and not after tossing my bags and sitting for dinner.
I left Mae Sot this morning in style - that is, without knowing where I would go upon arrival in Bangkok, as I forgot to write down the address or memorize directions to the hostel I booked last night. "No problem [in Thai: 'mae pen rai']," I thought. "I'll stumble upon an internet cafe, log simply into my email, write down directions to the hostel and be off."
To end quickly what I now see turning into a multi-paragraphed, digressive story, I ended up in no sight of an internet cafe but being befriended by a young Thai student who works at the Bangkok "Children's Discovery Musuem". She took my by subway to an internet cafe, loaned me her pen several times to write down directions as I sat at the computer, then led me again to the subway and pointed me on my way, gifting me her pen as she left: "I think you will need this other times."
I exited the subway knowing that my hostel, "Madras Hostel", was a short fifteen minute walk from the subway, but not knowing which way to walk. I walked, walked, double-backed and walked farther, and right at two hours after I left the Bangkok bus station, I looked up to see a bright yellow, white, and red glowing "Madras Hostel" sign, and my back almost broke as I went to kiss the ground. The hostess and her five-year old daughter greeted me warmly, and she, taking pity on my soiled brow, upgraded my room from a large ten person dorm to my own room with balcony and A/C, and my back almost broke as I went to kiss the ground. By grace, by grace.
--
But all of this is nothing in light of what I meant to write you last night but got lost in pages of personal emails and hostel bookings. I will start in yesterday morning, though what I really wish to write you of is the evening.
I woke my first morning in Mae Sot with plans to make my way to the Myanmar border, a mere six miles away, thinking I should go in for a one day visa and have a look at the country whose reckless military junta is oppressing the Karen people of whom I wrote you so fondly in my last letter. I rented the silver bike of a college-aged coffee shop owner, whose store I inaugurated with an espresso the afternoon previous, and made straight on the road that led without divergence to the Burmese border. A river separates the two countries - Thailand and Myanmar - and I could see it from a ways back before I got to it.
At the Thai departure I left my bicycle for the day - "Only walking!" - and trodded over the 400 meter "Friendship Bridge." The grandson of a WWII Burmese translator for the British army took me in conversation over the bridge, hoping I'd hire him for a tour guide once stepping foot in his country - I didn't, of course, but on the way over the bridge he mentioned to me 1) that he US was very good because the US is very powerful and 2) that he was especially interested in Israel, because Israel gained their independence in the same year as Burma gained its independence - 1948. This second comment was more interesting to me than the first, and it largely guided my thoughts that afternoon, as I tarried without aim down muddied and potholed dirt avenues and interacted with one too many armed and camouflage-jacketed Burmese army boys for my liking.
I saw that morning and afternoon three or four tinted-windowed and oversize-tired trucks with seven to eight camo-ed boys in the back, holding their rifles pointed to the sky. Right when I stepped into the Burmese Arrival office at Immigration, a whistle blew and the workers inside tossed on their helmets and darted out into the street. A Thai military captain was passing back into Thailand, and just five feet from me the road through the gate was clogged with flashing cameras and armed military men.
I'd nowhere to go that day, no map of the streets, but I did have my Bible and camera in my satchel, and, not being able to think of anywhere more active and interesting, walked along the river's edge that separated Thai from Burmese. Though I'll never admit it, I'm really very mischevious and troublesome in foreign lands, and so, when a wooden gate opened into an area manned by a who-couldn't-be-over-17-years-old Burmese boy and his wooden-butted rifle, I thought I'd try the charm of a foreigner and see if he'd let me pass. He did, kind of - though his hand waved "no", he had a smile on his face, so, donning a smile on my face, I walked on by with a grinning, "O.K.!" I sat, read, and prayed for ten minutes looking over the river before he came by my side and grinned another of his toothless grins with still that wooden-butted rifle on his shoulder. I rose - it then feeling very eerie - and left the riverside, four hours later hopping again on my bicycle and riding back to Mae Sot, "Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."
1 Thessalonians 2:16-18
My friends,
On an evening such as this, just writing you feels almost as if I were sitting beside you. I sit, though, in Bangkok, after a nine hour bus ride from the far northwest of Thailand to where I just read via Yahoo news is the happening site of a building two-week protest by Thai citizens outside the headquarters of their Prime Minister. Thailand parades its King on banners as far as the eye can see and curses its Prime Minister on his doostep. So it goes, and perhaps tomorrow morning I'll check the scene.
But this afternoon, an afternoon that dragged into the evening! I hurried bright-eyed off the bus as it came to a still, eager to find my hostel, toss my bags, and look to some sticky rice and hardboiled eggs for dinner, thinking I might wander the neighborhood streets as evening came and retire like usual with my reading before bed. Wander I did, for two hours, though not on my neighborhood streets and not after tossing my bags and sitting for dinner.
I left Mae Sot this morning in style - that is, without knowing where I would go upon arrival in Bangkok, as I forgot to write down the address or memorize directions to the hostel I booked last night. "No problem [in Thai: 'mae pen rai']," I thought. "I'll stumble upon an internet cafe, log simply into my email, write down directions to the hostel and be off."
To end quickly what I now see turning into a multi-paragraphed, digressive story, I ended up in no sight of an internet cafe but being befriended by a young Thai student who works at the Bangkok "Children's Discovery Musuem". She took my by subway to an internet cafe, loaned me her pen several times to write down directions as I sat at the computer, then led me again to the subway and pointed me on my way, gifting me her pen as she left: "I think you will need this other times."
I exited the subway knowing that my hostel, "Madras Hostel", was a short fifteen minute walk from the subway, but not knowing which way to walk. I walked, walked, double-backed and walked farther, and right at two hours after I left the Bangkok bus station, I looked up to see a bright yellow, white, and red glowing "Madras Hostel" sign, and my back almost broke as I went to kiss the ground. The hostess and her five-year old daughter greeted me warmly, and she, taking pity on my soiled brow, upgraded my room from a large ten person dorm to my own room with balcony and A/C, and my back almost broke as I went to kiss the ground. By grace, by grace.
--
But all of this is nothing in light of what I meant to write you last night but got lost in pages of personal emails and hostel bookings. I will start in yesterday morning, though what I really wish to write you of is the evening.
I woke my first morning in Mae Sot with plans to make my way to the Myanmar border, a mere six miles away, thinking I should go in for a one day visa and have a look at the country whose reckless military junta is oppressing the Karen people of whom I wrote you so fondly in my last letter. I rented the silver bike of a college-aged coffee shop owner, whose store I inaugurated with an espresso the afternoon previous, and made straight on the road that led without divergence to the Burmese border. A river separates the two countries - Thailand and Myanmar - and I could see it from a ways back before I got to it.
At the Thai departure I left my bicycle for the day - "Only walking!" - and trodded over the 400 meter "Friendship Bridge." The grandson of a WWII Burmese translator for the British army took me in conversation over the bridge, hoping I'd hire him for a tour guide once stepping foot in his country - I didn't, of course, but on the way over the bridge he mentioned to me 1) that he US was very good because the US is very powerful and 2) that he was especially interested in Israel, because Israel gained their independence in the same year as Burma gained its independence - 1948. This second comment was more interesting to me than the first, and it largely guided my thoughts that afternoon, as I tarried without aim down muddied and potholed dirt avenues and interacted with one too many armed and camouflage-jacketed Burmese army boys for my liking.
I saw that morning and afternoon three or four tinted-windowed and oversize-tired trucks with seven to eight camo-ed boys in the back, holding their rifles pointed to the sky. Right when I stepped into the Burmese Arrival office at Immigration, a whistle blew and the workers inside tossed on their helmets and darted out into the street. A Thai military captain was passing back into Thailand, and just five feet from me the road through the gate was clogged with flashing cameras and armed military men.
I'd nowhere to go that day, no map of the streets, but I did have my Bible and camera in my satchel, and, not being able to think of anywhere more active and interesting, walked along the river's edge that separated Thai from Burmese. Though I'll never admit it, I'm really very mischevious and troublesome in foreign lands, and so, when a wooden gate opened into an area manned by a who-couldn't-be-over-17-years-old Burmese boy and his wooden-butted rifle, I thought I'd try the charm of a foreigner and see if he'd let me pass. He did, kind of - though his hand waved "no", he had a smile on his face, so, donning a smile on my face, I walked on by with a grinning, "O.K.!" I sat, read, and prayed for ten minutes looking over the river before he came by my side and grinned another of his toothless grins with still that wooden-butted rifle on his shoulder. I rose - it then feeling very eerie - and left the riverside, four hours later hopping again on my bicycle and riding back to Mae Sot, needing to shower before attending the art gallery opening of which I wrote you last time.
The store at which the art show was to be hosted functions as an aid to Karen refugees from Burma, selling the handiwork of Karen women and returning 80% of the profits to the women who weaved the crafts. I visited the store a few hours before the show opened and spoke again with whom I thought to be owner, who, unlike the day before, wore a gold crucifix around her neck.
This made me overjoyed, as right now I am doing little more than reading my Bible and praying all day, and I delight to be led by grace to others who love Him whom I love. But after speaking with her for ten minutes, I discoved the delight to be had was not really mine but hers - and because of this, my delight was all the more!
I told her I had been supporting missionaries and their work in Thailand, Vietnam, and Laos for the past month. She told me that she was Karen and became a Christian in Burma, her homeland - but then she said how much she envied and respected those who could talk about the Bible, because she couldn't do so very well, and that she was often scolded by her sister for not going to church when she had to work on Sundays. And when I left her minutes later, it hit me that I missed just the opportunity for which I live this summer: to encourage those in the faith in whatever way I can. So I hopped again on my silver bicycle, charted to the coffee shop, and minutes later with verses in mind, pen in hand, and espresso sitting to my right, prayed that the words to come in the letter to my friend would not speak with the reason that I used to craft them but would move by the Spirit to give her whatever it was she needed at that time.
To note that God desires obedience and a loving heart more than a person who grumbles but goes to church religiously every Sunday:
"Does the Lord delight in burnt offerings and sacrifices as much as in obeying the voice of the Lord? To obey is better than to sacrifice, and to heed is better than the fat of rams" (1 Samuel 15:22).
"The Lord detests the sacrifice of the wicked, but the prayer of the upright pleases him." (Proverbs 15:8)
And Luke 13:10-17, when Jesus one-ups the synagogue ruler and heals on the Sabbath.
--
I handed the letter, three pages torn out of my journal and folder, to her as I left, then bicycled the streets 'til sunset praying she might be uplifted and stand firm in the confidence of knowing Christ.
I'm off now - the moon is full, the night is young, and I read that Bangkok never sleeps: only kidding. I'll sleep, but hopefully not before finishing Isaiah. I had never read it before this morning, but man, it's good. I was reminded yesterday of my great love for Ecclesiastes and was awaken with a new fondness for a new book with this new morning. Things go well.
Now go check out Isaiah 44:6-23. My prayer group read it atop a mountain in Laos, meters from a golden temple, and I keep coming back to it in thought and prayer.
Yours,
js
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