Life in Community: The Path

He nearly fell; surely he was drunk. Still, he continued on toward us weaving unsteadily through the rice fields. He wore only a checked scarf around his waist, his weathered skin dark brown in the gloaming of the day glistened with sweat. When he reached us, his face brightened as a broad smile stretched wide in greeting.

He was in his right mind.

How often have I judged a life walked along a crooked path? How often have I assumed my own journey inferior because the road I have taken is not the straight shot I planned?

Perhaps the narrow road our Lord spoke of resembles our friend's path curving through trials and joys, bumpy with sanctifying holes and rocks, narrow enough for only one foot in front of the other. Perhaps we look drunk to those around us, unbalanced instead if sure-footed, haphazard, even irresponsible.

May God teach us to have mercy in our perception of each other's lives, of our own lives. May He teach us to desire more than the straight and narrow, to seek holiness instead of ease, to put one foot in front of the other in pilgrimage. May we rejoice for those on the Way instead of judging their walk.

Because the Way IS He who saved us, and He is as unconventional and surprising as they come. And what a grin we will all have on our faces when the Way leads us to the Father. We know our Path has already faced judgement for us, and despite what many thought at the time, He was in His right mind.

Confessions: Ego and Whispers

"I'm so proud of what you guys are doing over there."

My heart sank at his kind words.

"I feel like it has been six years, and we've done nothing. Nothing." I knew I didn't need to explain more. The dear older man reads our newsletters ... and reads between the lines. He asks the hard questions and has more experience with our line of work than most.

"Pshaw! Honey, it is like you are just at the college level of your education there. You've done plenty. You've obeyed."

I teared up. "It doesn't feel like it," I replied, but even as I spoke the words, the Holy Spirit struck my heart with his words.

I saw the facial expressions of those with whom I have shared pieces of the Gospel. I re-heard with my heart their words, the words the Holy Spirit used to prompt me to speak a certain story or truth. I remembered the plans I've changed because I just "knew" God had something else for me to do at that moment. I felt again the weight of the struggle to discern whether or not this or that was the Lord's leading and the free-fall sensation of stepping out on faith, even if it was just to reach out and touch someone.

Obedience, regardless of how unproductive it might seem, is not laziness. 

While at certain times we need to hold ourselves accountable for slothfulness, we need to equally consider the need to search our hearts for egotism.

e·go·tism

noun

the practice of talking and thinking about oneself excessively because of an undue sense of self-importance

How often do I think about my accomplishments or lack thereof in lieu of searching for and celebrating His accomplishments? How often do I regard my own plans and meeting of goals as far more important than listening and obeying His still, small voice?

I want to dive into the practice of talking and thinking about Him excessively because of the knowledge He and His goals and His work are so very important. I want to spend time listening instead of gauging effectiveness with my own cultural yardstick. I want to obey because His plans, His relentless love for the world, has already and will continue to have prolific results one holy whisper at a time.

 The Lord has prompted me to speak to or spend time with this precious woman on so many occasions, and what a joy it has been!

Life in Community: Holes

She was just standing there in the field, loosely holding the rope attached to her one bull. She still had on her silky pajama top over her new pink sarong. She ominously faced the west, the direction of the setting sun, despite that fact it was early morning. The sun is setting on her existence as she knows it.

A few weeks ago, her neighbors sold their land beside her rice fields to a sand company. Then, the village chief signed off for the company, who paid him a bribe, to dig out the sand and ship it to the capital for construction. Her fields are going to slowly sink. This is her last year to grow rice unless she commits to filling in the holes with dirt repeatedly at a high cost each year. Profit will be a thing of the past for this family.

We see it here in Cambodia all the time, the effects of one person's selfishness on the community. The mountains in the distance are slowly vanishing, enormous loads of rock trucked away for construction. Everyone on the road in our nearby town has to re-build their homes because the government decided to break its commitment to them and expand the road further than planned. The police side with whoever pays the most, and the firefighters will not turn on their hoses until payment is made.

This kind of selfishness is soul deep permeating human-kind, and it's complicated.

The villagers who sold the land to the company are shamed by their infertility and alcoholism. They just need more money whatever the affect on others. The village chief learned survival of the fittest in the killing fields of Cambodia's genocide. Why should he care?

My heart screams against the injustice, and yet this same selfishness resides in my heart. I often believe the lie that my little, selfish acts do no one harm or at least not as much harm as our village chief . . .

My children have holes in their hearts from my sins against them. They are deep and wide. Even at their tender young ages, I see them trying to refill their holes with "dirt" that will only be washed away in time.

Oh, how I worry about those holes when I allow myself the full weight of my true responsibility.  Sure, I have been busy facing down depression and moving to a village and  . . .  it's complicated. But still, there are holes, and filling them in with whatever this world has to offer won't work.

When I told my husband about the bulldozers and the land and the holes, he paused and stated, "It is going to take something drastic and costly upfront to save the land."

Drastic.

Costly.

The cross flashed through my mind.

The image of the Lord Jesus filling the holes I have made in my children's hearts has become dear to me even as the trucks filled with land continue to come and go down the village road. We may live in an unjust world, but we are loved with a unique and merciful kind of justice (Matthew 5:45). He will fill each and every one of our holes, and He will fill the holes in the hearts of those we've sinned against. Praise God!

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."  Romans 15:3

Life in Community: Take a Peek

I love schedules. I write them out for fun, shifting minutes and hours and activities while thinking through what has worked, what could work, and what I want to work. I love the order and simplicity of a life well-organized.

I totally picked the wrong career: Motherhood.

Then I really blew it: Missionary.

Finally, I cemented myself into a life where a schedule will only be words and hours on paper, never a reality: Village.

We just passed the one year mark in our new home. Amidst the chaos, I've found a beautiful order ebbs and flows more perfect for His purposes than my time slots to sweep and dust.

Take a peek into our world ...

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Sunrise

My ears always wake before the rest of my body. I go to sleep to the sound of insects and frogs, a symphony I don't know how I'll ever learn to sleep without and one that usually dies down around 3:00AM. Our neighbors typically choose this time to turn off their flashlights and begin the long task of preparing food that they sell in a town nearby. The rhythmic sound of knife to cutting board soon blends with the rather un-beautiful sound of our other neighbor's rooster. We've been told it has some kind of parasite in its throat, and I've never heard such a pitiful excuse for a crow.

The Lord saw fit, after five nature-less years in the city, to have mercy on my foliage starved soul. My eyes open to the first rays of light on the eastern horizon framed by mango, palm, and guava, the mist on the grasses of our farm yard, the slight breeze that rustles my hair. Every day, the first breath out of my lips is thankfulness for this visible sign of His presence, His love.

Laundry

I tiptoe over boards that refuse to be silenced, don my tennis shoes, and get on my elliptical which seems ever so out of place in my stilted wooden house. Then there is that most wondrous, most refreshing of events that takes place twice a day (and even more during hot season): the dip bath.

Kids soon begin trickling rather loudly from their bedrooms, the clicking of the "off" button on their fan proceeding the thump-thump-thumping of groggy feet heading to find out what this day holds. Clothes are pulled over and up, diapers changed, then we eat our spiritual breakfast, leading little ones before the throne in early morning hours, receiving the Rest our souls need before the task ahead.

Mornings are for work. Cooking must be done before the heat, 9:00AM being entirely too late in the day to deal with anything resembling fire. We run the semi-automatic washing machine through its cycles feeling rather like fighter pilots sporting our ear covers against the generator's thunderous hammering.  Crusade with broom and wet rag against near plague-like dust knowing full well, in the end, we'll win this battle but lose the war. Burn trash, and compost scraps. Pump the water. Hang the wet clothes on barbed wire. The fruit of this work is seen, and seeing it gives me strength to endure in a life where fruit is slow to ripen.

The afternoon meal with Daddy who often leaves before the children wake is usually a raucous occasion, punctuated with giggles and parental pleadings to please keep the noise to a less ear-splitting level. Tiny concrete room and six excited children - a storm before the calm. 

Rest

Peace shrouds the afternoon, a kid in the hammock under the enormous mango tree, two littles sprawled on the traditional "bed" lulled by heat and cooled by breezes. It is my time to prepare lessons for little students, sponge-like minds in bodies that can hardly sit still. Quiet encompasses the entire village, each family enjoying a mid-day Sabbath.  Silence is a precious gift.

Homeschool

School. Waking tow-headed blondes. Snacks. Workbooks. Curiosity reigns, fueled by rest and refreshment.

Shrieks of playful delight like ringing bells split the air. Neighbor kids peddling home from state school and mothers, sisters returning from the Gap - that is, making the company's clothes. Men hold babies, siblings hurry each other along to in search of fun. Afternoons are for friends. I often look up from whatever I am doing to see a blonde head racing off on some kind of adventure or another down the hard-packed dirt road. I visit homes or hang on the fence talking, hoping, and praying for a chance to love more, to give the greatest gift of love I have: my Jesus. Every interaction the Lord fills with love, and His grace beckons. His desire for these people is palpable.

Avoiding trouble with cows heading home

The lowing cows heading home are the first to signal the gloaming, the armistice of work and worker. My pace as I go about preparing the table for our evening meal matches the flip-flop-flip-flop of dirt-browned family groups passing by my home river bound for bathing. My own dirty children tumble past the screen door, making mud as they wash their play-filled hands.  The clink-clanking of dishes and silverware reverberates all around us as families dine together. Darkness falls, cool, deep, almost festive, the battle for another day is over. Baths, pajamas, cuddles. "He gives songs in the night," indeed. We join His song together one last time, various pitches of praise and devotion mixed with themes from Frozen and Spirit; then we pray our precious ones to sleep, our children and our villagers. 

Yes, Lord, your schedule far surpasses mine in beauty and efficiency. I have no desire to have dominion over Your time, Your plan. I soon surrender to sleep, creation's song swelling around me, surrendering yet again to the Alpha, the Omega, awaiting His next call a few short hours away.

Village Life: Differ

We have left our neighbors shaking their heads at us more than once. Occasionally they have nodded knowingly as if they expected our behavior: eating bread, not knowing how to build a proper house, going out to eat (even if it only costs a few bucks for our whole family). Try as we might, we cannot blend in fully, cannot become one of these precious people wholly.

God, however, has been most glorified when we have differed, differed outside of the villagers range of expectation, culture, worldview. He has shown up in the moments where our neighbors are simply dumbfounded by our actions or thoughts.

When we were in the process of hiring our first helper, our neighbors to the south came over trying to avoid detection from the rest of the village.

"Don't hire that girl. She will steal you blind. Her family is bad. She is bad. We tell you because we care about you. We want you to know. Don't do it."

Oh, how I wanted to honor that sweet grandmother and follow her wisdom. The Holy Spirit, however, had prompted our hearts that this was our girl. We were to love her like our own child.  I told my grandmother in the politest way I could that God asks us to love unconditionally with His help. She almost chuckled at my "foolishness."

And we loved Dalin with our Father's aid. And she bloomed. She gained respect in our community. She never stole a penny. We saw Grandmother's heart soften.

Then, Dalin stopped working for us. Another person came looking for work. I had seen this person when we first came to live here; he was a transgender. I had seen him and his friends in the night, coming back from town dressed like prostitutes. And, against my human nature, the Holy Spirit moved me to compassion, and I asked Him for that man.

He came as discreetly as possible, without makeup in a simple sarong, but Grandmother had spotted him.

Tamarind Flowers in Front of Grandmother's House

"Don't do it." She said, "He's bad. He'll ... steal ... from ..."

She slowed. I saw the light dawning in her face.

"He's not like Dalin. He's worse. He's been stealing since he was a child. He pretends to be a girl. His family is awful." she warned.

And the Lord prompted these words:

"His sin shows. My sin doesn't, but I have every bit as much sin as he does."

It was a marvelous, Gospel conversation after this bit. Hiring that man was truly incomprehensible to Grandmother's human logic, but I could see the Lord working in her.

I had differed, gone against everything this kind woman knew to be true and right. By God's grace, the difference between Cambodian culture and the way I had acted was so shocking, she was struck to the heart.

In ministry, we must often fight to model our life in similar fashion to our host culture. However, we must never forget to differ like our Savior did, to be so revolutionary, we're seen as foolish.

And don't worry about planning your differences, you "war" against common logic. He has sent His Spirit. He will guide your words, actions and heart if you will but listen.

Life in Community: Considering a Village Move?

"Too often these small, commonplace things go unnoticed unless they are caught and brought to life in words, words which become a lens that can, even if for a single moment, bring this ever-present beauty into focus." Lisa Leidenfrost 

Leidenfrost, in her preface to her wonderful book At the Edge of the Village: Musings of a Missionary Wife, writes that "[n]ot all of missionary life is extraordinary or bizarre. Most of it is just normal, common events that unfold one day into another." I could not agree more! As our transition to village life moves from adjustment to acceptance, life feels ... normal. When I decided to write this post, however, I realized "normal" has simply morphed right along with our diet, dress, and demographics:

A few days ago, I killed a spider larger than my hand that apparently had been living underneath our kitchen table...for who knows how long.

Today, we had Science class out in the field where our pumpkins are growing, learning about "boy" and "girl" flowers.

Just this morning, I looked up from cleaning up breakfast only to see my two-year-old daughter whiz by on a moto with her Khmer grandma (No, I had no idea she was even out of our gate).

We speak two languages all day, every day. Our clothing choices are schizophrenic right on par with our meals. In a similar vein, we navigate two worldviews in our own hearts in areas like loving the visits we receive each day but wishing said visitors didn't have to sneak through the back fence and poach a few guavas on their way in.

Before our new normal completely takes over, I wanted to share a few blessings (and curses depending on how you see it) we've experienced for those who might be considering a village move. Of course, none or only some may apply depending on your circumstances. Each family and situation is beautifully unique.

1. Dirty takes on a whole new meaning.

Buried

2. Toys become optional. "Outside" is the ultimate "toy".

Guava tree climbing

3. Physical fitness becomes mandatory.

Gardening is just one of the things that takes physical strength in the village

4. Your former, in-country home might now give you culture shock.

The capital where we used to live

5. Your idea of security changes from high wall to your neighbor and your dog.

Our neighbors' house

6. The local becomes neither expert nor ignorant. They're just people.

Getting advice

7. Buying local becomes SO easy.

That HUGE stalk of bananas came from a few doors down

8. "Fitting in" happens without you consciously doing it.

She's got the Asian squat down!

9. Ministry no longer feels awkward or forced, and friendship is just a short, pleasant walk away.

Our neighbor's house right across the street; we're over there all the time

10. God can use nature and community to completely refresh the soul.

My prayer spot after the harvest

Life in Community: Child of Faith

I sat her down with me and took a deep breath. "Do you know why we came to Cambodia?"

"No." She smiled and shook her head.

"We came to tell about Jesus, to give people a chance to decide if they want to follow Him or not."

"I want to follow Him." Her firm words surprised me. "I heard when I was little and even went to that church with the drunk pastor for a while, but I didn't understand. Now I do. Now I know Jesus is so easy."

The Christians in our village are not looked upon kindly. Some who became followers have since gone back to the wat and become more accepted. Christians Dalin has seen are poor and old. Dalin has seen us struggle, has seen our sorrows and our sins firsthand. We have talked about how all people, regardless of if they follow Jesus or not have problems, big problems.

What in the world could she mean by easy?

When our conversation came to an end after we concluded that we needed to honor her parents in this process, I pondered her words again: easy.

Although we have had conversations about our faith with Dalin and even told her many Bible stories, mostly Dalin reads our Bibles. When she has time for rest, she sits down in a quiet place and reads the words aloud. As I consider the beautiful Story of God she is reading, my eyes are opened anew to the ease of our Savior:

No perfection required.

No rituals to perform.  

No status to hold and maintain.

No money to pay.

No fear.

I watched Dalin sit down and read again this morning. I wondered when she would get to that verse about His burden being easy and His yoke being light.

"Exactly." she'll think, "Easy."

Life in Community: Entering the Space

Our village is communally building a space for worship, a space where the monks from the local wat (temple) can come and perform ceremonies. They collected money from each other, borrowed tools and wood, dug and cemented, and even broke a dump truck filled with sand. The structure is now complete, facing south to get the best wind in hot season with a western wall to prevent oppressive heat in the afternoons. Yesterday we saw the black outlines of figures drawn on the walls. My husband went and visited with several men there this afternoon who were painting in the figures, story-pictures from the life of Buddha.

He went to visit with friends with no agenda, but the Holy Spirit always has a plan; we need only to enter enemy territory, listen, and obey.

When we enter Satan's space, we can be used. We can be a light in whatever way the Holy Spirit wants us to be.

"I'm sorry," said an older man in the group, "but I want to talk about religion."

Taken aback, my husband laughed and said, "Sure."

The conversation turned to forgiveness of sins, Christianity not being a religion, and Buddha's teachings that benefit humanity. Truth was spoken because a space was entered.

How do you find yourself "entering spaces" to be used by the Holy Spirit?

Life in Community: Trauma Happens

"I KNOW YOU DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG BUT I WANT YOU TO PAY $50!!!!"

(Insert inappropriate Khmer words, some of which I understood and some of which I didn't)

I was sitting on the curb nursing my baby beside my van filled with some extraordinarily patient children who I happen to get to live with every day. It had been an hour of madness. Now, this soldier was standing over me shouting even more angrily because I had made the cardinal mistake of calling my husband who called a government friend to come and rescue me.

"You just LET HIM COME!!! I've been a soldier for seven years." He kindly shows me his gun. "You foreigners (spits). A Khmer would be decent about this!!! You are so stupid I want to beat you up (fist in my face."

All the hoopla started when I had to bring some very sick kids into town an hour and a half away to see the doctor we trust. Two motos were driving beside me when the one on the far right veered toward the one directly to my right. They rubbed up against my car. I stopped to make sure everything was ok. The young man driving got in front of my car and started shouting at me while I was getting honked at for holding up traffic. Then I saw the lady that was on the back of his moto was pregnant. I pulled over and got out my first aid kit. She was barely scratched, but I put some disinfectant on her and bandaged the area. I checked her heart rate and felt the baby. Everything seemed fine. I bought her some Tylenol because she said she her scratch hurt.

Then, her driver blocked me in. They would not let me leave. I didn't know what to do. Finally, a car drove up with her husband. When he stepped out with his army fatigues on, I must admit that I trembled a bit. After he was done listening to the young man's description of what happened, he lit into me verbally.  I could barely make out what he was saying. Finally, I realized it all came down to money.

I had fifteen dollars for the doctor and a $100 bill for an emergency. I knew he would not let me change the $100 but would instead take it all. I needed the $15 for the doctor.

Looking at this man, I just couldn't give in to such corruption, such bullying. Needing the money I had to pay the doctor kept me to my principle. I was not going to let this man make me a victim.

"I won't pay. I need the money to take my son to the doctor."

He flew into a rage. A moto taxi driver, God-sent by all accounts, came over and started to negotiate as I tried to feed my now hungry baby. A local shopkeeper stood beside me and said "Don't worry."

Gently, ever so gently, the moto driver spoke on my behalf. The soldier, however, only lowered his voice and started taking pictures of me, my car, and the kids. All of the sudden, the shopkeeper came out with $10 and told me to pay the man.

When it was all over, I climbed into the car, told the kids thank you, and burst into tears. That afternoon, we went to pay the shopkeeper back. He refused us. We thanked him profusely. I cannot tell you what an amazing feeling it is to be on the receiving end of unprompted and unconditional help. I have always unconsciously written myself into the story of the Good Samaritan as the good Samaritan. Today, I became the man, or woman as it may be, on the side of the road. Being helped by those you have come to serve is a beautiful and precious thing.

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A few weeks ago, I went to the local market. It is so crowded that you truly feel like you are wading through people. A man singled me out as the rich foreigner. He followed me around, grabbing different parts of my body and, at times, not letting go. No on helped me. Despite me shouting at him to leave me alone, he would not. Finally, I managed to get away.

Trauma on the mission field happens. Sometimes, as a missionary, I feel I need to be immune to such trauma. Surely I can just use it as a newsletter story. I feel I should be tough, almost super human.

The truth is that trauma is the same here as it is in the States. I started sweating this morning when I needed to go to the market. I couldn't bring myself to go. Our children have been incredibly sick, but I had to ask Chris to drive us into town. I just couldn't go by myself. 

Trauma.  Let's not sensationalize nor minimize these events in our lives. Let's pray for each other
and listen to each others' stories without expectation or judgement.

Finally, let's look for God's hand. Let's celebrate His provision, rest in His arms, and know He counts our every tear.

Have you experienced trauma on the field? How did you deal with the fallout?

Life in Community: Even the Demons...

We wondered where the spirit lived. Most villages have one; Neak Ta they are called. These spirits are powerful beings, holding the entire village in their grasp.

Today, my helper told me the Neak Ta lives right under the mango tree by her house… and she’s scared.

As if a powerful force that frightens you in the night and follows you down the river road isn’t enough, she quietly told me of the other spirits in our village. Every five years, they find someone in the village and make them hang themselves, alternating male and female. So far, there have been six deaths.

These spirits do other things. One man went crazy. Another wasn’t allowed by the spirits to have his leg amputated, so he died. People call these spirits into them to use their power bringing harm to those who have wronged them.

As we were talking, my helper points to the figure retreating down our driveway. “His brother, the son of the village chief, hung himself.” She rubs her goose bump covered arms.

Our neighbours beliefs are not some cerebral explanation nor are they some kind of whimsical myth. The evil here is real, dangerous, and powerful.

“Bong Lily said you pray to keep the spirits away.” she mentions.

I tell her of the God who created the world, who is more powerful than any evil spirit. I tell her the Name that causes the demons to run and flee.

And we pray. We pray for a war. We draw lines in the sand with the prince of darkness.

We know the victory is already had.



You can read more about Neak Ta here.

Life in Community: Sowing

Ta Run tentatively took a bite. He has turned down every food I've offered him in the past. As the chocolate chip goodness touched his lips, a wide grin spread over his aged face. He scraped a rather large cookie from the pan.

"Wow! It tastes like coffee. You have to try this." he said between bites. He looked so sophisticated with his modern glasses and speckled grey hair, so simple with his bare back and cement covered feet.

We had just laughed over a cultural difference: Should the outside or the inside of our new, semi-outdoor kitchen look better?

He voted the outside; we chose the inside.

Right then and there, the Holy Spirit prompted my heart. Over a lunch of noodles I told the children and, indirectly, our workers about washing the outside and inside of pots. We discussed, as I translated, the importance of God washing us on the inside, the foolishness of washing only the outside. The workers paused to listen, a relevant story per our discussion earlier.

Ta Run chuckled in agreement as I finished.

When we moved to Cambodia, we planned to live in a city center and go out to villages to share the Gospel. Now, God has led us to live in a small village of eighty families. I am finding that living among those we serve brings amazingly frequent opportunities to share what is always a relevant and timely Message. Sowing "seed" happens every day, multiple times a day over chocolate chip cookies, while chatting through the fence, and during evening walks down dusty paths.

It can happen over coffee at Starbucks, in the diaper aisle at Walmart, and at neighborhood barbecues.

Because that is what we do as followers of Jesus: We sow. We water. We love our communities. 

And we trust He will give the increase, washing all His children inside and out. 

Life in Community: How to Move to a Village and Die

We truly had all the qualifications for our move to the village. By all accounts, we were ready. 

• Speak the language: check
• Extended experience in country: check 
• Support and advice from those who have moved to a village: check
• 17 years of life in a village setting: check

So, how in the world did we get to this place where our neighbours are shaking their heads at us murmuring, "Oh, I pity you. I am amazed at how much I pity you," over and over again?

The following list is for those of you who want to learn how to really blow a move to a village:

1. Move before the house is complete. This ensures every single day something else will break and leave you without essentials like, say, water.
2. Hire someone to oversee the construction of your house and be there only once in a while to check progress. You will find this provides interesting layout details like wood that worms like to eat, a western toilet lowered into the floors so you can stand on it and squat, and half of the floor with gaps in between the boards while the other half is bowing up in little triangles as the wood absorbs water.
3. Make your home as western as possible. Then, you can cook upstairs in intense heat and have your workload much increased because you needed a large house. Truly, you know how to make things work so much more than the locals. 
4. Be afraid. Make sure your belief system includes that all your neighbours are potential threats on your wealth and person. Speaking every waking moment hovering over your children to protect them from snakes, scorpions, and falling out of trees. And, most importantly, make your home a compound to keep your children from interacting with local children who will teach them bad habits and be unkind to them.
5. Hold tight to your assurance that, with the right amount of money, you can get all the hired help you need. Everyone will fall over themselves for your dollars and a chance to work for foreigners. Bonus: Overpaying your original construction team makes it possible for you to overpay for every single project thereafter.

Most Important Tip: Believe you can do ANYTHING! You are tough. You are prepared. You've got the skills and know-how. "Look at me, God! Just watch how I serve you!" should be your mantra. 

Are you joining in the head-shaking and pitying yet? 

Yes. I am sad to say we made all of these mistakes. Some of them we are laughing about now. Some of them we are trying to fix. Some of those beliefs have be tossed aside, by the grace of God. And, some we daily cry about. 

For those of you who have it all right, who received the best training, who have the perfect personalities, laugh at us! We are honoured to provide you with a good chuckle.

For the rest of us, aren't you glad that from death comes life? Praise God. Amen. 

Life in Community: His Great Love

I'm sitting in bed now, head pounding from crying and dehydration. Every once in a while I lean over to swipe a bug away from my baby's sweating body. Her cloth diaper makes her look disproportionate, but neither oversized diaper nor heavy layer of dust and grime can hide her beauty.  Her preciousness brings a smile to my face: another mercy from an ever-present Father.

Fatigue has overtaken my body tonight, and I am praying for renewed strength tomorrow in the midst of this epic battle we are currently encountering.  The fighting closely resembles a ping-pong match: one for Satan, one for the Lord.  The victor, however, is already apparent. God, despite our frailty, has not allowed our hearts to be overcome.

I have felt literally faint for about two weeks now. I have nightmares of dropping said baby as I lose conscienceness. Who knew such little stresses could add up to a mountain of self-doubt?

Dreaming of washing machines, dishwashers, actual sinks, and scorpion-less toilet paper rolls, I, my true self not my monthly-newsletter-self, am ready to willingly sink under the wave of giving up. Yet, He will not let me.

He truly will not let me.

I am finding, as He loves me trudging through larvae-filled diapers, thieves, and stomach ulcers, He loves them ever so fiercely.

The them who speak love and empathy to me, who despite fatigue from the harvest offer help to me. He will not let me, such an imperfect and inadequate tool, go because He is not willing to let them go.
_____________________

"Each time He said, "My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness." So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me."

Vulnerable: Life in Community

"Are you happy?" she asked as she dumped rice into the folded banana leaves.

I assume she must have heard me crying. She is here for the holidays and the making and selling of a "bread" made from mung beans, sticky rice, and pork. She loves to take a break under the jackfruit tree that is right next to our house. Maybe during one of her siestas she heard me crying or, worse yet, complaining loudly to my husband about nothing working right or how overwhelming this village transition is.

I gritted my teeth. The Lord had burdened my heart before we moved here with the idea of vulnerability, being real even when your

• superhero missionary image will be destroyed 
• and you are worried your neighbor will thus find Jesus completely worthless and unappealing
• because the privileged white missionary living in a Khmer-style castle is crying over having to hand wash a few clothes ... 

Ministry over. No one is coming to Jesus in this village. Maybe we should move.

I digress.

Teeth gritted and pride humbled, I told her it was hard to live here: hard to do all the things she does every day, hard to make new friends while missing others, hard to deal with cultural differences like someone cutting down branches on our tree to get ant eggs which, in turn, means said giant red ants will be mercilessly biting my children for days...and they are mad when I ask them to stop...

Ahem.

She nodded, tying off the bundle of stuffed leaves and putting it in the pile for steaming. Half of me was screaming out excuse after excuse in my head while the other was making a pretty good argument (if I don't say so myself) for being real:

My friend

1. God doesn't need me to be perfect to reach the lost.
2. My weakness and sin show how much I need Jesus.
3. I choose to cease attempts at hiding my imperfections in order to reach the lost.

Thankfully, the Lord helped me hold back the excuses and explanations. My friend handed me a steamed "bread" with the banana leaves pealed back like, well, a banana.

"Are you happy?" I finally was able to ask, hoping to share a deeper moment of friendship.

"No." she replied. I held my breath in anticipation as she looked soberly past me toward the mountains.

"Why not?" I whispered.

After a long pause, she grinned. "Because I hate making this bread."

A Sacred, Public Pathway: Life in Community

I pressed my cheek to the earth. I remember the cold creek gurgling in the distance, the wind rustling the leaves, the birds chirping gaily in the blackberry bushes. The worship of the Creator around me filled my soul to brimming over. In nature, I find the Lord quickly, feel His presence more fully. In fact,  the moment I chose to follow Him I was in a field closing my eyes and feeling the wind seemingly clothe me in His love and grace. In times of desperation, I have run to find my Father in the woods. I have picked cotton for the sheer joy of knowing He could create such a soft, beautiful flower (Can you tell I'm from Alabama yet?). For the first fifteen years of my life, I never once felt that the Lord was far from me.

Then we moved to the city of Phnom Penh, Cambodia's bustling, crowded, and ever-growing capital. Every day I struggled to find my Father. Being near Him, speaking with Him, became a draining job that left my heart thirsty and yearning for more.

I would not trade that desert time for all the fields and forests. God taught me to know Him through His Word, through song, through tears. He taught me to lie prostrate in anguish on hard tile floors and know He was there. I found Him in the faces of my neighbors and in the laughter of my children. Although it still comes as a shock to me, God does indeed live in the city.

In June, the Lord moved us to a village. On the first day there, I was overwhelmed with the task ahead of us. I walked a short way down the dirt road and sat under an old tree. Here, the roots rise up from the ground stretching several feet in every direction. The wind whips across the rice paddies rustling palm branches and making the rice look like a green ocean full of waves. The mountains tower over the palms and paddies in the distance, clouds settling on their summits. I stood there, and, for the first time in five years, the sense of the Lord's nearness came quickly and easily. What a mercy!

After days of failing to have time to wash clothes, of burning meals I am just now learning to cook, of broken generators, and of children's tummies filled with parasites, I remembered that little spot. I rushed out the gate, stood under that tree, lifted my eyes, and the wind brought His Word right to my heart:

The Lord is close to the broken-hearted.

I look to the hills. Where does my help come from?

Seek the LORD while you can find him. Call on him now while he is near.

 Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.

 The Lord is near to all who call upon Him.

My prayer place

I think I raised my hands in worship. There were certainly tears. I turned around to find two neighbors looking curiously at me. Before I could offer an explanation, they began a heated discussion about what I could possibly be doing. They concluded that I must enjoy looking at rice paddies and turned to go, remarking how strange it was that someone could enjoy looking at something that took so much work and effort to plant.

Despite the introvert in me, I return to pray under the tree often. I have taught my children to pray there. Lord willing, I will pray there with a neighbor someday. Who knows what Srey Niet's sacred pathway may be? May God bless every pathway we use to seek and worship Him.

"Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all."

Going Native - Life in Community

When my husband started suggesting that we were not engaging our host culture enough,  my reaction was something along the lines of "I'm going through culture shock right  now. If you try to take my jeans, my cheese, my movies in English, and, heaven forbid, my air-conditioner... so help me, I'll..." Having been married to me for five years, he knew the worst I could threaten him with was tears, but I gave it my best shot anyhow. Ever merciful, he allowed me time and space to grow in loving my neighbor enough to give up what I enjoy and find comfortable for the greater cause: Jesus Christ clearly presented without distraction. Being the strong-willed person that I am, five more years has only led to minimal change on my part. But, "being confident of this, that He who began a good work in [me] will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus," I feel the melting of my heart as God shows me that true love requires sacrifice. 

Seeking the Lord after losing support- He has been so faithful!

As I go kicking and screaming down this path, I see how the Lord has been preparing me. I remember a beautiful young woman wearing local dress at our missions conference. I believe my comment to my husband was something along the lines of "so, she's going native, huh?" Then we met a American family who lives on a local salary, a standard of living I had never considered. Seeing their examples, however, disquieted my heart. Then, the Lord led us to the village and lowered our salary. Everything changed, and my eyes were opened to incarnational love.


An article on alcohol recently written for Christianity Today catapulted me into action after these past years of hanging onto my complacency. The author describes her love for her neighbors as the impetus to refraining from drinking alcohol:

"My clothes, food, language, and—yes—drink have been altered as I try to align my liberty in Christ with the realities of my admittedly unique context. "

Fledgling attempt at Khmer fashion and food - my neighbor tried to dress American

I want to propose that we each live in a "unique context." Our context is where God places us to be His light. In my context, wearing a sarong, handwashing my clothes, and riding a bicycle allow His light, His message to be clearly seen and heard.

Hudson Taylor, missionary to China, wrote the following to potential missionary candidates: 

     It is enough that the disciple be as his master (Jesus Christ).

     If we really desire to see the Chinese such as we have described, let us as far as possible set
     before them a correct example: let us in everything unsinful become Chinese, that by all things
     we may save some. Let us adopt their costume, acquire their language, study to imitate their    
     habits, and approximate to their diet as far as health and constitution will allow. Let us live in
     their houses, making no unnecessary alterations in external appearance, and only so far modifying
     internal arrangements as attention to health and efficiency for work absolutely require.

I now find myself in admiration of those beautiful servants who step out of  the way of the Message, who exchanged their jeans for saris and sarongs, the security of a higher salary for solidarity with their neighbors. I am learning what they must already know in their quiet service: this journey toward setting aside our culture and comfort never ends.

We can always go deeper, sacrifice more, to love as Immanuel loved.

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love.

-Mother Teresa

Every Tear - Life in Community

Village life forces us to live in community. Stepping out our door, someone sees what we do, asks what we have been doing, shouts a piece of advice on what we should be doing, and passes all this information along to the next house. Communal knowledge of our daily routine also extends to what goes on inside our home. The whole village can hear our boys running on our wooden floors, and, with a house on stilts three meters in the air, the human voice does tend to carry. Recently, a friend warned of our responsibility to go house to house reassuring each neighbor following any evening fights between my husband and I. We now continuously practice the fine art of the whisper as a family.

Conversing with women I am growing to love more and more every day, community becomes both an intrusion upon my individualistic sensibilities and a joy I have yet to fully appreciate.

"I heard your daughter, Kolap, crying so hard today. I was so worried I almost came over to pray with incense again." one grandmother commented.

"I heard your Mallis cry this morning, too. She sounds so cute when she cries." Grandmother's daughter adds.

"Your baby never cries in the night. White babies are so different than Cambodian babies."

Surprised they have managed to discern my children's cries in a matter of days, I quickly explain away my daughters' tears (or lack thereof) citing the bicycle accident, sibling scuffle, and scheduled feedings. Satisfied, the conversation moved to other topics. I, however, remain captivated.

Love and concern for their neighbor drives each person in this community to know even the cries of the littlest child.

The beauty of this realization delights my heart, especially when I consider the littlest child in the village is my own. 

With great excitement, I look forward to a conversation the Holy Spirit prompts on the topic of the Lord's village, His precious church who loves and cares for each other through His love and because of His love, a global village that will one day live in community with the Father Himself who will dry every tear from every eye. Songs of praise will replace our cries, and we pray voices from those around us will someday be part of the chorus.