tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41858121403332175882024-03-28T20:28:33.023-07:00Crannies and Nookslearning to notice the (extra)ordinaryChelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.comBlogger295125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-85617258448260390292024-01-07T08:02:00.000-08:002024-01-07T08:15:42.363-08:00A memorable visitor<p>A week ago tonight, I met a Christian family who live near
the Plas Prai dorm and attended our New Year’s party. The oldest child, a
teenage boy, moved and talked very slowly. The mom told me that Pharat (her
son) had become like this since studying too hard. He sat and watched the events
as dorm students came up and chatted with him one by one. I wasn’t sure of his
intellectual ability during my brief chat with him, but he seemed peaceful and
happy to be there.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-cEUn6B3ewEyBMuY5Qb_Wf8IETnRkOxzTafi9digMVQxU__6MIgKne5HWfxHGqOBoJTMdVNqUkTxVmFMlclQ0d7FNRbumU0C4p6bGFPDPci7LRZRnwL34njRS4uSVr__Os7TeewK_1JFAuon-QBvKhkwIUttG2Xh2z41gWPnc6CFvAw0Js8qV25sSBM/s750/81cdbfdc-f435-4eb9-b97b-a8d49021701a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="562" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq-cEUn6B3ewEyBMuY5Qb_Wf8IETnRkOxzTafi9digMVQxU__6MIgKne5HWfxHGqOBoJTMdVNqUkTxVmFMlclQ0d7FNRbumU0C4p6bGFPDPci7LRZRnwL34njRS4uSVr__Os7TeewK_1JFAuon-QBvKhkwIUttG2Xh2z41gWPnc6CFvAw0Js8qV25sSBM/s320/81cdbfdc-f435-4eb9-b97b-a8d49021701a.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On Thursday, during a Sunday School meeting with the younger
female leaders, they told me Pharat had been visiting daily. They felt a bit uncomfortable
around him but invited him in because they felt bad for him. At the dorm, he'd finally found a place where he felt welcome and happy. They had heard
from some of some of the dorm alumni that before graduating high school a year
ago, he had been a good student, without his current issues. They said that on Wednesday,
three of the girls were each bothered by an evil spirit, and they wondered if
it was because of him. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Shortly after those comments, Pharat walked in the front gate
and sat down next to me in our open-air meeting. “I want you to have this,” he told one
girl, putting his <i>krama </i>(cotton scarf) around her neck. She put it on, smiling
but taken aback. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He helped read aloud our Bible lesson, in his usual slow
pace, with his hands hovering stiffly in the air. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we discussed John the Baptist, he told us
he’d been baptized.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“By whom?” the girls asked. “Was it Pastor Sok?” (his family’s
pastor) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I don’t remember,” he replied. He was quiet in most of the Bible discussion but asked, “Do you all love me? If you
love me, I’ll keep coming often.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“We love you,” we all assured him. I was impressed by the
girls’ maturity. I wouldn’t have sensed their discomfort if they hadn’t told
me. They really seemed focused on being there for him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the meeting ended around noon, we told him it was time
for lunch. He asked, “Can I come back at 1?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“No, we’re going to a sports tournament. We’ll be back by 4.”
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I drove home, puzzled by him. Was it appropriate for us to
let him on campus so often? Could we send him to a Christian hospital to help
figure out whether his problems were physical, mental, spiritual, or some
combination? Honestly, we have our hands full trying to serve the students and some of their families who have accepted Christ. He's outside our scope of ministry, and I might have told him just to come to our Saturday night community outreach. But the girls wanted to serve him, and I was moved by their generosity with their time.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By four, I had a message on my phone from another dorm leader.
Pharat had been seen passing Plas Prai around one, and his shoes and bike were
discovered on a nearby bridge. It’s not a tall bridge, and teens have previously
jumped off it to go swimming in the river, which is probably why an eyewitness
of him jumping didn’t think much of it. After a search lasting several days, his
body was found this morning (Sunday), an apparent suicide. We must have been
some of the last people to see him alive. I'm so glad we gave him what we could.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The leaders told me that they first met him because he was
depressed and his pastor asked them to go pray for him. The pastor also told me
that he believes Pharat was possessed by an evil spirit, like his mom before
him. When she first met the pastor, she was looking for deliverance. After she
believed in Jesus three years ago, the spirit left her alone and she was healed
from a condition similar to his. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3FOiUtpbyAhpXewAn_s65LwlyYE83IvN5MzjKoz-qB96lfoBHn-L-gTW8xE7DWqQvkRkQuwWrolap0pLuLPZ4-oln8lmN5JaqEKEfR4muIHCTUaNxW-fNKZkxdLde0zHuEua9Ltwub-1kFgVJlR7fy5op-HLLoh3fy4y9DK-OCuHkjhSasHRJOax9Bs/s2048/414651187_1332499754120029_513328272450593005_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3FOiUtpbyAhpXewAn_s65LwlyYE83IvN5MzjKoz-qB96lfoBHn-L-gTW8xE7DWqQvkRkQuwWrolap0pLuLPZ4-oln8lmN5JaqEKEfR4muIHCTUaNxW-fNKZkxdLde0zHuEua9Ltwub-1kFgVJlR7fy5op-HLLoh3fy4y9DK-OCuHkjhSasHRJOax9Bs/s320/414651187_1332499754120029_513328272450593005_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I joined his funeral service tonight
with many local believers. Though everyone at Plas Prai had just met him, he and his family were heavy on the hearts of many students as well as leaders. The speakers, including this pastor, did a great job communicating the new
life that believers have in Christ and the comforting hope of reunion with our
loved ones who have believed. We ended by circling around the family and
praying for their protection from evil spirits. Normally Cambodian Buddhists
picture their deceased loved ones as upset ghosts who need offerings of food,
drinks, incense, etc. to be placated and avoid attacking the surviving
relatives. Christians often face strong pressure to give these offerings and
are blamed for all kinds of family problems if they don’t.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Please pray for comfort for his parents and three younger siblings, as well as other relatives living in their home. His dad is not yet a Christian. Please especially pray that no evil spirits will impersonate Pharat and frighten or harm the family. May they know our God’s power to protect Pharat and them.</p><p class="MsoNormal">His mom gave me a three-minute hug at the end and asked me, “Why didn’t
I ever hug my son like this? It was hard for me to show him love.” She struck
me as a warm and open woman, but it’s normal here for families to feel awkward
about showing affection. I don’t know how much of this hesitation is inherent
to Khmer culture and how much is the effects of generational trauma. I believe
Christ is changing her, but three years is brief, and who knows what happened
in their family in the last four or five tumultuous decades. Evil spirits are a common experience here. Healthcare is hit-or-miss and mental healthcare almost nonexistent. I am convinced she fought hard for her kid, and whatever attacked him, she just didn't have the resources to protect him. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Probably in my first year here, my friend Suzanne commented to me something like, “To gain the
trust of a Cambodian is to hear the story of unimaginable heartache.” At the time, her words didn't resonate. But while I know happy, healthy Cambodians,
it seems to me that everyone has extreme pain in their recent family history. Pharat’s story was sandwiched around two other difficult local stories this
week. They just keep coming at a dizzying rate. <o:p></o:p></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-26313348096836662332023-07-31T19:10:00.007-07:002023-08-08T08:47:43.680-07:003C: We did it!<p>After four years, I’m finally allowed to tell you all about
it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I first heard of World Team’s global conference in mid-2019,
when I was asked to help on the communications team. Such an event is unprecedented in our org's history, so four of us in Cameroon, France,
the Philippines, and Cambodia began meeting on Zoom to figure out what our job entailed. For one thing,
what would this conference be called? We were told it would focus on community, collaboration, and
celebration, so we called it the 3C conference. We built and launched a
website for it in late 2019, with a countdown to July 2021. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When COVID hit, all our planned e-mails vanished
from our to-do lists. The website sat and sat. Later, the organizers decided to
aim for July 2022. We were able to update the URL to “3C 2022” and started our
timeline again before the organizers postponed it another year. This time we
didn’t even bother updating the URL. How sure was anyone that we could pull
this off?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhG-pICl-8kjdQQ2YjV1rGRPx7Gb8dwGm5gwNP-xUNjega-DC7nVzh6_di_zDL96dMYtp9ww9iRBwpnUnjyzbmVG93yzwz2qC2p0NkNHxe69e70-H2gEQVI_bHT5JO-pkWsIiLRqh6Uy71x218_mAgoH2Wolx5s_dRi8ziBR9hbSeSNALBMnJlx3UhNZt4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhG-pICl-8kjdQQ2YjV1rGRPx7Gb8dwGm5gwNP-xUNjega-DC7nVzh6_di_zDL96dMYtp9ww9iRBwpnUnjyzbmVG93yzwz2qC2p0NkNHxe69e70-H2gEQVI_bHT5JO-pkWsIiLRqh6Uy71x218_mAgoH2Wolx5s_dRi8ziBR9hbSeSNALBMnJlx3UhNZt4" width="320" /></a></div><br />The URL still says “2022,” but the conference was indeed pulled
off last month, to our relief, joy, and amazement! I can now tell you that we
met in Chiang Mai in mid-July… information that we worked hard to keep under wraps
for fear that unfriendly parties would try to infiltrate, as they have done with
similar orgs. (This is not an issue for me, but some World Teamers worldwide had good reasons to be
cautious). <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGerKmaaz_tQ-Jee3W8CpWrzw3jPQLDHQOMqSsHpV_3DSpEJlmXkaUKUNewA8qi56Q4Y1-s1AaloeHOmReqgKt1g7gbRJR7khJKqjPkan8yOp8AbMt6OIbO-oSddoD2KXimn_J8zRf-yYJbiTZHBOyxDUKnCuC3E4qKgxnwaYy8b6A0mfCpr49eX8o-o/s2048/363815067_319892917051934_3067064306603321129_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIGerKmaaz_tQ-Jee3W8CpWrzw3jPQLDHQOMqSsHpV_3DSpEJlmXkaUKUNewA8qi56Q4Y1-s1AaloeHOmReqgKt1g7gbRJR7khJKqjPkan8yOp8AbMt6OIbO-oSddoD2KXimn_J8zRf-yYJbiTZHBOyxDUKnCuC3E4qKgxnwaYy8b6A0mfCpr49eX8o-o/s320/363815067_319892917051934_3067064306603321129_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">While we never anticipated a two-year delay, the conference ended up coinciding with WT's 150th birthday! Although preparation generated a lot of work for many people, including
me, I think we were all delighted to see our efforts succeed. The other teams did an excellent job on logistics, schedule, content, and fund-raising, and our resort was beautiful and well-run. Participants came ready to dive in. And for me, part
of the joy of convening resulted from the relationships I had built in preparing for 3C... not only with the Communications team, but also with my workshop co-leaders. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qWEv1vIxEEMD37Mg92qMbOslRBgFsm0px1ZDlHsVUDqKGKkLTrp-JCXjB-UBFWEHDSZPC1MzvWyrc-cQBq3Zi09FZYbMvKq-ivMTvRws1gcbFem3lyj0rO1prAyLTK28weYCjj5Usc9LpAcsAwjLMP1fSUo2onS9BWNqrMUCj4ZLHaJTBfeBrEMCNew/s4608/20230723_202226.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="3456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2qWEv1vIxEEMD37Mg92qMbOslRBgFsm0px1ZDlHsVUDqKGKkLTrp-JCXjB-UBFWEHDSZPC1MzvWyrc-cQBq3Zi09FZYbMvKq-ivMTvRws1gcbFem3lyj0rO1prAyLTK28weYCjj5Usc9LpAcsAwjLMP1fSUo2onS9BWNqrMUCj4ZLHaJTBfeBrEMCNew/s320/20230723_202226.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oKgE4ZSjj05mZYYSY83ocEmd1cY3AMbTDKW9uMjCOxaga4YIuHhXZtP_WLFd_JfInGZICQld07dwqcwNtbzOAVwOzJ1Hc0PtNI1GME_LoS-xZTCyogmcjrF7487pbZz8Xg89bI7I1wQ5tU8_UxaqwipR0J8K1mAm6Bl_TUjImLJ2XlGDzFoKaXFg6Vw/s4032/20230724_055149.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_oKgE4ZSjj05mZYYSY83ocEmd1cY3AMbTDKW9uMjCOxaga4YIuHhXZtP_WLFd_JfInGZICQld07dwqcwNtbzOAVwOzJ1Hc0PtNI1GME_LoS-xZTCyogmcjrF7487pbZz8Xg89bI7I1wQ5tU8_UxaqwipR0J8K1mAm6Bl_TUjImLJ2XlGDzFoKaXFg6Vw/s320/20230724_055149.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The location was easy for our Cambodia field. I had
just 2 ½ hours in the air and a 90-minute layover, compared to 30+ hours for participants from South America. Still,
I was dreading the first leg of my journey, something I’d hoped never to do: driving the Gabriels' pickup truck six hours to the capital. On two-lane roads with everything from tractors to delivery trucks to speeding Lexuses, every passing vehicle means a chance for a head-on collision. My teammate
Sina joined me, having returned just days earlier from her year in Kenya. So did
Charlie, the dog staying with the Gabriels and me for six months, who is an
angel with us but rather defensive and not yet trustworthy with our normal sitters. Car rides are one of his favorite things, and to my relief he was docile with Sina. </p><p class="MsoNormal">We had a fairly peaceful ride, and I savored the time listening to Sina's experiences overseas. Still, I was exhausted by the time we dropped off Charlie at
Cambodia’s only pet-boarding facility, and all the more after running errands at rush hour on Phnom Penh’s
crowded streets. (A construction detour led us to a narrow street where I scraped the side of the truck. The Gabriels were very gracious about it.) We both collapsed in World Team’s office guest room that
night. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FmPcr_mRnpXcHTSKmyuzCAtRvkFGEBBXgZwvtqNOPCFv-YCIWJoys1NM3LJ93lP9eW0f6JVikkdm1rY5G7kHNdLs9YfZQf3ufVuhNvCb3ThfUMzkNsNESNUO3PYS25lrEf0lhIzuWMCeTwkhhwI9sJGI77SYqZ5ChaNV_jk2yQ4YIPlBorxh9lXuw6U/s2048/364219288_1216923942328244_8696743361663918768_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1538" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FmPcr_mRnpXcHTSKmyuzCAtRvkFGEBBXgZwvtqNOPCFv-YCIWJoys1NM3LJ93lP9eW0f6JVikkdm1rY5G7kHNdLs9YfZQf3ufVuhNvCb3ThfUMzkNsNESNUO3PYS25lrEf0lhIzuWMCeTwkhhwI9sJGI77SYqZ5ChaNV_jk2yQ4YIPlBorxh9lXuw6U/s320/364219288_1216923942328244_8696743361663918768_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">The next morning at the airport, we met up with eight other World Team Cambodia people (3 couples and 2 teens). We
all sat there joking together during our layover in Bangkok. What a fun change from
my norm of solo travel! We arrived mid-afternoon at our hotel in Chiang Mai, where more happy reunions ensued as well as several introductions. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIX8Qivei9cC6YusENmYbXMv8XsUKBTjBoslnfqHZePkN1tT8yRtELvLEMeP248GnLHAbMxh0t4I8XKMOLoxAMKM8Uxr9GMhy8WshXk3HnrDipZRkYfaa17Z4Zztm9n9uhBVYBPCCkbKLURMKnV8kvQi3rQFslN6kHpiGQa2qgr2aG9WvIDChZl2TtK4/s1024/364205284_295323819653535_6312606756926675740_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="769" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXIX8Qivei9cC6YusENmYbXMv8XsUKBTjBoslnfqHZePkN1tT8yRtELvLEMeP248GnLHAbMxh0t4I8XKMOLoxAMKM8Uxr9GMhy8WshXk3HnrDipZRkYfaa17Z4Zztm9n9uhBVYBPCCkbKLURMKnV8kvQi3rQFslN6kHpiGQa2qgr2aG9WvIDChZl2TtK4/s320/364205284_295323819653535_6312606756926675740_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So happy to room with Cindy again - a native Parisian, she's the Global Coordinator who assists our CEO<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">There were around 300 total attendees, including children and teens and the team devoted to serving them. The 180ish adults participating in the meetings included World Teamers living overseas and working for the sending centers, missionaries seconded to WT, as well as global and national board members and representatives from partnering groups like DMG in Germany and the Cameroon Baptist Convention. Cambodia is currently WT's biggest field with 30+ members; some other fields have just 2-4 members. I probably knew more people than average and wanted to help include those who were less connected. But the night I arrived, at the dining hall and later at an icebreaker, I hit a wall. Despite my e-mail assuring people that this event would be introvert-friendly with lots of free time for R&R, I was majorly peopled out. I stumbled out early, my eyes stinging with fatigue.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCWOolOSLtMaIsEeDFqbZGiJ1-D1vrbNQW6ozfB3XeRkrD9ou4Dq5NXOoTVnu_9zVwKCF10ObR_Fc96sRYu1jIh1gyWdtSFIDrYlMxEViof8FIrWIRk_Xbh88Jjrtyu9yp0aq17n0ZbWG7ygj3dirKAVXEe0KbnOmcEyxkYlUxr6jpejqUDKH77NDBq4/s640/3C%20table%20groups.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPCWOolOSLtMaIsEeDFqbZGiJ1-D1vrbNQW6ozfB3XeRkrD9ou4Dq5NXOoTVnu_9zVwKCF10ObR_Fc96sRYu1jIh1gyWdtSFIDrYlMxEViof8FIrWIRk_Xbh88Jjrtyu9yp0aq17n0ZbWG7ygj3dirKAVXEe0KbnOmcEyxkYlUxr6jpejqUDKH77NDBq4/s320/3C%20table%20groups.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>3C lasted five full days, and they flew by. We spent each morning together, in addition to worship each evening and a 90-minute workshop during two of the afternoons. Organizers did a great job of having many different people speak in the morning plenary sessions: men and women, younger and older, native and non-native English speakers. We interacted in small groups throughout each session, organized around key World Team values: the gospel, growing global communities, focusing on multiplication, and looking for the unreached. We resonated with one Costa Rican speaker's challenge to look more like Christianity worldwide, where the global South comprises the majority and the future of missions. Full-time World Teamers are still mostly white English-speaking Americans, but we're gradually changing, and 3C was significantly more diverse, with many languages (even French sign language) during prayer and worship. What would it take for that to become our new normal? We explored that question a bit in the workshop I co-led that afternoon on multi-cultural teams, which we hope to expand into an online course next year. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">After night 1, "people time" was more spread out and manageable, and I was better rested. I appreciated the organizers leaving most afternoons and evenings free, as well as most of Friday (day 3). I was very happy to meet Scarlett, Dave, and Paul from the Communications team after working with them online for so long. I also enjoyed meeting several fellow single women for the first time; we had instant camaraderie despite our contexts varying from Cameroon to central Asia to Cambodia. It was great to reunite with my fellow Leader Cohort participants and trainers. I didn't work nearly as hard during the conference as I did in preparing for it, but I still had a bit to do before co-leading a workshop and a worship session, plus posting minor announcements. I had a lot of chances to tell people, "Oh, you're the one who helped me with..." or "I loved your video about..." as well as a few more like, "You live where? I didn't know we had World Teamers there!"</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eO2wqJzLW7Nq8rXElwxvDPk1VZIc280PI4oUt_NhnkdIvC0Kx-CTBYXIb9b-QW-JZ3KueiYpFR18fiJbzZmEuY99wS-HzDBnN0Xe2sGEcHmx0ZmphoQrohVRFVijiKBNVDd60qYnuh-Xx_I7QmGkqkG9KQWDWykirjHM5IxUCMh7Fb002Nfhe3Kx_fY/s1280/363884914_599343052379646_9155869831881729190_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2eO2wqJzLW7Nq8rXElwxvDPk1VZIc280PI4oUt_NhnkdIvC0Kx-CTBYXIb9b-QW-JZ3KueiYpFR18fiJbzZmEuY99wS-HzDBnN0Xe2sGEcHmx0ZmphoQrohVRFVijiKBNVDd60qYnuh-Xx_I7QmGkqkG9KQWDWykirjHM5IxUCMh7Fb002Nfhe3Kx_fY/s320/363884914_599343052379646_9155869831881729190_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leader Cohort back together (with Josh's son substituting in for Rachel, who was very missed)</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsEQsd9FxMfHrh9YnGZoRrDjXyHVZ0RfjKe8mmthpyPrthEng0EXZrCWTg9bWexjimfFRxdVGg4ltWFGZqmISkg8JMinArONSfirvSyP-eF0QRrvwSsnZUe7271cT7cnykg_ymECeTIPne49VN5MROUhfxQEymG2ceuEf8xA_dsP-8bl4CL_orDylxXM/s1280/363900217_779944560546801_7164899674291971615_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsEQsd9FxMfHrh9YnGZoRrDjXyHVZ0RfjKe8mmthpyPrthEng0EXZrCWTg9bWexjimfFRxdVGg4ltWFGZqmISkg8JMinArONSfirvSyP-eF0QRrvwSsnZUe7271cT7cnykg_ymECeTIPne49VN5MROUhfxQEymG2ceuEf8xA_dsP-8bl4CL_orDylxXM/s320/363900217_779944560546801_7164899674291971615_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With our Leader Cohort trainers</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">During the free time Friday, I loved climbing the Sticky Waterfalls with a mixture of old friends and new ones. It was beautiful and refreshingly cool in the sticky Thai heat. Affirming my positive impression of Thai parks, it was free and spotless. Having written an e-mail advertising the great options around town, it was fun to hear others' reports of meeting elephants, learning to cook Thai food, and exploring the night market.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRs61LYqDdqPCUTNUlbcV9frYmvf8u4cTvL45QVR54VJZbx_FOX9zEVd7tkRviaLBVKGPrVZhlhPyjZION01cpwztfE5y0sgdttmR9MDpaustgQxG4k97hCK3J1GWKV6J9lMQRGk5XuCDWwtKyeR1HAFSNUwF-8-mvN9xoRivPaRoPUSD9il4LxQJbGQY/s1024/C5EE2B66-C493-4F86-8A1A-1AAB73096F86_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRs61LYqDdqPCUTNUlbcV9frYmvf8u4cTvL45QVR54VJZbx_FOX9zEVd7tkRviaLBVKGPrVZhlhPyjZION01cpwztfE5y0sgdttmR9MDpaustgQxG4k97hCK3J1GWKV6J9lMQRGk5XuCDWwtKyeR1HAFSNUwF-8-mvN9xoRivPaRoPUSD9il4LxQJbGQY/s320/C5EE2B66-C493-4F86-8A1A-1AAB73096F86_1_105_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NnWUbslqjR7-2JrlpI_AT3P-lmH-DCckVDs3HgrtFB15athXlLJIiOoUUYtVDcKR0spiKgGPPtPkGVAJhQFkQd16u-PGc-bdqAV_5NMy17PtIue9cXBMX2f_a3-Zqp_2Kkv4qQJTubiuitdbeXu917k6AtTEcjvun_m3i6Kkt2i8rjBGsRjZ_sKdrCw/s951/E88BC0C2-EEB9-43A7-8ED1-8F11D67E68ED_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="951" data-original-width="769" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6NnWUbslqjR7-2JrlpI_AT3P-lmH-DCckVDs3HgrtFB15athXlLJIiOoUUYtVDcKR0spiKgGPPtPkGVAJhQFkQd16u-PGc-bdqAV_5NMy17PtIue9cXBMX2f_a3-Zqp_2Kkv4qQJTubiuitdbeXu917k6AtTEcjvun_m3i6Kkt2i8rjBGsRjZ_sKdrCw/s320/E88BC0C2-EEB9-43A7-8ED1-8F11D67E68ED_1_105_c.jpeg" width="259" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The last night, watching a traditional Thai dance performance culminated in a very multicultural dance party. Like the multilingual worship, it was a moment when the veil lifted and heaven seemed a teeny bit closer. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX6KJpyHsmkPGR2pdCJ6fQ9hVB5m-1L7J--y5kNlDVuc9Y3GrXXlKWunisxVVJIj1onbzb7RznrfNNvPXH3J-qP-xk4tu0v2wnuxvsClmUr0eBA32l2FYXHtHPhzKUTLvgGjmACIHuNb10AedhDRv8WTP0akgSKdZEeXLnLZUS5Yx-bdVHmrLX6gHZBxo/s4032/20230723_200756.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX6KJpyHsmkPGR2pdCJ6fQ9hVB5m-1L7J--y5kNlDVuc9Y3GrXXlKWunisxVVJIj1onbzb7RznrfNNvPXH3J-qP-xk4tu0v2wnuxvsClmUr0eBA32l2FYXHtHPhzKUTLvgGjmACIHuNb10AedhDRv8WTP0akgSKdZEeXLnLZUS5Yx-bdVHmrLX6gHZBxo/s320/20230723_200756.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">3C was a special week that refocused us and spurred us on toward our vision: "innovative teams multiplying disciples and communities of believers, bringing the Gospel within reach of lost people everywhere we go." I am grateful to have been a part of this historic event. And I'm curious: when I look back in five years, how will I see this conference's continued impact on my life and my community? Many people's stories and attitudes inspired me. So far, the comment I've come back to most often is a simple one from someone who, like me, struggles with the fear that her weaknesses could derail God's plan. She recounted a leader's encouragement to her: "Honey, you're just not that powerful." I believe the conversations we began at 3C will generate new friendships, collaborations, and synergy for decades to come. </p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-76712594469225090462023-06-30T22:49:00.271-07:002023-07-09T05:39:07.147-07:00A quest for belonging: My glimpse into leprosy culture<p style="text-align: justify;">I'd never thought much about leprosy before my friend Chihui invited me to tour a leprosarium during my recent trip to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, but our tour set my mind to spinning. For nearly a century, the Sungai Buloh leprosarium has housed people with leprosy. It’s common knowledge that lepers have been ostracized and isolated throughout history. I've read Bible stories dozens of times about Jesus healing leprosy's "unclean" victims. But who in recent history had leprosy, and how did it redefine “belonging” for the rest of their lives?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjvl2rKnv2u0i_5bohleJ7ZCko-HC6NycgrVzYfABkdXryrf8xFi2VdXVeUS__u5Z1L2RRNc7AWdlGpFkxje766Gsqx2IjcfzkYfmeBn7hiNGblb3UBrJYdOVYt5nrA6Xv4qRvjWdW3m26XI0P7Q6uPvWBfqIOkhrTayv17k9hFS3Pkax8ubJMzS24Ug/s260/Sungai%20Buloh.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="260" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGjvl2rKnv2u0i_5bohleJ7ZCko-HC6NycgrVzYfABkdXryrf8xFi2VdXVeUS__u5Z1L2RRNc7AWdlGpFkxje766Gsqx2IjcfzkYfmeBn7hiNGblb3UBrJYdOVYt5nrA6Xv4qRvjWdW3m26XI0P7Q6uPvWBfqIOkhrTayv17k9hFS3Pkax8ubJMzS24Ug/s1600/Sungai%20Buloh.jpg" width="260" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://whc.unesco.org/en/tentativelists/6388/">Reading up</a> ahead of time, I saw that Sungai Buloh (also known as the National Leprosy Control Centre) has been nominated as a UNESCO world heritage site. Completed in 1930, this compound was the brainchild of Dr. E.A.O. Travers, who sympathized with leprosy patients whom he saw confined in inhumane asylums as British colonizers enforced <a href="https://poskod.my/features/the-valley-of-hope/">strict laws</a> locking them away. Sungai Buloh was far ahead of other institutions at providing quality care with dignity for lepers, and furthering research on their disease and its treatment. It originally had 600+ buildings over 562 acres, with 2440 patients at its peak – the second biggest in the world. Today, though a medical university has built over much of the property, it remains impressive.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAsURPhWAI2PnGe1iD5MTTVrPvvzmAS3Ue9ylLHygbzLfRoPIcogzPuSCzy7qw0vWi40APHkGLAqF-bEr85nIV48HCIkJYoCDPidcx4U091Xi1uG3h-yylXAG94WbJY2bBMhkdUHoCotRSBYZEQB0zECa5PLdbvM2IRLiA6PYEcAsBczvbQd67xukVX0/s4032/IMG_4694.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAsURPhWAI2PnGe1iD5MTTVrPvvzmAS3Ue9ylLHygbzLfRoPIcogzPuSCzy7qw0vWi40APHkGLAqF-bEr85nIV48HCIkJYoCDPidcx4U091Xi1uG3h-yylXAG94WbJY2bBMhkdUHoCotRSBYZEQB0zECa5PLdbvM2IRLiA6PYEcAsBczvbQd67xukVX0/s320/IMG_4694.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;">This self-contained community had its own post office and judicial system, with patients serving “as clerks, typists, teachers, nurses, carpenters, police officials, fire brigades, general workers and other roles.” Here, leprosy patients could settle in independent homes, grow and sell produce, receive education and skills training, socialize with other residents, and democratically run their community. Chihui, an avid gardener, first encountered Sungai Buloh when buying plants from a resident. A long line of nurseries borders the lush green property, supplementing residents' income.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">We were privileged to have an outstanding tour guide devote over two hours to us one Sunday afternoon. (It’s only open on Sundays.) Cera refused our tips at the end of the free tour; it’s a labor of love for her. A Kuala Lumpur local, she offers tours in both English and Chinese. </p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3jD8NJowMDR0G_bCMaj3yW5QFZgYwYCc6m-1PYgvlT5kCEARoHRBWq0T1RjMbtbI9vpMASHmwlpgl_Xwh3L39gg6yojoqRMfFr4m-0fRJ1JPSG5oqSCF_vNh0gOVyxvNyGQuemMsIDVI75TDDpisaROwXANBu5u1qCrjdzyANYkB6iTs-hP9YRmq8lAc/s4032/IMG_4688.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3jD8NJowMDR0G_bCMaj3yW5QFZgYwYCc6m-1PYgvlT5kCEARoHRBWq0T1RjMbtbI9vpMASHmwlpgl_Xwh3L39gg6yojoqRMfFr4m-0fRJ1JPSG5oqSCF_vNh0gOVyxvNyGQuemMsIDVI75TDDpisaROwXANBu5u1qCrjdzyANYkB6iTs-hP9YRmq8lAc/s320/IMG_4688.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cera shows us a scale model carefully crafted from clay by a resident</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;">When we arrived, I thought there were a few other visitors, but I quickly realized they were affiliated. One, a new volunteer in training, discreetly photographed Sarah with us throughout the tour and sent them to us afterward. The other, an energetic and gregarious man, chatted with us in clear English. I was shocked when Sarah introduced him as one of the patients, Uncle Vincent Yeoh. (He created the clay model shown above.)</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoUOFClsYB4mhP_jqH0IfvMQo03ktgblqhrShIv5lKZ-CLAepzmiXRSp12ATEGPr8wwplUJVDWHSIzxLatzLu-mtrgF3IHcPfn0c9wGHpGMa2YmXqZzgeXMA0-iX0_d6XjeNhUJyS5Oh9dAiAO-V84C6Zho5gOPj7QgpFOzEUD6V0eqEuHCBenUA7f-U/s1024/PHOTO-2023-06-05-07-25-42.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoUOFClsYB4mhP_jqH0IfvMQo03ktgblqhrShIv5lKZ-CLAepzmiXRSp12ATEGPr8wwplUJVDWHSIzxLatzLu-mtrgF3IHcPfn0c9wGHpGMa2YmXqZzgeXMA0-iX0_d6XjeNhUJyS5Oh9dAiAO-V84C6Zho5gOPj7QgpFOzEUD6V0eqEuHCBenUA7f-U/s320/PHOTO-2023-06-05-07-25-42.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We ran into Uncle Vincent again at the end and asked him for a photo</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;">“Wait, he has leprosy?” </p><p style="text-align: justify;">“Well, he’s cured now, but he arrived from Indonesia when he was ten and now this is his home.” </p><p style="text-align: justify;">In the mid-20th century, scientists discovered several drugs with some efficacy at combating leprosy. By the 1980s, they established a multi-drug therapy still used today. If patients started early enough, they could be cured after six to twelve months of a drug regimen now available for free from the WHO. While some residents at Sungai Buloh experienced significant <a href="https://www.valleyofhope.my/nordin-bin-abdul-rahim">disfiguration</a> and/or <a href="https://www.valleyofhope.my/chuah-gim-tuan">amputation</a>, others retained a fairly typical appearance. But with an incubation period of 1 to 20 years and lingering social stigma, leprosy is often not caught early enough. And even when it is, many like Uncle Vincent discovered that mere recovery was not sufficient for re-entry. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Some relatives made the former patients feel like an unwelcome burden through actions like burning the returnees’ sheets after use. Cera says Chinese-origin communities felt particularly nervous about returnees. Today, 96 retirees remain, choosing to finish out their lives in the place they once lacked the freedom to leave. Here, they are valued members of a close-knit group, with their own homes, hobbies, and histories. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">One exhibit told people’s arrival stories. Most leprosy patients discovered their infection in childhood, between roughly ages 8 and 15. Leprosy (aka Hansen’s Disease, a skin infection) can’t spread except after a year or two of close contact, but people used to believe it much more contagious. Cera told us about <a href="https://www.valleyofhope.my/nordin-bin-abdul-rahim">Mr. Nordin</a> from Pahang, Malaysia, who remained in his village throughout secondary school (years after his diagnosis) without the disease spreading to any of his friends or family. Still, community pressure could be intense, and in some cases police rounded up patients to bring them here. Some families forcibly took their children to the center. In other cases, parents wanted to hold onto their children and cover up their illness, and it was the children who snuck out. Some journeyed for weeks from remote parts of Malaysia and Indonesia, and many never saw their families again. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">We got a special tour of the art gallery, which featured many paintings reflecting on residents’ transitions to the leprosarium. I arrogantly assumed it would be on par with an elementary school hallway, just trying to give residents a pastime and a bit of art therapy to process their feelings. Their creativity, skill, and passion surprised not only me but also their teachers. One resident painted a picture of the day she arrived, when she felt distraught, abandoned and unloved by her family. Looking back, though, she recognized her family’s love displayed in her last breakfast with them – a bowl of noodle soup. Another painted her father walking away barefoot, having giving her his only pair of shoes on arrival. One woman whose hands were amputated still painted vibrant scenes and still life images, with an assistant to color in her outlines.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqpt11amHN6NecagOt0X1Wm-UyictJii-jG_fSv8rRvJMMufvzRx3ODBhvMKLlxvCkG0-ufUDOKEViSI9sip8bNrvbu79mH3o8Vo0KhMNMrn6SP_OpKQlO9CEzCT9kKayV8tO6dcrrk_G4vWoZ7Utk__uIYgygTMgJeN_vDdm5hZMDiuhSUcxLRUHi2c/s4032/IMG_4692.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqpt11amHN6NecagOt0X1Wm-UyictJii-jG_fSv8rRvJMMufvzRx3ODBhvMKLlxvCkG0-ufUDOKEViSI9sip8bNrvbu79mH3o8Vo0KhMNMrn6SP_OpKQlO9CEzCT9kKayV8tO6dcrrk_G4vWoZ7Utk__uIYgygTMgJeN_vDdm5hZMDiuhSUcxLRUHi2c/s320/IMG_4692.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_M_eeH1Q_Qof4ONvep42K9WWxin7YftYkYpYCC42a9ehHym7xq5mpFvdsHCCMcGTIPCzJXVYN8jyc7OjLAw2YARIno3H2JlNT2bdghJOKGGsY1Y9NwXLi0HIOiC2HL7rMI6A7yONdfBgyKwaa4Pybru1jtgbSrtwqgitYl2y9AYsUcl74KVYvP9v3rjE/s4032/IMG_4696.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_M_eeH1Q_Qof4ONvep42K9WWxin7YftYkYpYCC42a9ehHym7xq5mpFvdsHCCMcGTIPCzJXVYN8jyc7OjLAw2YARIno3H2JlNT2bdghJOKGGsY1Y9NwXLi0HIOiC2HL7rMI6A7yONdfBgyKwaa4Pybru1jtgbSrtwqgitYl2y9AYsUcl74KVYvP9v3rjE/s320/IMG_4696.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6T83XdPvr_pH9_PglSe8pAAARhHto1a6Hjj6vIed2sR5-DDwJYGfVX7P6iKm64KQJhUO2dtn-zF49M2pJ3dgnEZX6Vct-MzHN9NFBMeNXUBK5EPI0tXT-RLCiK_X7tVSXO9wfRymtVK0zxh_o1msvQLQ3qr09X6KiA7i_b3K9-JQZqrC-8ljD5Dxn7gM/s4032/IMG_4689.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6T83XdPvr_pH9_PglSe8pAAARhHto1a6Hjj6vIed2sR5-DDwJYGfVX7P6iKm64KQJhUO2dtn-zF49M2pJ3dgnEZX6Vct-MzHN9NFBMeNXUBK5EPI0tXT-RLCiK_X7tVSXO9wfRymtVK0zxh_o1msvQLQ3qr09X6KiA7i_b3K9-JQZqrC-8ljD5Dxn7gM/s320/IMG_4689.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bouquet and sunflower paintings are by the woman with stubs for hands </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Cera maintained a cheerful tone throughout our tour of what's been nicknamed the “<a href="https://www.valleyofhope.my/360">Valley of Hope</a>." I think the name is apt. This was a huge step forward in institutionalizion. Sungai Buloh deserves recognition for helping patients know acceptance and choice, finding purpose in their daily lives as well as in contributing to a cure. But even with caring administrators, dignity, medical treatment, and a close-knit community, I can't imagine the residents' trauma and sorrow. There were elements of a dystopian novel in this sunny, pleasant village. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03Jg7bXamP6h5XsTkVtLoehFBIws8hd-RKWOTXTtt_SCvBjljCFYz0VQDPVJu_zISW4dlnANdEdAg8Kpj887KzYw-KwieXA7f_M8JcllcGF-PJSDMbhOVtADysvMOqkUiwrsEdxUmJEQsELzGl5TbsMZrScL2gpTlBzCq6u-hEhlrunlquAQ4bliJZhY/s4032/IMG_4684.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03Jg7bXamP6h5XsTkVtLoehFBIws8hd-RKWOTXTtt_SCvBjljCFYz0VQDPVJu_zISW4dlnANdEdAg8Kpj887KzYw-KwieXA7f_M8JcllcGF-PJSDMbhOVtADysvMOqkUiwrsEdxUmJEQsELzGl5TbsMZrScL2gpTlBzCq6u-hEhlrunlquAQ4bliJZhY/s320/IMG_4684.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Across many ethnic groups and religions, the residents’ shared medical condition and stigma brought unity to the extent that many intermarried. That brought us to the saddest part of the tour: hearing about their children. While marriage among the residents was welcomed, for decades any children they bore were placed in “welfare homes” in a misguided effort to protect their health. The parents had a year to visit weekly and recruit friends or family to adopt their newborns, but most children ended up in closed adoptions with strangers. Researchers wrote a book called "<a href="https://leprosyhistory.org/blog/new/1524.html">The Way Home</a>" and started a website to help parents and children reconnect, but many parents had already passed away. How heartbreaking that young people torn away from their parents and siblings would one day have their own children needlessly torn away from them. Starting in the mid-1980s, around when the cure was established, the policy banning children from Sungai Buloh was less strictly enforced, and some inmates managed to hide their children when officers came around to check.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIt7mBTm0P9JcwxZrIxZf6JBLTZivC3_zvvUI6eWxsFUFVfMOWpcHhSzVxGy6Nv3JcJEVg7Z7HbgGd2rhpSb46Gh0rNqPRMVOUytsG2rQrY0ok_IWhmG91H34dzBmkeC2DtqHJV9RlPfsaUftLQNKIbsgUZdAbrAiAd0Hkjp8E8RgG_GfDYqMHpvRrCRc/s600/TheWayHome_cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="425" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIt7mBTm0P9JcwxZrIxZf6JBLTZivC3_zvvUI6eWxsFUFVfMOWpcHhSzVxGy6Nv3JcJEVg7Z7HbgGd2rhpSb46Gh0rNqPRMVOUytsG2rQrY0ok_IWhmG91H34dzBmkeC2DtqHJV9RlPfsaUftLQNKIbsgUZdAbrAiAd0Hkjp8E8RgG_GfDYqMHpvRrCRc/s320/TheWayHome_cover.jpg" width="227" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Back at home, I found an </span><a href="https://poskod.my/features/the-valley-of-hope/" style="text-align: left;">interview</a><span style="text-align: left;"> with one resident of 40+ years. Leon Chee Kuang, a leader among the ex-patients, arrived in 1957 as a 20-something. His words sum up the impression that I took away with me.</span></p><p></p><blockquote><p>I thought coming here would be the end of the world. Living with people in this fenced-off area, unable to go anywhere... I thought it would be hell. </p><p>Leaving my family was difficult. They were very sad. I was their only son. </p><p>It was a change of environment. It was a new world. Once you stay here, you become much happier. You have friends, you have a school to go to. Outside, people are scared of you. Here, we all have the same fate, so it was easier to mix around. </p><p>I wouldn't say I 'enjoy' my life here. But life here is a lot easier. It's not a rat race like outside.</p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj06B4EZYX82I9maPNnZob9ZLtoGgrFG8YKww4ZNX1CtZ55arUspcoOC8In2YUZ_xDth31t7q-L9g7Bha3Da7WC-vyuJRntXx9HdqBvRnosmXV3WIu9YaI2Das6qDSkUD6HL2KA9P6nlRpJfNDH5BM77GBYW6se2p6eKlnunydwWYeUgyp_KszKD3_Ko4U" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="650" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj06B4EZYX82I9maPNnZob9ZLtoGgrFG8YKww4ZNX1CtZ55arUspcoOC8In2YUZ_xDth31t7q-L9g7Bha3Da7WC-vyuJRntXx9HdqBvRnosmXV3WIu9YaI2Das6qDSkUD6HL2KA9P6nlRpJfNDH5BM77GBYW6se2p6eKlnunydwWYeUgyp_KszKD3_Ko4U" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from https://poskod.my/features/the-valley-of-hope/</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">CuriouRead more resident stories.</div><p></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-59436591150556232632023-05-31T22:28:00.013-07:002023-06-04T02:48:21.761-07:00The students I almost missed knowing <p><i>These stories are shared with student permission.</i></p><p>Vanna was rejected when he applied to our dorm.</p><p>Financial need and distance from the nearest high school are key criteria, and he was a great candidate in those senses. The problem was that he seemed so timid and passive. Vanna had a health issue that local doctors had told him was very dangerous. “Don’t ever do strenuous activity,” they told him. </p><p>Vanna had never helped with chores on his family farm or at his school campus at the level of his teenage peers. Not playing sports isolated him from other boys. He struggled academically, spoke with a slight lisp, and felt inferior. The leaders interviewing him were not convinced he would participate in dorm activities or complete chores like chopping wood for the fire over which students cook all their meals. He wasn’t a good fit.</p><p>Then came a plot twist: Vanna’s close friend was accepted and turned down his dorm scholarship. He pleaded with the dorm leaders to let Vanna come in his place. “He <b><i>reeeally </i></b>wants to come.” Vanna traveled the farthest of any student that year, from along the Thai border near the ancient <a href="https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1224/">Preah Vihear temple</a>, our province's namesake. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTNGeFU_LqQCYVA8I0NtXSR63yRPSmquKnkMbzDOQQGqKj3QvBvxFgGYDctZ0jssa78w8qGnQa8IOZ-74q1UOlYDrlTJJButT3skmpLsYs_fZNZ7geFbZ8nAz7Z1C94RyC-Xk0x4B9eOhi0CpQG1EfpgP0M8rSCWyy2XYkNlc6HGIUQOhEH_hmS_l/s732/IMG_4658.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="732" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuTNGeFU_LqQCYVA8I0NtXSR63yRPSmquKnkMbzDOQQGqKj3QvBvxFgGYDctZ0jssa78w8qGnQa8IOZ-74q1UOlYDrlTJJButT3skmpLsYs_fZNZ7geFbZ8nAz7Z1C94RyC-Xk0x4B9eOhi0CpQG1EfpgP0M8rSCWyy2XYkNlc6HGIUQOhEH_hmS_l/s320/IMG_4658.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The dorm sent him to a Christian hospital in Phnom Penh, which told him his health condition was nothing to worry about and he was free to participate in physical activities. He worked hard at chores. In grade 11, he discovered he could hold his own in volleyball. Now a senior, he’s well-liked, a confident storyteller in Sunday School, and one of the better guitar players. Most importantly, he decided to trust in Christ in his first year (grade ten - earlier than most of his peers) and has since demonstrated growing spiritual maturity. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDZmAdCTmycO-3pyDdHkdsGfPIPWEwepn6yNXcKR64QxgE4zIwTjbR3xJ4HMR8sajjYQ5lu6zGgmUzFL_SW_WEFfilPfh6In_PROabkxbDJmAlkGggn9bG08FzQ74xwoySObPIAt_uFCjl0No0D_sBpJ5gOTw8EtLCHAN9ZpGL4CCxIXlZyXKc1b-/s4032/IMG_2237.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirDZmAdCTmycO-3pyDdHkdsGfPIPWEwepn6yNXcKR64QxgE4zIwTjbR3xJ4HMR8sajjYQ5lu6zGgmUzFL_SW_WEFfilPfh6In_PROabkxbDJmAlkGggn9bG08FzQ74xwoySObPIAt_uFCjl0No0D_sBpJ5gOTw8EtLCHAN9ZpGL4CCxIXlZyXKc1b-/s320/IMG_2237.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiec7172x5E4AoZousn_0pCNxeXiwOhk5My3oq9I7HmxBqcSXgkP0ZU23FLWmaUFAbJ4yB1nLj8NINYxGtJnJZnRdAu-hWQF-1vuy_Wa0tH1W_wzFe9LUVfnGg8jssWmKDWUa965r9RurQ5QFdKudvWRKZaO2ZI3Q2QCTe8Z3xB_CdEhlmFL_rgGo-e/s4032/IMG_2254.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiec7172x5E4AoZousn_0pCNxeXiwOhk5My3oq9I7HmxBqcSXgkP0ZU23FLWmaUFAbJ4yB1nLj8NINYxGtJnJZnRdAu-hWQF-1vuy_Wa0tH1W_wzFe9LUVfnGg8jssWmKDWUa965r9RurQ5QFdKudvWRKZaO2ZI3Q2QCTe8Z3xB_CdEhlmFL_rgGo-e/s320/IMG_2254.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Vanna went home and told his good friend Phannat about Jesus. Phannat had likewise been denied admission to our dorm, but he so wanted to go that he reapplied the next year, meaning he’d have to repeat his tenth grade year. Now in grade 11 at the dorm, Phannat has also chosen to believe and be baptized, and we’ve been encouraged by his enthusiasm, hard work, and leadership skills in several arenas.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqAiRXHY_6jTOoeg8Z5eMAMCloz5arxz8JNRsKEMu3zth2PECO9bCG5U2O0HuX7tTNXq0SI0SK2nVgZelplcHSPHTte_5KywROOlK9ei7HR4jwZSpJsi8Kx0vgImGd4WMfSZrvn6Gm1rLP2gU41VqHzgl3lxLszYNaReTDcxhvHbxzB7FR241b5ab/s3088/IMG_1837.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfqAiRXHY_6jTOoeg8Z5eMAMCloz5arxz8JNRsKEMu3zth2PECO9bCG5U2O0HuX7tTNXq0SI0SK2nVgZelplcHSPHTte_5KywROOlK9ei7HR4jwZSpJsi8Kx0vgImGd4WMfSZrvn6Gm1rLP2gU41VqHzgl3lxLszYNaReTDcxhvHbxzB7FR241b5ab/s320/IMG_1837.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Vanna quickly began praying for his family. His parents divorced when Vanna moved away to attend middle school, and his younger sister Chanda was sent to live with an aunt for a few years, which was traumatic. Once his mom remarried, she brought Chanda back home, but Chanda still felt hurt and betrayed. She and Vanna were not close, and they constantly bickered with each other, their mom, and their stepdad. (Dad is no longer in their lives and I don’t think they miss him.) Their mom had frightening health episodes that included trouble breathing. She believed at least some of them were caused by demons, and she spent a lot of money she didn’t have to appease the demons with offerings such as pig heads. </p><p>Vanna wanted his family to discover the love, peace, and purpose he had found in Christ. He wanted them to experience reconciliation with each other and with God. His mom seemed somewhat interested, which upset his stepdad. He said part of his reason for divorcing his first wife was because she had become a Christian. Chanda likewise wanted to hear nothing about Jesus.</p><p>But Chanda applied and was accepted to our dorm. She told me when she arrived this past January, she was determined to ignore the Christian teachings, but they quickly grabbed her attention. “We practiced a kids’ song to teach in Sunday School. It talked about blind people seeing and prisoners coming out of darkness.” I think she means “I’ve got a river of life.” My first impressions: Chenda is petite, pale, feisty, and insatiably curious. When most of the other grade ten girls were still too new and shy to answer basic questions, Chanda was asking plenty of her own questions, extending the group discussion.</p><p>Before Khmer New Year, Chanda asked me to pray for her time visiting family. “I want to show my mom that I am different, not as short-tempered as before. I want us to have a peaceful relationship just like my relationship with Vanna has gotten so much closer since I came to the dorm. And I want to get her permission to be baptized.” I was a little nervous about her high expectations. “Relationships can take time to change,” I told her. “Don’t be discouraged if it’s gradual. And it’s great that you want to believe in Jesus, but your mom might need time to get used to the idea. You don’t have to be baptized this year.” I didn’t want her feistiness to burn bridges and add needless contention to discussions of Jesus.</p><p>They both signed up for the dorm’s two-week Discipleship Training Camp earlier this month after the New Year break, but only Chanda attended. I was curious why Vanna had skipped the camp. “My family needed income from one of us kids,” he explained. “So I worked construction in Phnom Penh. When I signed up for camp, I didn’t know Chanda wanted to take part too. She’s newer to learning about Jesus, and I wanted her to have the opportunity.” I love this kid! </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JvM30yySHAEH2iW8MW-kSOIb5AND1vmm7lL3EAyJ6DsOCd_5Ui88UNVQCkQJhc7IUk9abkGKruBwBVuU9s0zrjIf1cj3zUjplpill11m5M7l2NokEAd1ZfO1WbI6OR3wXei5jwJbM_rIVz7a1ISw3MXbUIbAoQA-Q8FNBegDs2ydKFagER1aM5sD/s750/IMG_4659.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="750" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JvM30yySHAEH2iW8MW-kSOIb5AND1vmm7lL3EAyJ6DsOCd_5Ui88UNVQCkQJhc7IUk9abkGKruBwBVuU9s0zrjIf1cj3zUjplpill11m5M7l2NokEAd1ZfO1WbI6OR3wXei5jwJbM_rIVz7a1ISw3MXbUIbAoQA-Q8FNBegDs2ydKFagER1aM5sD/s320/IMG_4659.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chanda (R) heading to Silat’s home village during the camp</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Chanda said she had a great visit at home. Things were more peaceful, and both her mom and stepdad seemed to accept her newfound faith. When her mom had a health episode, Chanda was terrified it might take her life, but she prayed aloud and her mom quickly recovered. (We’re trying to send her mom to Phnom Penh now to get a clearer diagnosis and treatment plan.) During camp, Chanda eagerly listened, joined in, and applied lessons on her own. “I read from Matthew to Acts this month in my quiet times!” she reported last week. Like many there, she was moved most deeply by a talk on forgiveness - especially forgiving parents. </p><p>Someday, Chanda says she wants to serve God, maybe as a missionary to another country like Thailand. Hey, that’s what Vanna told me last year, too! Could they go together in five years or so? Our team has been talking about what it would take to help the Cambodian church start sending missionaries, especially to Thailand, where millions of Cambodians have gone to work in farming or construction. I have no idea where their future will take them, but it’s fun to dream. </p><p>I so easily get discouraged and cynical. This week alone, I heard about debt collectors currently hounding one volunteer’s family, a dad who just relapsed into alcoholism, and a young student in our English class who can't remember anything he learns since a tractor crash brought head trauma four years ago. His dad has had debilitating stomach pain ever since neighbors got a witch doctor to curse him four months ago. The hardship and darkness are oppressive. I hear so many stories about people professing faith in Jesus without fully understanding, getting little discipleship, and quickly abandoning their faith. The Cambodian church is so young and frail, and it might even be shrinking nationwide. I am ill-equipped to understand these issues, let alone address them.</p><p>But there are stories that give me hope. There are stories that make me think, “People are really encountering God, and He is changing them.” I tried to limit Chanda’s hope of her parents being open, but her prayers were answered despite my limited faith. Vanna was rejected by humans but chosen by God. He has already played a part in Phannat and Chanda coming to the dorm and believing in Jesus. I’m praying that for all three, this is only the beginning. And as I walk with them, may our encounters with God change me too.</p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-85173126000903978672023-03-31T02:23:00.015-07:002023-04-06T03:28:37.397-07:00Monks snuck kittens into my yard (and other conspiracy theories)<p>I didn't choose the Cat Lady life. The Cat Lady life chose me.</p><p>Or so I thought. After all, hadn't I just agreed with my housemates Jim and Carolyn that this was a good season to be pet-free? Their latest dog had died a year earlier, their kids were out of the house, and all three of us were very busy, including regular overnight travels. Plus, with the big new wall the landlord built around the property, a dog no longer seemed necessary for security, and Carolyn's allergic to cats. I was fine with that - my family had a dog growing up, but I've never felt inclined to have my own pets. They're not a priority.</p><p>Besides, that big new wall didn't deter many creatures. Lizards, chameleons, skinks, and bugs were permanent residents. Cows wandered in to graze on crabgrass and rotting mangoes. The neighbors' stealthy cats, raucous roosters, inquisitive dogs, and floppy-eared rabbits regularly paid our yard a visit. Toads snuck under the door to poop in our dining room nightly. While gardening one day, someone moved a rock and uncovered a mother scorpion with dozens of babies on her back. We had plenty of animals around.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7hnsEAivKBWbJUBiCHPROIvun3MpnMt2mxDYmyKfV5uL9O9XciUjS8yiZBhBltZWRF18B9JBUcvArLZrsVavovEvLFax29NsJ5ryOmq_eI8lOZR5-BluF_0uWJYdYEX4Eqvmgnux5fYI-b3GNsf2xHSSr-dkG5EuU_hijOCmt1rMjdrkS_Xyl7VK/s2048/Kittens.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX7hnsEAivKBWbJUBiCHPROIvun3MpnMt2mxDYmyKfV5uL9O9XciUjS8yiZBhBltZWRF18B9JBUcvArLZrsVavovEvLFax29NsJ5ryOmq_eI8lOZR5-BluF_0uWJYdYEX4Eqvmgnux5fYI-b3GNsf2xHSSr-dkG5EuU_hijOCmt1rMjdrkS_Xyl7VK/s320/Kittens.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim first documented their presence</td></tr></tbody></table><p>So I barely blinked when three little kittens showed up last August. I savored their cuteness and snapped a few photos, but they didn't seem like pets any more than the scorpions. Until they stayed all day, and the next day, and the next.</p><p>We realized these kittens, around four weeks old, weren't yet venturing far. They had not journeyed together to our yard without human assistance. The options? A neighbor. Anyone in town who had noticed our spacious green yard. Maybe someone who thought that since Cambodian pagodas always take in and care for stray animals, Christian missionaries might be willing to do the same. Should we drop them off at the local pagoda like everyone else who didn't want their kittens? "If the pagoda was overrun, the monks might have brought them here," one friend theorized. So the Cat Lady life didn't choose me... but maybe monks did. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT59Rdaru2cUU6xKO0TrjNjnIpNzkbdiQ_xWb9988I831H3ZLifEIXugqSx6iv1WiM2bvHHAp5RcX8346Gnr5IezHZqT9fZ1MtFgniq0_n0BQwAp8hsI35IxwFB9fw88fsJJ5jgt12FObkESqUdLf-2efW_1POsaIBtTVNQ-KIjx9rbDucrMIq5_QB/s4032/IMG_1671.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT59Rdaru2cUU6xKO0TrjNjnIpNzkbdiQ_xWb9988I831H3ZLifEIXugqSx6iv1WiM2bvHHAp5RcX8346Gnr5IezHZqT9fZ1MtFgniq0_n0BQwAp8hsI35IxwFB9fw88fsJJ5jgt12FObkESqUdLf-2efW_1POsaIBtTVNQ-KIjx9rbDucrMIq5_QB/s320/IMG_1671.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgg_XiLwjR1oi7YhZOIrjjI6nBEHiSPBefp9oUmgH-p3oxhVPYoZ5y3d-fGUjnisqTYhA4vzAu-6w0g-F9x0JsKS-IDLof5tzTyNlj4tpjqQr-MrISqJnCmUAzV6zHc84sVlFEKGQscAet3MkvXGVdQBHyrOcfamOBBKzuZLj9G_TyaaNhPMi9SoF/s4032/IMG_2258.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIgg_XiLwjR1oi7YhZOIrjjI6nBEHiSPBefp9oUmgH-p3oxhVPYoZ5y3d-fGUjnisqTYhA4vzAu-6w0g-F9x0JsKS-IDLof5tzTyNlj4tpjqQr-MrISqJnCmUAzV6zHc84sVlFEKGQscAet3MkvXGVdQBHyrOcfamOBBKzuZLj9G_TyaaNhPMi9SoF/s320/IMG_2258.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>The Gabriels' son Jake and his friend Jack were wrapping up a summer visit, and Jake was the first to put out milk and coax the kittens to feel safe around us. Soon we had designated food dishes and daily feeding times. The guys started assigning names: Frodo, Galadriel, and... Gandalf the Grey? Radagast the Brown Wizard? We couldn't agree on kitten #3's color (what's your vote?), but it became apparent that she was not the same gender as either wizard. Shelob? When this kitten was their favorite, the smallest and most mellow of the three, it was hard to name her after an evil giant spider. This dilemma highlighted the LOTR cast's limited racial and gender diversity. This kitten did not see herself represented in the dozens of characters. For months we called her "the gray one" and "the brown one" and "Gandalf" and "Radagascar" before Jim finally said, "She's so sweet, I'm just calling her Hugs." And Hugs she became. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd75DapKXkSJzYm5B5-af0l-Ri2lfs1NX90j0rfcHHEOr08DoT4mWo6xaw5zf18i90DoDledSPYaeJytgp01C2AzwS90uQG2mpKsRbYAXqDFdueNYV7NWh9pgRMnrhn6vIxATmzkRstIqMkee08L5lrLPV3K8vcJ_trXS8ai_aDEP4akKvDt0vDcOT/s1221/305280979_10128061127222994_523643238114754828_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="881" data-original-width="1221" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd75DapKXkSJzYm5B5-af0l-Ri2lfs1NX90j0rfcHHEOr08DoT4mWo6xaw5zf18i90DoDledSPYaeJytgp01C2AzwS90uQG2mpKsRbYAXqDFdueNYV7NWh9pgRMnrhn6vIxATmzkRstIqMkee08L5lrLPV3K8vcJ_trXS8ai_aDEP4akKvDt0vDcOT/s320/305280979_10128061127222994_523643238114754828_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Galadriel's name also didn't seem to suit her well. Aloof, moody, talented at hunting, and wanting closeness only on her own terms, she hardly seemed to take after her namesake. Where were the serenity, wisdom, and gentleness? Later we watched "Rings of Power" and realized WHICH Galadriel we had living with us: definitely First Epoch. And Frodo wasn't pensive and melancholy - he's more like Merry and Pippin, loving food and fun and mischief. Anyway, Frodo and Galadriel's names both stuck, but Frodo acquired a lot of nicknames like "Frodo-Panda" and "Panda in the Neck" and "Floppy Fro" (rhymes with "Sloppy Joe") for his tendency to roll over and play when we gently kicked him out the door. In Frodo's view, all attention is good attention.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwNFbaK5V9PjeVCE2tAx41baNSMTWuXNTr8WOfp0GfdPyl98ZoUIwEP799ATpmSw7KcnptzhouMCIfma4X_Pw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj8r6O-PADQgImwoBVRApv1lNJxn8gH1rxypZVZ6VCa6EOvl_s2dFkg5dSsxBOy_MQrIjAL7dRdtG0_veNxrQpm3LAxLdhdp-tc32Wsnxx_rIDmIwEGKyrOms6rzr7l6blyiKXmgXG0D-1DIkA7AyRzsbECOrmufcRxJ2vxCBVQzyT16jk9TsGZv6e/s4032/IMG_3010.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj8r6O-PADQgImwoBVRApv1lNJxn8gH1rxypZVZ6VCa6EOvl_s2dFkg5dSsxBOy_MQrIjAL7dRdtG0_veNxrQpm3LAxLdhdp-tc32Wsnxx_rIDmIwEGKyrOms6rzr7l6blyiKXmgXG0D-1DIkA7AyRzsbECOrmufcRxJ2vxCBVQzyT16jk9TsGZv6e/s320/IMG_3010.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div><p>But why were they still here, when we were all avowed non-pet-owners? Carolyn's allergies were tolerable if the cats stayed outside (harder than it sounds) and if she washed her hands after touching them. Jim and I didn't mind feeding them, and Jim loved teasing them and posing them in funny situations. (They also had a knack for posing themselves without his help.) The nation's few animal shelters, 3-5 hours away, are overrun with kittens. There seemed to be just three options: rehome them, kill them, or keep them. Having a subpar survival rate in my previous Cambodian cat-sitting experiences, I wasn't sure we'd need to reach a decision. Our teammate Joel's cat had kittens in July, and all of them got sick and died by September. With all the critters, diseases, and vehicles around, it seemed like a miracle every morning to come downstairs and find them snuggled up safe and sound. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyWmuZAc7YapDopyESJQ0UiLj98gWPUmL308YA3Di86iNpLnNlFso9O1XO6raEJ-I9cVbZsHhOqmkG1XgCnVA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3USlkFM_GSmQsPRlnICwx7wLh_huhZyKHecl8XjUDqmFQTPtC_EnV4r0_Oa3-fsfh78P5Sd6-uJ7A610wAGWUoBUtEXeNaQQ3a9cUZ4TbtP6q1GEvwuWfOYI-vvcYdf7kx0vbURw0CEB3Z768wKC7RMcrntqviC2gWroXgujm1AmawiJYLITuq6S/s1000/306463177_1241270023330276_578129948022508782_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf3USlkFM_GSmQsPRlnICwx7wLh_huhZyKHecl8XjUDqmFQTPtC_EnV4r0_Oa3-fsfh78P5Sd6-uJ7A610wAGWUoBUtEXeNaQQ3a9cUZ4TbtP6q1GEvwuWfOYI-vvcYdf7kx0vbURw0CEB3Z768wKC7RMcrntqviC2gWroXgujm1AmawiJYLITuq6S/s320/306463177_1241270023330276_578129948022508782_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>We started working on rehoming them. Cambodians generally prefer dogs over cats, since they can protect the home and be trained not to steal food from their open-air kitchens. Though nobody wanted females that might later have kittens, one family offered to take Frodo. But they had an aggressive puppy that had already killed several baby chicks, so we told them, "Wait till he's bigger." The kittens were so tiny and vulnerable, and they'd already lost their mom. Surely they needed each other. Plus, I wanted to spay and neuter them before we sent them out. In the meantime, I didn't mind them piling on me for daily cuddles in the hammock. And when we traveled, we needed someone to house-sit anyway, so it was easy enough to arrange for their food. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISMgrI5yyG9GBWUIvQw6PKF0p5FphTq1gaD__SuU2N8oY9WvGz-BTBzAjL_a3tyXv-vsXBN92fNBaSuCDluGJzwzKK6vNXJMWrGGnWk6I2c3ovViVMO9_v018veWTxndfUZbs3sKi-OALJXDwSuA4DbybkVgmGL2ZF60rAzKUJ6-iQ5_RoFqFeKf6/s4032/IMG_2696.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhISMgrI5yyG9GBWUIvQw6PKF0p5FphTq1gaD__SuU2N8oY9WvGz-BTBzAjL_a3tyXv-vsXBN92fNBaSuCDluGJzwzKK6vNXJMWrGGnWk6I2c3ovViVMO9_v018veWTxndfUZbs3sKi-OALJXDwSuA4DbybkVgmGL2ZF60rAzKUJ6-iQ5_RoFqFeKf6/s320/IMG_2696.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>I realized Jim was a much bigger pet lover than he'd let on. He suggested we keep just one cat long-term, but which one? Though the easiest to give away, Frodo was winning his heart as the most playful, following us everywhere and eager to wrestle with us and his sisters. Whenever I picked him up at the door to keep him from running into the house, he made aggressive eye contact until I paid more attention and petted him with more dedication. I felt more attached to the girls, though. Hugs was the sweetest, content to lie quietly on our laps, play with her siblings, or go exploring on her own. Galadriel meowed the most plaintively, seeking my attention until I sat or crouched down, when she'd run up on my shoulder and compulsively lick my chin. We all felt bad thinking about splitting them up into families that just wanted rat-killers (not pets), would likely hit or kick them for being naughty, and would feed them almost nothing but rice. Eventually, we decided to keep all three.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5ZyMtC0FH-8fppU7Q27jKd-Ws7MfRygUzwdWYzspk-dna7DP4EPmOusWmeMtEvBdL_9fbNv-aCFaZOcnaPTiV7dkb1yT5vxA9NvfmYUI8TuG9TDXSVXEkqUTOAlZieiPQbZooEL7valRBvIit3SBz6w8ujqm1Ack88V6NWc-jwbCXSx3z3bGOdbm/s4032/IMG_2716.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5ZyMtC0FH-8fppU7Q27jKd-Ws7MfRygUzwdWYzspk-dna7DP4EPmOusWmeMtEvBdL_9fbNv-aCFaZOcnaPTiV7dkb1yT5vxA9NvfmYUI8TuG9TDXSVXEkqUTOAlZieiPQbZooEL7valRBvIit3SBz6w8ujqm1Ack88V6NWc-jwbCXSx3z3bGOdbm/s320/IMG_2716.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>Not that we always love them. They sometimes like to bite us - not to hurt us, but to play or to get us to pet them. The older they've gotten, the more they've started doing "cat things" like depositing maimed or dead lizards and birds on our shoes. They shed a lot, especially during hot season. They run inside when we open the doors... which is often, since our office, kitchen/dining room, and bedrooms are all in separate enclosures with an outdoor hallway and stairs. (Frodo is especially good at slipping in through the kitchen door, which doesn't latch well.) It will be a miracle if nobody ever breaks an ankle en route from the kitchen to their food bowls because all three are underfoot every time. They're not smart enough to steer clear of the pickup when it's backing up, so we're always worried about hitting them. I have caught each of them standing in the squatty potty to get a drink. *<i>gag</i>* </p><p>I wasn't sure if I'd like them as cats as much as I did as kittens. They're more independent now than they used to be. These days, my hammock naps might bring a cat or two, or not, whereas before they all came running every time. But they still clamor for affection a few times a day. It's still fun to watch them playing and napping together (they huddle up even on the hottest afternoons). And except for the occasional squatty potty incident, they stay astonishingly clean given all the dirt and mud around here. As mostly outdoor cats, they don't need a litterbox, bedding, walks, toys, or anything from us besides food and a little attention. I'm on board for that.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPwkceBs_IaIv2Hne6ovEI-bPU-fkPSJkaUiCMB0mzdTBTmpkFtNKoWmzcnGW44XmkKmZ6prstU0eCRBojhBSKVPRrFT66E-9jACU-UFDUjnuJhOipJM3e2CqmfC79l3XRVOzz5iB69UC60uwQ5ZcKnLw0oOvKarz8mLAX1-9l7XXlRqa6C16wZhk/s4032/IMG_3721.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPwkceBs_IaIv2Hne6ovEI-bPU-fkPSJkaUiCMB0mzdTBTmpkFtNKoWmzcnGW44XmkKmZ6prstU0eCRBojhBSKVPRrFT66E-9jACU-UFDUjnuJhOipJM3e2CqmfC79l3XRVOzz5iB69UC60uwQ5ZcKnLw0oOvKarz8mLAX1-9l7XXlRqa6C16wZhk/s320/IMG_3721.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><p>Getting them spayed was an adventure. The local vet doesn't spay or neuter but offered to administer human birth control (we declined) since medications here are unregulated and don't require prescriptions. The vet in Siem Reap required them to be at least six months old and weigh 2 kg. Kittens can get pregnant at four months, and we were advised to separate them until they could be spayed at six months, but keeping them indoors was not an option. The last thing we wanted was more kittens here, but what else would we do if they got pregnant? "Drown them," Carolyn declared, to my shock. "It's more humane than letting them suffer as strays or be maltreated in someone's home." </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdZ0lQdQqCvXdZm4pPSjB0X1BjyDLY2VEdWtjFpLR0MczNcuSAgwewmflnNMvd8p2tGunuo2zjD43UytATwfJPtLxrnHvWrKQ05BeZpY1GUP-MRHQ6GkE4pHi3Nwo4Gq3HewrY9OCObRt7KVqVRYjYT9jDd_-2aozyAuRGyhvtFG27urbBh_IdNzd/s750/340207587_1670781223374029_5148169518787225832_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdZ0lQdQqCvXdZm4pPSjB0X1BjyDLY2VEdWtjFpLR0MczNcuSAgwewmflnNMvd8p2tGunuo2zjD43UytATwfJPtLxrnHvWrKQ05BeZpY1GUP-MRHQ6GkE4pHi3Nwo4Gq3HewrY9OCObRt7KVqVRYjYT9jDd_-2aozyAuRGyhvtFG27urbBh_IdNzd/s320/340207587_1670781223374029_5148169518787225832_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carolyn chaperoned the cats in repurposed storage baskets</td></tr></tbody></table> <p>In January, Jim and Carolyn loaded them into their pickup truck bed when taking some visitors to Siem Reap, three hours away. We were relieved to hear the vet declare neither female was pregnant and all three were qualified for surgery. This vet was more Western, wanting them to return in five days to remove stitches and then every few months for more shots and check-ups, which was far beyond our commitment level given the distance. She even mentioned a taxi driver who could chauffeur the cats solo if needed. The cats came home pros at wriggling out of their cones, and were back to lying in the dirt within days, but they still managed to heal without infection. They might be the only spayed and vaccinated animals in our whole province! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyancDqCk6K-9m7CCpALQhj5mmKrmKqD_Ul7HV5HC4qNbddFpUGy30utFJRUTEjMV1Npqlt8P7LjIOc_rzODb7jZWOwpYpUyhfWtvgzKVCFThWoPZI7dqSNBng7PGeh0lEaz2UzwSUIHGO_5cPYBM80o0kWCl6BKhIMa2dBeB_0mgV4rpjJW4WFWa/s1000/339458197_1297763071088552_5424224390009453957_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEyancDqCk6K-9m7CCpALQhj5mmKrmKqD_Ul7HV5HC4qNbddFpUGy30utFJRUTEjMV1Npqlt8P7LjIOc_rzODb7jZWOwpYpUyhfWtvgzKVCFThWoPZI7dqSNBng7PGeh0lEaz2UzwSUIHGO_5cPYBM80o0kWCl6BKhIMa2dBeB_0mgV4rpjJW4WFWa/s320/339458197_1297763071088552_5424224390009453957_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I've been the main feeder and cuddler of three cats for seven months and counting. I think that puts me squarely into the "<a href="https://www.goodmorningamerica.com/culture/story/taylor-swift-admits-shes-proud-cat-lady-hilarious-79656799#:~:text=%22%20she%20explained.,'%22">Cat Lady</a>" category. A crazy one? I won't deny that I've been a little crazy lately, but the cats have been less of a symptom and more of a therapy. It's not something I anticipated when I moved up here. I'm not sure I'd continue it if my context changed. And I'll probably never know who conspired to thrust this lifestyle on me. But I'm enjoying it more than I expected. </p><p>I didn't choose the Cat Lady life... but I'm choosing it now. </p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-12786019642905860712023-02-28T23:03:00.029-08:002023-03-01T22:07:46.566-08:00A Cambodian Christian's Buddhist funeral<p><b><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The last time I saw Pu ("Uncle") Deum...</span></i></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">there was a joyful reunion. We both surprised each other: I had told him that our mutual friends the Arters would be visiting with their team from Phnom Penh in late January, but I wasn't sure which day we could visit his village, nearly half an hour from Preah Vihear town. Once they arrived and made a plan, I tried to call but couldn't reach him, so we just drove out to look for him, hoping he wasn't away on his farm. We were all delighted when Pu and two of his daughters were home with time to eat lunch and hang out. Sometimes, Cambodians' flexible approach to time is awfully convenient!</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4kFMQIu3gCjkuQOXq9OYg-SI9MiJ1xqhg_pWH40dCMaSx9iZBrrHnP6wqDAFWdljYIdswEzoau-IQM2N6yo64YGFDnsUafKmLeJ_W01m9iIyyBPpLQph-Ml5RkLB-N3nNxK6KSvyv3fBsAkfIzQRHzlAwAOuhllcqJv8-205uGSLLDd-fKYjA2cx/s1024/334102710_1550273138791691_3900333237339000095_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="716" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW4kFMQIu3gCjkuQOXq9OYg-SI9MiJ1xqhg_pWH40dCMaSx9iZBrrHnP6wqDAFWdljYIdswEzoau-IQM2N6yo64YGFDnsUafKmLeJ_W01m9iIyyBPpLQph-Ml5RkLB-N3nNxK6KSvyv3fBsAkfIzQRHzlAwAOuhllcqJv8-205uGSLLDd-fKYjA2cx/s320/334102710_1550273138791691_3900333237339000095_n.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pu with the older Arter boy during the 2020 homestay</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was the Arters' first visit since spending two weeks with Pu's family to learn Khmer, and Pu had never met their second son. He enjoyed reminiscing with them about their older son, who joined our final English class at Pu's house with Pu's grandsons and some neighbor kids. We gathered to pray with Pu for his wife, who had gone to Phnom Penh the previous morning to resume chemo treatments after surgery to remove a tumor last year.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzfzvgyYK2lxYdRWV4g_ivot6HKAkDqtO00vLr2RRaF7uxNxl1Rj6P8FZLg0hg6ne8pIJ86Lh5DzHFOxoaF_f5i5nsdB1p1YexNiMdraj2tRS4bDFgaHykhJFwlckuttQ0JqqqQUm1qIfQM7CbMpQSnPdJRGGz9CrZ1aZgM-7Xb055z3FCCKP5Hce/s1024/334442399_205981578766092_4607111981799504516_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="799" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzfzvgyYK2lxYdRWV4g_ivot6HKAkDqtO00vLr2RRaF7uxNxl1Rj6P8FZLg0hg6ne8pIJ86Lh5DzHFOxoaF_f5i5nsdB1p1YexNiMdraj2tRS4bDFgaHykhJFwlckuttQ0JqqqQUm1qIfQM7CbMpQSnPdJRGGz9CrZ1aZgM-7Xb055z3FCCKP5Hce/s320/334442399_205981578766092_4607111981799504516_n.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The reunion, January 24, 2023</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfYhIrdc2V0WNss37ZNkRKy-bxGjN6EiBuDxaNDan9w7q3VRJcVDOa0NIJkOoqzbcAdR09Bk_WgqEJ6fPPG6uDHSIG-RjI75SzlfBeh6Wm_CsiFVfa3pNPQ_1Tgqlci8ntwWIcu5BzJ0f7z1DcWAWCj2xQEkZ253l78FxLsrsnKbxFXJeIffaMvka/s1280/329710025_663911955425039_2230879801310150009_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfYhIrdc2V0WNss37ZNkRKy-bxGjN6EiBuDxaNDan9w7q3VRJcVDOa0NIJkOoqzbcAdR09Bk_WgqEJ6fPPG6uDHSIG-RjI75SzlfBeh6Wm_CsiFVfa3pNPQ_1Tgqlci8ntwWIcu5BzJ0f7z1DcWAWCj2xQEkZ253l78FxLsrsnKbxFXJeIffaMvka/s320/329710025_663911955425039_2230879801310150009_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch included my interns, the Arters' teammates, and Pu's grandsons</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">The first time I saw Pu Deum...</span></i></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">was in 2018, when a very drunk, friendly man kept interrupting the Sunday School class at Pu's house. <i>Why don't the hosts ask him to leave? </i>I wondered. Then I found out that this man WAS the host. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pu Deum's daughter Sinat, one of our high school students at the Plas Prai dorm in 2018, gave me permission to share her family's story in this post. She was accepted to the dorm partly because her father's alcoholism had crippled his ability to work and exacerbated the family's poverty. Pu's life was never easy, between growing up in the 1970s during a genocide, dodging nearby guerilla warfare for twenty years, losing an eye in an accident involving machinery, and subsistence rice farming. At least one of his siblings and several neighbors likewise turned to alcohol for solace, finding it a cruel mistress. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">While at Plas Prai, Sinat trusted in Christ and told her parents about him. Pu remembered seeing the Jesus film as a teenager and sensing that it answered his big questions about life, but not yet knowing any local Christians with whom to discuss its significance. Now, his daughter's words resonated deeply, and he and his wife Ming ("Aunt") Nia decided to follow Sinat and become Christians. They began studying the Bible weekly with my teammates Jim and Carolyn. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwQ1pniQjF5p-WY-5Lmk-3-HyqcQK-J2czMzE4ZMEMxDYpChLZa4DjyCAbG8OGsMhk_NEubiu7PrJ9ObRmwfSawLnezIFDiBbUOo_EfYi_8oxObeR_Z88Ae3QjDajRZuWT7qrmUHnVAwdK7Kv1NqdzvsL-nYUk84z1WlHPRoIfqZKQ3xd5kIrBCAc/s499/Deum%20and%20Nea's%20Baptism%20March%202021.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="499" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwQ1pniQjF5p-WY-5Lmk-3-HyqcQK-J2czMzE4ZMEMxDYpChLZa4DjyCAbG8OGsMhk_NEubiu7PrJ9ObRmwfSawLnezIFDiBbUOo_EfYi_8oxObeR_Z88Ae3QjDajRZuWT7qrmUHnVAwdK7Kv1NqdzvsL-nYUk84z1WlHPRoIfqZKQ3xd5kIrBCAc/s320/Deum%20and%20Nea's%20Baptism%20March%202021.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pu and Ming's baptism in March 2021, with their son and 2 of our dorm partners</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pu's alcoholism still distressed his family, who encouraged him to go stay with a pastor in another province who helps people detox. Pu was afraid, and twice he ran away after agreeing to go. Then he had a dream about Jesus. "Jesus is real," he often told people after that. "The moment I saw him, all my fear was gone." He lived with the pastor for several months and was mostly sober after that, except for a relapse during Ming's surgery last year. In debt and without health insurance, Pu found the extra medical expenses very stressful. With his wife five hours away, Pu succumbed to temptation, but stopped again after another brief stay at the pastor's house.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rJ7IRB3gn59RF0umGs7MEmVzFtLhIdsVe-3Q-6PuSR3mfe0XDA9YpA3Kg4lEyRvqjgj43pRpXDZhgtEwfnXamfG9acMYaBCJWIh3pIJyKPG5J2Cb82RGC7S5PMskWWc5jlmGov9az-Ts960g7PVpzZqu77_ZtLpk6qJFmc0FKfIBAUl4adqYxZA3/s768/279403570_277166391201883_5295833124818693897_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="759" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8rJ7IRB3gn59RF0umGs7MEmVzFtLhIdsVe-3Q-6PuSR3mfe0XDA9YpA3Kg4lEyRvqjgj43pRpXDZhgtEwfnXamfG9acMYaBCJWIh3pIJyKPG5J2Cb82RGC7S5PMskWWc5jlmGov9az-Ts960g7PVpzZqu77_ZtLpk6qJFmc0FKfIBAUl4adqYxZA3/s320/279403570_277166391201883_5295833124818693897_n.jpg" width="316" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ming and Pu studying the Bible in May 2022</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></b></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-family: "Times New Roman"; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-transform: none; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7S0QGGMIfRwLnhD_yj6YBzx1emUCwmnFPAgoySLBdQdaVJ_AG4e1c91fi5pVLD5ks8WdziSzketR1R8E6BiCb-IDUU6nXuhzglwwNjH-go0bKB8LhhNLGlCPZU45yhIxM2qe69aIrxRNlL3CC0tv6I-xQ7CdktlSG2AP5PdkE9tHSKsz14QF3vkRN/s2048/Deum%20and%20our%20interns%20spreading%20the%20word%20about%20English%20class%20around%20his%20village%20in%20November%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7S0QGGMIfRwLnhD_yj6YBzx1emUCwmnFPAgoySLBdQdaVJ_AG4e1c91fi5pVLD5ks8WdziSzketR1R8E6BiCb-IDUU6nXuhzglwwNjH-go0bKB8LhhNLGlCPZU45yhIxM2qe69aIrxRNlL3CC0tv6I-xQ7CdktlSG2AP5PdkE9tHSKsz14QF3vkRN/s320/Deum%20and%20our%20interns%20spreading%20the%20word%20about%20English%20class%20around%20his%20village%20in%20November%202022.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pu helping the World Team interns recruit English students, November 2022<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrCBqzH8CUEoOJz4N_6bP9-jMW6tVY76Z2ooAlwWdN4_GJHJbEU5sm1zBEto8ODzU6XMs8Umh6H3DH2uQl5ertcEvcFoG-OlBMRUDDrvZeoUKFk4WMuLaLECK_dbdFYZv2cRlKLE9bTnBoQVmyNV5FJzf3b34snDmXqsfXyi75B6ueWzammzm9RNp/s750/334514915_3472472806410285_1627859860616367253_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrCBqzH8CUEoOJz4N_6bP9-jMW6tVY76Z2ooAlwWdN4_GJHJbEU5sm1zBEto8ODzU6XMs8Umh6H3DH2uQl5ertcEvcFoG-OlBMRUDDrvZeoUKFk4WMuLaLECK_dbdFYZv2cRlKLE9bTnBoQVmyNV5FJzf3b34snDmXqsfXyi75B6ueWzammzm9RNp/s320/334514915_3472472806410285_1627859860616367253_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pu, Ming, Jim, Carolyn, and Sunday School volunteers meeting at Pu's home in January 2023</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b><i>The day after I last saw Pu Deum...</i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pu started drinking again. He'd voted last year against his wife getting the recommended chemo after surgery, feeling it was too expensive and unnecessary. But his daughter Sinat realized the chemo's importance and had recently promised to share the cost... a cost which still paralyzed Pu with anxiety. For ten days, Pu was so drunk that when Ming came home, she couldn't even tell him the tragic news that her cancer was back and had spread. Jim and Carolyn went to visit them and found Pu with a mostly-empty bottle of strong palm liquor, 25 cents a liter. Jim had to pull him out of the busy road in front of the house because Pu was too drunk to notice the oncoming vehicles. The evening of February 3, he was killed instantly in a hit-and-run.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">All my teammates and the Plas Prai staff piled in the car that night to see his family. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Pu's body lay draped in a sheet upstairs while h</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">alf his village milled around, including his still-intoxicated buddies. Overcome with grief and shock, Ming initially said she wanted a Christian funeral for her husband, but his mom and siblings quickly took over. There would be a Buddhist/animist funeral the next day, hours after Pu's two middle children returned on the night bus from Phnom Penh. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">(Some of the rites I'll describe here are Buddhist; some are animist or a mix; there's a lot of variation in <a href="https://ethnomed.org/resource/death-in-cambodian-buddhist-culture/#:~:text=In%20Cambodia%2C%20when%20a%20person,The%20body%20is%20not%20embalmed.">Cambodian practices</a>.) </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I doubt the relatives intended any malice. Since Pu's family are the first Christians in their village, nobody there had any idea about Christian funerals. And given his sudden, violent death and Cambodians' fear of confused, agitated ghosts, I'm sure his relatives were extra concerned that his body be swiftly and properly laid to rest in a familiar way. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">My teammates said it might be wiser to yield. They remember someone dying years ago who was the sole Christian in his family and village, and his Christian friends' stubbornness about having a Christian funeral added to the family's grief and left a bad impression on the community. We believe Pu's funeral type has no impact on his destiny, so we could afford to be gracious. The Christians planned a small gathering to follow the Buddhist rites.</span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">This funeral felt more intense than others I've attended. Usually, I've just been invited to the meal at a tent outside the family's home, after the rites. In the background I can hear monks chanting instead of pop songs, and the color scheme is different, and there's no dancing, but otherwise it's a lot like attending a wedding. People sit around eating and making small talk. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">But here, the grief was raw. Funerals are usually 3, 7, and/or 100 days after a death - not within a day. And obviously, Pu's death was unexpected. Ming couldn't participate in the rites happening in their front yard; she could barely stand up from weeping. Her children wept, too, on display for hours in traditional white clothes. Her son, a recent dorm graduate, felt uneasy as a Christian participating in the Buddhist ceremonies. We encouraged him with what he already knew: he had no say in the matter and was just being a dutiful child. "I have to stand there while the monks chant," he told us, "but in my heart I'm praying to Jesus." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I missed the morning ceremony, known as <i>howoo praleung</i>, or "calling the soul," something I've only ever read about. Procedures and purposes vary. In this case, the <i>achar </i>(Buddhist master of ceremonies) tied a red string to a stick and took it to the spot down the road where Pu's body was found. He set out food for Pu's spirit and gradually pulled the red string farther and farther back toward Pu's house to bring him home. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dye22b0Tj9zm4qF1xkLI5aOy-vS3eHo-WtNpXgqMRjU0KCD9w9kRKSSoPmupc85EM1f9y8tKpwACy338Bf0-g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We arrived just in time for a procession by the <i>achar </i>and Pu's children with Pu's casket, from the sleeping area upstairs in Pu's home, down the stairs, out to the front yard, three times around the funeral pyre's middle level, and up to the top. The journey up the tall tower symbolizes their wish for Pu to reach heaven. This is a more expensive means of cremation; it's normally done at the pagoda's permanent facilities. Was the money recently borrowed for Ming's chemo all burning up in Pu's cremation? I later found out that it was, but the family was anticipating an eventual funeral payment of the same sum since Pu was an army veteran. It makes me sad that many Cambodians believe their loved ones' security in the afterlife depends on how much they can afford for the funeral.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3Eg2HYtNdVvJpEQXgSHcj4h2DfBSoku_4UP8WAm5-MGTf-NoBfHq8yzAtm1SCouxxY58nP12fOYr7jnUN2hIa_3qZgGuD87DRoIIouAy7boQfAcKcjbk3YwK_YeC39By8nU4gSe_boKzIqpM7tLtYva9JV4HoFhHePedsG6JGbJvY1KhpOsnyJVs/s2048/333091606_2459069587592541_6614575091816090372_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3Eg2HYtNdVvJpEQXgSHcj4h2DfBSoku_4UP8WAm5-MGTf-NoBfHq8yzAtm1SCouxxY58nP12fOYr7jnUN2hIa_3qZgGuD87DRoIIouAy7boQfAcKcjbk3YwK_YeC39By8nU4gSe_boKzIqpM7tLtYva9JV4HoFhHePedsG6JGbJvY1KhpOsnyJVs/s320/333091606_2459069587592541_6614575091816090372_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Christians and the dorm students prayed with Ming and the children and then mingled with the other guests during hours of monks chanting and <a href="https://www.khmertimeskh.com/62467/beyond-death-ferrying-souls-into-the-afterlife/">funeral music</a> amplified by massive speakers. At Buddhist events here, the crowd is not expected to pay attention - what counts is just showing up. I met some parents of our students from English and Sunday School. Many neighbors had seen the four foreign World Teamers at Pu's house over the years. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Several neighbors told me, "Pu was a good man. Even if he sometimes drank too much, he never hit anybody." Pu and Ming had always said the same thing.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JWqSFVSked6IaW7RZSjIFDyzbQG9ZuzZBu-uxOnFMDBzZVi85jKxZVOHhEIJ3H3h73uImN2PJtpBazqqSJFpjxcskNbdKz4G4mw8l78r5aDb_4SmHcHGX8H3r9pYf2mzTcyQWp4EEe00ntwYD5clQXHbrOfEE7aDuGZTSTFY5aiHI610UwLF8uNf/s2048/328876122_617933660167564_3589024889666433158_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JWqSFVSked6IaW7RZSjIFDyzbQG9ZuzZBu-uxOnFMDBzZVi85jKxZVOHhEIJ3H3h73uImN2PJtpBazqqSJFpjxcskNbdKz4G4mw8l78r5aDb_4SmHcHGX8H3r9pYf2mzTcyQWp4EEe00ntwYD5clQXHbrOfEE7aDuGZTSTFY5aiHI610UwLF8uNf/s320/328876122_617933660167564_3589024889666433158_n.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The monks lowered Pu's casket so cremation could begin at 7 PM, the hour of Pu's death the night before. It started off with a literal bang as the <i>achar</i> and his helpers lit fireworks for several minutes that made the audience shriek, just meters away. All the local guests stood attentive during the fireworks, their hands clasped in a gesture of prayer. I'm not sure what's causing the loud moans in the video... the fireworks?... but they were seriously creepy. Combined with my fatigue, the bright flashing lights, the traditional music blasting from a smartphone's YouTube playlist, and the chanting, my American self experienced major sensory overload. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwYuPeQL8HHMOvL-csd6muP7CGnHxY-iVcNOLD7FEGr4EGVElr6wRDZ0CE0rQqMNhEOFlIMyrxi21zHl99APQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I felt for Pu's children, who had to sit rigidly facing the pyre for hours, keeping vigil at the cremation. Normally in this part, the neighbors, friends, and relatives also stay on site until the cremation is finished; they keep busy by eating, drinking, and gambling. Every now and then, the cremation was paused while bone fragments were removed for other ceremonies - some of Pu's bones ended up in a local river, and others in a spirit house in his yard. The Christian/dorm student contingent did some clean-up from dinner and headed home soon after the cremation started, so I can't verify people's behavior later on, but they were still orderly when I left at 8:30. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Several dorm students asked me how Christian funerals differ. "Burial is more traditional," I told them, "but cremation is okay too. Either way, our bodies can be raised again. We sing and read Bible verses about our hope of being resurrected with Christ, but we don't have a lot of set rituals because we believe Christians are already safe with God." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Was I actually fine with with this funeral, though? From calling the soul to chanting to carrying the casket up the tower, I wasn't sure what was happening in the supernatural realm. In trying to appease Pu's spirit and protect his surviving family, I believe the <i>achar</i> and monks could well have invited demons into the home. Could Ming resist them while mourning her husband, battling cancer, and losing her husband's income? (Since her cancer, Ming has been too weak to farm; she mostly does housework and watches her grandsons.) </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">A soft-spoken woman with minimal formal education, Ming has never been much of an independent thinker. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">When Carolyn asked her, "Where is Pu?" she pointed to the spirit house. Carolyn reminded her, "No, that's just his bones. Pu is in heaven with Jesus." "Yes," Ming replied, "because he was a good person and never hit anyone." "No," Carolyn gently corrected her, "like all of us, he had sins he couldn't escape on his own. But he trusted Jesus to save him through Jesus' death on the cross." "Oh yes, that's right," Ming assented. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ming struggles to retain new concepts and stories, and given the trauma of recent events, it's not surprising that she'd revert to an old idea.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now that the only other believer in town is her youngest daughter, age 14, I'm not sure how well Ming will withstand her village's criticism and peer pressure. We're praying for her miraculous healing, and dreading how the village might blame the family's conversion to Christianity for the suffering they've experienced. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">But thankfully she has some support. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Last week, she and Carolyn visited her aunt's church. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Her two middle children, now being discipled at our colleagues' university dorm in Phnom Penh, have a strong faith they can articulate clearly. We promised her this month that her youngest can live at Plas Prai next year when she starts high school. Under threat of being disowned, Ming allowed Pu's relatives to install the spirit house, which Christians wouldn't normally have. But while Buddhist relatives leave offerings there, she and her Christian children choose not to participate. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dztHvs2zEy_oaGFg93lZKADw7TQVr_gb-nYGIhEU4vmb2REIErrp0vBFdEqIrZ6ezn3Up374prTDQbCDju3DA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We returned two days later for a small Christian gathering. One happy surprise was discovering that Ming has a Christian aunt in a nearby village. After several songs, we took turns reading Bible verses and encouraging Pu's wife and kids. Finally, Carolyn reminded us of Pu's testimony. "He sought the truth from a young age," she told us, "and he knew when he'd found it."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">"The next time we see Pu Deum..."</i> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">she reminded us, "he will have the same giant smile that appeared every time he told his testimony. Pu is healed, happy, and smiling. We don't need to fear his ghost!"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFFk0PMsb8TNICoIV7WiQDJzufnR-dTKwuHBULG0uW0vzbIMYkn-SR2G0OSxHreailU_i2pBjmhTOwEYVo6knphjMXtfMHSP4thnnOjkpmV0vkq5ony8IXzU03BlZpvlJPF0K_ZCl-lwkxN6BH1bTF9h_MGLo0iO-leHI5WV83XX5g1k9enPG6hAI/s2048/333506032_144719381808392_4127158316863382766_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFFk0PMsb8TNICoIV7WiQDJzufnR-dTKwuHBULG0uW0vzbIMYkn-SR2G0OSxHreailU_i2pBjmhTOwEYVo6knphjMXtfMHSP4thnnOjkpmV0vkq5ony8IXzU03BlZpvlJPF0K_ZCl-lwkxN6BH1bTF9h_MGLo0iO-leHI5WV83XX5g1k9enPG6hAI/s320/333506032_144719381808392_4127158316863382766_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgxELoCDTnBvO_hVeHXJGuWZJL3I3rqztMi6rezxPoSXxNJAT_cYxQ1WDSA0kYnouiZndSiq2WFc_zNiO3x9gNScDDALKTjSnOd0oP01QiSyft06XOgKvSwya75NUDPVYtRA4iKOSl1E2w8xvMtAqbv4wEHatunQf-GsCm8uY3qLs2dgf6ILwDCigM/s2048/333903588_202523652360103_2625501978740168312_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgxELoCDTnBvO_hVeHXJGuWZJL3I3rqztMi6rezxPoSXxNJAT_cYxQ1WDSA0kYnouiZndSiq2WFc_zNiO3x9gNScDDALKTjSnOd0oP01QiSyft06XOgKvSwya75NUDPVYtRA4iKOSl1E2w8xvMtAqbv4wEHatunQf-GsCm8uY3qLs2dgf6ILwDCigM/s320/333903588_202523652360103_2625501978740168312_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The next week, when we went out to teach Sunday School, we were sad to find no village kids waiting for us. "They're all scared of Pu's ghost," Ming confided, pointing to the golden spirit house. We set out on foot to invite them back and reassure them that Pu couldn't hurt them. I was so thankful for our lesson that day - Jesus' ascension to heaven, where he's preparing a place for us. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Right near the spirit house, we played Resurrection Tag, where Satan tags people and they have to sit down, symbolizing death. But when Jesus tags them, they come back to life. If Satan tags Jesus, he has to sit down for 3 seconds, symbolizing three days, but then he comes back to life and can keep resurrecting other players. "Pu is resurrected too," we told the kids. "We don't have to fear his ghost because he's safe with Jesus, just like we will be if we trust in Christ." By the end of the lesson, nearly twenty kids had joined in, and in the following weeks they came unprompted. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwjIf8pe1fF48_dnPb-sugSXSXl6XeUHG6sHHZ73RBTQ35iFheqPgRukGuCjYNcz0PPpWYLBhwFEIbQLduc3g' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio0mWxDAUi2tLOBsXDLm6da6VrCN-AO3OmALFWAG0xKuF5pQKQGzwBgVNE-Ns8jo87YAV6gIwBWWQ5zjPQsxOZdfMOzR3f1RVM52WiehkW4cn7vdz6mQDSYWnXKPFGujalop7u52ElUX0jxfcTVe0JIUEjssJBvSyAPQMJeemRj5RYBZP3ahV6ONXO/s2048/329182172_879489583107814_2898388031100594915_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio0mWxDAUi2tLOBsXDLm6da6VrCN-AO3OmALFWAG0xKuF5pQKQGzwBgVNE-Ns8jo87YAV6gIwBWWQ5zjPQsxOZdfMOzR3f1RVM52WiehkW4cn7vdz6mQDSYWnXKPFGujalop7u52ElUX0jxfcTVe0JIUEjssJBvSyAPQMJeemRj5RYBZP3ahV6ONXO/s320/329182172_879489583107814_2898388031100594915_n.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">My teammates and I certainly wouldn't have chosen to conclude Pu's life on earth in this way. We grieve the fragility of life here. If Cambodia were more like the US, with AA, Medicaid, closer hospitals, and guard rails around limited-access highways, Pu would almost certainly be alive today. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We have concerns and questions about the future.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Will Ming join her aunt and worship with a nearby congregation? Will her cancer be healed in this lifetime? Will the citizens of Bakam village end up more open or closed to Christ than before? Will some of these kids and their families one day worship God with Ming and her children? Will the Bible study fizzle out and come to nothing? </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We have no control over these questions. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">But we want to be obedient, and we want to pray in faith that God loves Bakam village more than we could. May the Bakam community see Christ's faithful love and power as we keep walking with this family. And may we hold on to our confidence of a joyful reunion with Pu Deum, where we'll compete with him for the biggest smile.</span></div></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-83350568991717282602023-01-20T19:38:00.013-08:002023-01-22T18:28:02.957-08:00Redefining easy <p>“Kids nowadays have it so easy!” How many times have we heard that expression? I, for one, don’t think the <a href="https://www.worldteampreahvihearcambodia.org/plas-prai/">Plas Prai dorm</a> students have it nearly as easy as I did at their age. They do many chores, have few possessions and little spending money, live far from home, and struggle to keep up in mediocre high school classes after attending low-performing middle schools. Many of them only got electricity in their homes in the last five or ten years, and it’s still just a couple light bulbs and an outlet to charge phones. Their families have no running water, minimal furniture, a few changes of clothes, and a diet consisting mostly of home-grown rice and hot chilis. But last week I heard from a student’s mom who put the students’ hardship in perspective. </p><p>We took a team from Davisville Church (Muggs, Holly, and Michelle) to visit Muggs and Holly’s sponsored student’s family. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xMCPoySC5o0">Mony</a>, a Plas Prai student who just started grade 12, is the youngest of three sons. We met his parents, his maternal grandma, and his mom’s older sister, as well as a crowd of friendly neighbors. We also went past the homes of at least six other awesome Plas Prai students or graduates from his village - they've sent us quite a crop, including one current dorm staff and one current World Team intern! </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01A1Tb5-WG92-qEj0yfAh239MTmrQICcu7g2Zt_IRu-ZC2d5NWdlcaB6oDnawDyN8FrbvREmB4O1aVM6kcgxhZR2Dr61fgCpTj_t8lwszwcOxW2WR7JkNUOg_u8HRj7O1SdL0QTEUj8xleeAybUI-e_iwyNF9vxYgzf8qdEK6RZL6PmEjb5BGZtGf/s2731/EA326C52-7A1C-49E7-B1CA-DEE6F1B14FA2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2731" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01A1Tb5-WG92-qEj0yfAh239MTmrQICcu7g2Zt_IRu-ZC2d5NWdlcaB6oDnawDyN8FrbvREmB4O1aVM6kcgxhZR2Dr61fgCpTj_t8lwszwcOxW2WR7JkNUOg_u8HRj7O1SdL0QTEUj8xleeAybUI-e_iwyNF9vxYgzf8qdEK6RZL6PmEjb5BGZtGf/s320/EA326C52-7A1C-49E7-B1CA-DEE6F1B14FA2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">L to R: Mony, a dorm staff member, and the 3 World Team interns in the back of the truck, ready to visit Mony’s family. Visakha (center) is from the same village. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>A warm, kind hostess, Mony’s mom told us a bit of her story.</p><p>“When I was three, my father died under the brutal Khmer Rouge regime of the late 1970’s [along with about ¼ of the Cambodian population]. I was the youngest of eight children, and they had everyone on near-starvation rations, so I didn’t really start eating solid food until I was five. The Khmer Rouge assigned everyone forced labor, even children. Starting at age three, I was sent daily to pick beans and sort rice with other children. At night, I came home to my malnourished mother and she breast-fed me and gave me whatever scraps of rice she’d been able to scavenge. </p><p>"When the Khmer Rouge regime was defeated in 1979, we kids didn’t have to work anymore, and our families wanted us to be educated. But all the teachers had been executed and we didn’t have a school building. So anyone in the village who had studied a little bit came and taught the kids under a big tree. At night, they told us to go home and teach what we had learned to our older siblings and parents, most of whom had had minimal or no formal education. Eventually a teacher came to our village, and I finished grade four at age 16. Back then, a grade 4 education was enough to go work in the nearest town, but my teacher encouraged me to ask my mom if I could continue studying. That meant moving to the next province, since our province didn’t have any middle schools. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgsAuU0W5ae-CxrviVQRT8Bf7R5LRiJeAOj1bFpXaPLWpe9hnHln1zZsDCNP4b3qpDC812L-qqh3otfACoUiVkxEHoyih6mNhLeHuKS9xhCg1QqPVcKJZMbvCNHS0NM23Q8YTC8jycFvMAA8W7KVQDlKkHVMY7bW8WMs1-YM_xXqGG_RY3RYSzlaB/s2731/D8A5C9B9-9A1C-474B-90DC-E1F47989A054.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2731" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgsAuU0W5ae-CxrviVQRT8Bf7R5LRiJeAOj1bFpXaPLWpe9hnHln1zZsDCNP4b3qpDC812L-qqh3otfACoUiVkxEHoyih6mNhLeHuKS9xhCg1QqPVcKJZMbvCNHS0NM23Q8YTC8jycFvMAA8W7KVQDlKkHVMY7bW8WMs1-YM_xXqGG_RY3RYSzlaB/s320/D8A5C9B9-9A1C-474B-90DC-E1F47989A054.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>"My mom agreed, and she took me on foot on a three-day journey to Steung Treng province, sleeping on the road both nights. I received a government scholarship with room and board to study through grade seven in their province capital, since there were no middle schools in our province. I was the only one in our village to study past grade four. After that, I returned to our village and became a teacher for five years. I felt so privileged to have this education, and I was glad to pass on what I’d learned to my neighbors. Khmer Rouge guerrillas were still hiding out in our area, and they came and burned down a bunch of homes in our village. Our community was terrified and fled to another area for about six months. When we came back, we helped each other rebuild, just like always. </p><p>"When I was twenty-five, my parents arranged a marriage between me and a man from our village. He didn’t have as much education but he was a hard worker. We had three sons together, and when the youngest (Mony) was one year old, my husband was run over by an oxcart that crushed his leg, back, and head. There were no motor vehicles back then, and the mud on the road was up to my thighs that time of year, but I pushed him in a cart to the nearest town with a medical clinic. It was terrifying and exhausting! Eventually we got him to Phnom Penh for further recovery. He survived, but his personality changed. He became as simple as a young child, short-tempered, and prone to violence. He used to wander off at night. The kids were afraid of him. To this day, nearly twenty years later, we have to take him to Steung Treng province [now about a 2-hour drive] every month for medications so that he’ll stay calm and close to home. He helps herd the cows [normally a child’s job] but he can’t do much to help with the rice and cassava crops. My 95-year-old mom also lives with me, and she still sweeps the yard every morning. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nvyXdFLSX6SpZJzc4v7Ny-ug12v_w0rAQDluym0Um1KpQ8LcoWD02T1fsmj4t_wo0Mlh-M445GLmGyo-IV-veyR2PzhFaJ2pWY8QaSS-mGjq58mpWCUMwNuTbMsE4PAQMsUa2BXTonG2Fr0rcF4bz9z3AGpyJxNbWLE42R9_crKb55QvxoI-gl7L/s2731/1520A404-8431-4793-9D1C-10309ECD8E85.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2731" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nvyXdFLSX6SpZJzc4v7Ny-ug12v_w0rAQDluym0Um1KpQ8LcoWD02T1fsmj4t_wo0Mlh-M445GLmGyo-IV-veyR2PzhFaJ2pWY8QaSS-mGjq58mpWCUMwNuTbMsE4PAQMsUa2BXTonG2Fr0rcF4bz9z3AGpyJxNbWLE42R9_crKb55QvxoI-gl7L/s320/1520A404-8431-4793-9D1C-10309ECD8E85.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Muggs and Holly meeting Mony’s family </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>"It hasn’t been easy farming alone and caring for my whole family, but I am willing to sacrifice anything to see my sons be educated. Even though I could really use their help on the farm, I’m happy that they can study further than I did. Their lives are so much easier than mine. One son is in Bangkok, working as a translator now that he has finished studying. The next is six hours from here in Kampong Speu province with a university scholarship. Now Mony is in his last year of high school. I want to give him the freedom to continue studying too.” </p><p>Mony once told me he feels a great burden to return to the farm and help his mom in his brothers’ absence. We’ll see if he does so next year, or if he is able to embrace other opportunities that might open up, such as university. All Plas Prai students are eligible for a scholarship to a six-month “Discipleship Training Program” through YWAM, and Mony is serious about his faith. He could also apply for several university scholarships. So he’ll have to weigh his hunger for knowledge against the urgency of relieving his mom’s load on the farm. But I was so moved by his mom's commitment to education and her village's spirit of helping each other. The Khmer Rouge worked systematically to destroy trust and sow suspicion among neighbors and even family members. I'm so encouraged at the way this village overcame the government's poison with their spirit of perseverance, cooperation, and investing in the next generation. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD77bPhrU-0FSAkHN6PD4ccL9XmeIPj9i7W5JHSb2tIic4DyvJ-Awfqyenkvi2iBpDQLHVL2TDVqYDgYGMwCgR6EV2wa1sapF9xmj6884gV03_LdP4YDU7S_FeQxVtg5sPlRNpQDd0ZK3LLsZGrOGISQX4E2pULiQh_kOcTC4onrT3K0jPVYeunl9G/s2731/EF027861-DAF2-47D8-B9FA-00BD4575FD93.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2731" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD77bPhrU-0FSAkHN6PD4ccL9XmeIPj9i7W5JHSb2tIic4DyvJ-Awfqyenkvi2iBpDQLHVL2TDVqYDgYGMwCgR6EV2wa1sapF9xmj6884gV03_LdP4YDU7S_FeQxVtg5sPlRNpQDd0ZK3LLsZGrOGISQX4E2pULiQh_kOcTC4onrT3K0jPVYeunl9G/s320/EF027861-DAF2-47D8-B9FA-00BD4575FD93.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Michelle took this photo while Mony’s mom was telling us her story</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>A few days later, I translated a conversation between Michelle (a member of the short-term team) and Plas Prai students. She described her kids' middle and high school schedule, and one student asked about the US high school drop-out rate. It's 5%. By contrast, Cambodia had a <a href="https://opendevelopmentcambodia.net/topics/education-and-training/">20.2% high school completion rate</a> in 2016-2017, and I guarantee that rate is lower in our students' home villages, all far from high schools. The students got quiet, and I thought they might feel discouraged or ashamed that Cambodia was so far behind the US. So I told them, "When Mony's mom was your age, there were no middle or high schools in this province. And when Cambodia gained independence from France back in 1954, there was only one high school in the whole country. Think how far you guys have come! Now, there's at least one high school in each of Preah Vihear's eight districts, and even more middle schools. Just imagine, maybe you're the only child in your family to graduate high school, but ALL of your children might have the chance to do so. You can use your education to help the next generation."</p><p>Plas Prai students still have it far from easy, especially compared to my idyllic childhood and access to excellent schools. But it's great to celebrate the progress that's been made, and to point it out to the Cambodian youth who are poised to make history. Though Mony's mom and grandma are Buddhist, I believe they have been vehicles of God's blessing to their hurting community. If this generation of youth emulates their service, courage, and perseverance, how different could life be for future generations! May Mony and his peers at the dorm follow in their footsteps to multiply hope and kindness across the nation.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGioGm48VgEzHPOD0r9mO-3dppYbwZMYK7BxnYAaLbsPMb5_8OQfC9RwimQPB6E7VvScs5Yj3LyYRCH4QyzGEB9DuobFIKpA9eNYw35J-PXzfHkZ8StkRaPdffr_0UhrD7JijAhJFtr11L7ZfOHOJVp5FrmX21kRlZ2r2N2apW3vTKNHEwORZo84vP/s2731/A3A6360B-7A2E-43D9-B22A-661406920C92.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2731" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGioGm48VgEzHPOD0r9mO-3dppYbwZMYK7BxnYAaLbsPMb5_8OQfC9RwimQPB6E7VvScs5Yj3LyYRCH4QyzGEB9DuobFIKpA9eNYw35J-PXzfHkZ8StkRaPdffr_0UhrD7JijAhJFtr11L7ZfOHOJVp5FrmX21kRlZ2r2N2apW3vTKNHEwORZo84vP/s320/A3A6360B-7A2E-43D9-B22A-661406920C92.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-9084522524184189862022-12-10T07:32:00.003-08:002022-12-10T07:36:32.737-08:00Sharing community at the 3C conference<p>It's been a while since I last found time to blog, so I thought I'd share this e-mail that I sent to my fellow World Teamers the other day. I expanded a draft by our global director, previewing one of the keynote addresses, so it's a mix of our ideas. </p><p>I'm on the communications team for our first-ever global conference next summer. We're calling it 3C, which stands for Community, Collaboration, and Celebration. This e-mail focuses on Community. While its immediate inspiration is the conference, I was encouraged by reflecting in general on Christian community, and I hope it encourages you too! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Qs27G9XO5Rl0rADqwtNxxn5wzljxgLCQQFgLjifF4po9mg0_680Flmog3IRK76zCd03b7vFLJ3hAxzJ3OxwRn8B7_0yjjMG3AfMNSx1UC-9dvDgCjcUiytV_9CXL_sD7Hb0oMlEnWSno5MvP-VO_Wa8hGnnwbNWENojQJcz9V5mQ7k2FKNUeL0fz/s2500/Mokuluas-Mosaic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="2500" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Qs27G9XO5Rl0rADqwtNxxn5wzljxgLCQQFgLjifF4po9mg0_680Flmog3IRK76zCd03b7vFLJ3hAxzJ3OxwRn8B7_0yjjMG3AfMNSx1UC-9dvDgCjcUiytV_9CXL_sD7Hb0oMlEnWSno5MvP-VO_Wa8hGnnwbNWENojQJcz9V5mQ7k2FKNUeL0fz/s320/Mokuluas-Mosaic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><b>Have you ever...</b></p><p>... taken your church sledding on an Italian volcano?</p><p>... embalmed a body in the Philippines?</p><p>... spoken to hundreds of students at the Urbana missions conference?</p><p>... let your Cameroonian neighbors eat your dead dog?</p><p>... shared the Gospel with a witch doctor in Suriname?</p><p>Let's face it, our daily lives look pretty different. Do we really have anything in common?</p><p>We do!</p><p><b>Whatever our setting, skills, or personality, we have an incredible bond with each and every person attending the 3C conference.</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16qKBKth3Ka2FG_ZqaNZQH2uTW-rggmusOw2fuv70CK5kh-vMtJNochie4vl-bDCw4hgLNuJ6Bo1FPnLTkWHVMd6t20jXfjBCgV8KjhydT5cFI-to8NJvKAuwYd20s8sahvyjQDymoo6FgdX1tTzXcpmhpQvsR_r-DloFYrxLN8VG6cYKPhgPjRQ6/s1080/Lisa%20Friesen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj16qKBKth3Ka2FG_ZqaNZQH2uTW-rggmusOw2fuv70CK5kh-vMtJNochie4vl-bDCw4hgLNuJ6Bo1FPnLTkWHVMd6t20jXfjBCgV8KjhydT5cFI-to8NJvKAuwYd20s8sahvyjQDymoo6FgdX1tTzXcpmhpQvsR_r-DloFYrxLN8VG6cYKPhgPjRQ6/s320/Lisa%20Friesen.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Our unity won't come from gathering in the same resort, singing the same songs, or even wearing the same snazzy T-shirts. <p></p><p>Rather, we are comrades in the epic battle of redemptive history, pointing to Christ as the Scriptures do (Luke 24:27). We are "striving together as one for the faith of the Gospel." We have common ground in being united with Christ, being comforted by his love, and sharing in his spirit (Philippians 1:27, 2:1).</p><p><b>The central focus of the 3C conference will be to celebrate Jesus together in community. We will discover <i>His</i> will, <i>His </i>plan for us as a community to reach the unreached in partnership with others.</b></p><p>Our human relationships are marred by entropy and fracturing: from the Fall, to Babel, to COVID lockdowns and worker attrition. Yet all things were created by and through and for Christ, and "in him all things hold together." He is the great Reconciler, "making peace by the blood of his cross" (Colossians 1:16-20). And he calls us - his body - to invite others into that same unity with God.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzJHGxrR4XqNCbCLwYrPxWMIReZgxy5ssGZew3fKOTTjG5pH32y199KXvfwgmIE0LTcc1QVbNdE1hDI82MBLhPzRCzT9o-X3SKyMVOP61OdOckiK9KBPiNuzujhIo5qh3JyK9M-0amemsQ_CJ6-B_V2TOxn5SNph7N26s78cLhctErpTz6Xmdp8cW/s2048/311761774_10166676576920697_2643908218482494340_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOzJHGxrR4XqNCbCLwYrPxWMIReZgxy5ssGZew3fKOTTjG5pH32y199KXvfwgmIE0LTcc1QVbNdE1hDI82MBLhPzRCzT9o-X3SKyMVOP61OdOckiK9KBPiNuzujhIo5qh3JyK9M-0amemsQ_CJ6-B_V2TOxn5SNph7N26s78cLhctErpTz6Xmdp8cW/s320/311761774_10166676576920697_2643908218482494340_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>During the 3C conference, we as a World Team community will return to our core guiding principle: the Gospel. The Gospel is good news for those we serve, as well as good news for us, laboring for the harvest each day. </p><p>And that will be the second talk of our 3C Conference:</p><p><b>Touched by the Gospel: We are united to Christ!</b></p><p>Together we will explore how the Gospel impacts and influences all that we do:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>in relating to one another as a community, united to Christ;</li><li>in collaborating with others and God's Spirit;</li><li>and in daily celebrating God's sufficiency in our fragility and foolishness.</li></ul><p></p><p>The presenters for the second message will remind us in fresh ways of this foundation. We will see our total dependence on God's grace to do the ministry to which he has called us.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9YmwY0Yn5wg4BxEKio4VfK1DY74kU-89gi805OHuqXJXp3Khg0EeFmALzcE2m8O5odaYNAZWqY3YXtyWYucx4e7Xs7TvtWR9jyaezwJU0rlvrQ2_7gVZuWvB1mhPnze2lpi_2ug-FvOzdRUaQxWWJOuvcZiDRSeLGByncFWFgfYgm6kFvwgieMFl/s1642/DPP_430(1)%20(1).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="1642" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ9YmwY0Yn5wg4BxEKio4VfK1DY74kU-89gi805OHuqXJXp3Khg0EeFmALzcE2m8O5odaYNAZWqY3YXtyWYucx4e7Xs7TvtWR9jyaezwJU0rlvrQ2_7gVZuWvB1mhPnze2lpi_2ug-FvOzdRUaQxWWJOuvcZiDRSeLGByncFWFgfYgm6kFvwgieMFl/s320/DPP_430(1)%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Bearing his presence wherever we go, we are members of a community spreading to the ends of the earth. In Christ, we have enough in common to fill eternity. How powerful it will be to taste that community as we exhort each other to drink deeply of his abounding love!</p><p></p><blockquote><p>"God's love is as boundless as God himself." </p><p>Dane Ortlund, <i>Gentle and Lowly</i></p></blockquote><p>See you next summer!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DjiiwAzxqnHRS6Ix_v9PjMDzGQIEc0ptv8HtRKyihje7K8n9xAGoRdH9LL3M0rIr7KutpItxMy26F6oaLc9rnseifNw5tyLUmUWRywDOFJi-0ZksIer5rVj42lQgxuqoCSHmAvo-ANhyP726DTgHZukCOJh4Wed09xvbvPnJB417wkk8NjNUIkVn/s1146/3C%20Communications%20signature%20-%20Copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="1146" height="111" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DjiiwAzxqnHRS6Ix_v9PjMDzGQIEc0ptv8HtRKyihje7K8n9xAGoRdH9LL3M0rIr7KutpItxMy26F6oaLc9rnseifNw5tyLUmUWRywDOFJi-0ZksIer5rVj42lQgxuqoCSHmAvo-ANhyP726DTgHZukCOJh4Wed09xvbvPnJB417wkk8NjNUIkVn/s320/3C%20Communications%20signature%20-%20Copy.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-13510678721139508502022-07-31T18:42:00.017-07:002022-08-22T01:57:27.973-07:00Venom: an original song <span style="font-family: georgia;">When I played this song for a songwriters' feedback group including the one and only <a href="https://www.saragroves.com/">Sara Groves</a>, a ground rule was "No disclaimers until the end." I'm abiding by that here; you'll find the video, lyrics, and finally a set of explanations.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/af8NGMDwvF8" width="320" youtube-src-id="af8NGMDwvF8"></iframe><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><b>Venom </b></h3><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>When I moved to the jungle,</div><div>I prayed, “Lord, please, no snakes”</div><div>Only to discover</div><div>Something fiercer lay in wait</div><div><br /></div><div>I glimpsed it in the mirror</div><div>It lurked beneath my phone</div><div>It even slithered onto me</div><div>When I was all alone</div><div><br /></div><div>A thousand times bitten, I’m finally shy</div><div>Its venom is deadly</div><div><br /></div><div>Self-pity, it promises relief</div><div>Self-pity, if I let it sink its teeth</div><div>Self-pity, an insidious attack</div><div>Self-pity whispers everything I lack</div><div><br /></div><div>Without a pause to question</div><div>I obeyed it to a tee </div><div>And plunged into its narrative </div><div>Of anguish starring me</div><div><br /></div><div>Resenting those who care for me</div><div>Why can’t they do enough?</div><div>And when will they appreciate </div><div>That I’ve endured so much?</div><div><br /></div><div>A thousand times bitten, I’m finally shy</div><div>Its venom is deadly</div><div><br /></div><div>Self-pity, its poison oozes deep</div><div>Self-pity, it lulls my love to sleep</div><div>Self-pity warns me to take more than I give</div><div>Self-pity, what a wretched way to live</div><div><br /></div><div>Desperate for antidotes </div><div>I’m struck by rays of sun</div><div>Their radiance illuminates</div><div>And warms my angry wounds</div><div><br /></div><div>I gaze at the glory</div><div>Which silhouettes a tree</div><div>A snake’s suspended from its branch</div><div>Hope rises up in me </div><div><br /></div><div>A thousand times bitten, I’m finally shy</div><div>Its venom is deadly</div><div><br /></div><div>Self-pity, you don’t get to sink your teeth </div><div>Self-pity, I won’t let you taint my grief</div><div>Self-pity, healing blood has been transfused</div><div>Self-pity, you’re no match for gratitude</div><div><br /></div><div>Goodbye, you pitiful fool </div><div><br /></div><h3>The music</h3><div>As you might guess, I wrote this song the past few months, following my move to Preah Vihear province. The lyrics mostly came first, partly in Phnom Penh (away from my guitar) during my driver's license saga. Wanting a Khmer flavor, I was inspired by music blasting from my neighbors' yard when I returned to PV, which influenced my hook, chord progressions, and melody in the chorus.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is my first song in which I combine finger picking and strumming with a plastic pick, and those transitions have taken extra practice. Maybe fitting for a song inspired by transitions.</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;">The lyrics</h3><div><br /></div><div>I was brainstorming song topics, and "please no snakes" was first, while "self-pity" was at the end. Suddenly my brain merged the two.</div><div><br /></div><div>My lyrics explanations below are detailed. Feel free to skip around to lyrics you're curious about.</div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Section 1: Naming the problem</span></h3><div><b>"When I moved to the jungle" </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I live in the province capital with 20,000 people, on a paved street across from a hospital, not in the treetops with a pack of tigers. But as my teammate Joel says, "This place was all jungle until recently, and the jungle wants it back." Depending whom I'm talking with, I often say I've moved "to the province" or "to the country," but they don't quite capture life in one of the most jungle-y provinces. The video's first two images display the jungle flavor of the empty lot behind the wall around my house.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>"I prayed, Lord, please, no snakes </b></div><div><b>Only to discover something fiercer lay in wait" </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Joel has killed five cobras at his house in twenty years here. A guy in our Bible school sees snakes at his house at least monthly. My housemate Carolyn once reached for the light switch in a dark bathroom in our house and touched a snake. <i>*shudder*</i> Before arriving, I knew snakes were common, and I'm thankful to have seen just one dead and one alive anywhere this year. </div><div><br /></div><div>But it never occurred to me to be concerned about other venomous creatures like scorpions and centipedes, both of which have appeared in our yard and house. Nothing has harmed me, but the irony makes me laugh, and I look out for a wider range of monsters now.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO5KlrE8J90nZ0A_mvPQlKab3L6v-PBgmyNjPMSndUz-Zl7espRafR53J4S-KM0tyFdKiOYj2Ss8HxXRnL2i5Cbq3Hbnvnl0bIKxxquFgKnJoyQ0YHHYQK8q101stnneRx97btJuFCy-DgSZpWDpaitg-hcLAWeALsJJY8fc3mUvnECPJiJi5kmM_F/s960/Scorpion.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO5KlrE8J90nZ0A_mvPQlKab3L6v-PBgmyNjPMSndUz-Zl7espRafR53J4S-KM0tyFdKiOYj2Ss8HxXRnL2i5Cbq3Hbnvnl0bIKxxquFgKnJoyQ0YHHYQK8q101stnneRx97btJuFCy-DgSZpWDpaitg-hcLAWeALsJJY8fc3mUvnECPJiJi5kmM_F/s320/Scorpion.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A scorpion exiting the dining room earlier this year</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I came to see these creatures as a metaphor for my struggle with self-pity. Though it's not new to me, it wasn't on my radar as a potential hazard of life here. Single missionaries rarely move to the province, and for years I said I wouldn't be one of them. I wrestled hard with my decision to move to Preah Vihear, and I second-guessed it many times in the months between committing (last July) and arriving (this January). </div><div><br /></div><div>I kept asking, "Can I thrive?" Can I thrive when I'm one of two foreign women in a three-hour radius? Can I thrive as a childless single in a culture that defines womanhood narrowly? Can I thrive when I'm surrounded by great material and spiritual needs and my capacity to help is so limited? Can I thrive when my former community in Phnom Penh is now five hours away and experiencing rapid turnover? But I never asked myself, can I thrive when self-pity is breeding in the shadowy corners of my life?</div><div><br /></div><div><b>"I glimpsed it in the mirror</b></div><div><b>It lurked beneath my phone</b></div><div><b>It even slithered onto me when I was all alone"</b> </div><div><br /></div><div>I dove right into life in PV. I love my team, my students, my work here. And I was so eager to get to a point of feeling helpful and connected and established that I overcommitted (also not new for me). Whenever I withdrew from the frenzy, my difficult emotions threatened to overwhelm me. Navel-gazing and social media didn't help.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>"A thousand times bitten, I'm finally shy</b></div><div><b>Its venom is deadly"</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I was excited to have <a href="https://www.saragroves.com/">Sara Groves</a>, one of my favorite ever singer-songwriters, facilitate the songwriting feedback group that helped me with this song. I used to have three different pre-choruses and no repetition except the word "self-pity." To streamline the song and build cohesion, she highlighted "A thousand times bitten, I'm finally shy" and "Its venom is deadly" as key lines from the three pre-choruses that could be repeated. Now I prefer the song this way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Self-pity may start off subtly, and I've often confused it with healthier practices like "acknowledging my emotions" or "thinking through challenges." Until recently, I wouldn't have said I had a major problem with self-pity, but looking back I can see how I've fed it for years. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm finally wising up and viewing self-pity as a menace I can reject, not a sympathetic friend or a helpful reflection tool. When I asked, "Can I thrive?", self-pity answered, "No!" I'm realizing it's partially right: self-pity and I can't both thrive. This town ain't big enough for the two of us.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Self-pity, it promises relief</b></div><div><div><b>Self-pity, if I let it sink its teeth</b></div><div><b>Self-pity, an insidious attack</b></div><div><b>Self-pity whispers everything I lack</b></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I think the attraction of self-pity is its sense of indignance: "I deserve better." Sometimes anger is easier than sadness. Self-pity distorts reality to bring an momentary self-esteem boost, followed by increased distress and confusion. It accelerates my emotions into a swirling vortex that tries to consume my whole view of life. </div><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Section 2: Understanding the problem</span></h3><div><br /></div><div><div><b>Without a pause to question</b></div><div><b>I obeyed it to a tee </b></div><div><b>And plunged into its narrative </b></div><div><b>Of anguish starring me</b></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div><b>Resenting those who care for me</b></div><div><b>Why can’t they do enough?</b></div><div><b>And when will they appreciate </b></div><div><b>That I’ve endured so much?</b></div></div><div><br /></div></div><div>To illuminate my new diagnosis, I turned to the Internet. Wikipedia says this emotion involves "self-centered sorrow and pity toward the self" related to one's own suffering, and can be "'directed towards others with the goal of attracting attention, empathy, or help.'" </div><div><br /></div><div><div>Nobody recommends self-pity. From <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/amymorin/2015/05/05/9-ways-mentally-strong-people-prevent-self-pity-from-sabotaging-their-success/?sh=33e1509951ae">Forbes</a> to <a href="https://www.psychologytoday.com/intl/blog/what-mentally-strong-people-dont-do/201505/9-ways-get-past-self-pity">Psychology Today</a> to <a href="https://www.12steps.nz/before-and-after/before-you-arrive/self-pity/">Alcoholics Anonymous</a>, sources warn that self-pity can be a "deadly character defect" and "downward spiral," "repel[ling] those who'd like to support you" and "sabotaging... success." </div></div><div><br /></div><div>In his excellent <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-FavAcYElY&t=1941s">pair</a> of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jP1AtqHwDKY&t=2039s">sermons</a>, James Jennings argues that even worse than harming ourselves and our relationships, self-pity attacks God's glory. He quotes John Piper, whose book <i>Future Grace</i> identifies self-pity as pride:</div><blockquote>"Boasting is the response of pride to success. Self-pity is the response of pride to suffering. [...] Boasting sounds self-sufficient; self-pity sounds self-sacrificing. But the need arises from a wounded ego, and the desire is not really for others to see them as helpless but as heroes. [...] It is the response of unapplauded pride." </blockquote><div><br /></div><div>Self-pity is not mentioned explicitly in the Bible, but we can infer it in various characters like Sarah, Leah, Moses, and John Mark. Jonah wishes he were dead when God forgives his enemies and lets his shade plant wither. Martha complains to Jesus, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself?" The prodigal son's furious older brother sulks outside the welcome-home party. </div><div><br /></div><div>Each of these three stories ends with the self-pitying character receiving a valid rebuke from God and an invitation into joy. They leave me to wonder, "How would I respond in their shoes?" These stories are themselves a rebuke to me, an invitation to cringe at the crude charcoal sketch self-pity has drawn of my life, and to see in vibrant color again. </div><div> </div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Section 3: Addressing the problem</span></h3><div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div>This was by far the hardest section to write. What is the antivenom for self-pity? </div><div><br /></div><div>My quest took me on a weeks-long foray into the depths of my personal experience, biblical references to snakes, obscure corners of the rhyming dictionary, 1950s missions history, and the unfamiliar world of snake milking. I even consulted a medical professional. After all that, I had to condense it down to 79 words, 15 of which were repeated from previous sections. Sometimes I doubted I'd ever finish this song, but the process brought some exciting revelations.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><b>Desperate for antidotes </b></div><div><b>I’m struck by rays of sun</b></div><div><b>Their radiance illuminates</b></div><div><b>And warms my angry wounds </b></div><div><br /></div><div>One night during a self-pity attack, I went out to lock up the gate and moonlight flooded my vision and my heart. I found myself dancing on the driveway to... what else... "<a href="https://youtu.be/0yBnIUX0QAE">Dancing in the Moonlight</a>," feeling seen and loved and cheered on by God. So for a while, this section said "I'm startled by the stars." But starlight is not as bright as moonlight, and even moonlight can't even illuminate wounds well, let alone warm them. </div><div><br /></div><div>I realize that warming my wounds probably wouldn't feel comforting, especially in the Cambodian heat. But if self-pity numbs pain and distorts the truth, I might need warmth and illumination in my wake-up call. I also liked the sun imagery as a symbol of God. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>I gaze at the glory</b></div><div><b>Which silhouettes a tree</b></div><div><b>A snake’s suspended from its branch</b></div><div><b>Hope rises up in me </b></div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Part of the key to escaping self-pity is to look up and see something bigger than my current situation... something glorious. Sunlight and the sky are literal examples that have helped me. </div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite part of this whole process was rediscovering Numbers 21, or the "Snake on a Pole" story. God punishes the Israelites in the wilderness by allowing venomous snakes to bite them. To be healed, they must look up at a bronze snake on a pole, which has no healing power in itself but demonstrates their faith in God. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't remember what they were being punished for, but it's... drumroll please... self-pity! They've been grumbling against God and Moses: </div><div><br /></div><div></div><blockquote><div>But the people grew impatient on the way; they spoke against God and against Moses, and said, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread! There is no water! And we detest this miserable food!” (Numbers 21:4-5)</div><div></div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div>That's right, folks, even the Bible connects self-pity with venom. The serpent on the pole foreshadows Christ hanging from the cross (also described as a tree), receiving our punishment and bearing our suffering. So "A snake's suspended from its branch" is meant to point to Christ's victory over Satan (who appeared in the garden of Eden as a snake) and over the sin of self-pity (here linked to snakes). </div><div><br /></div><blockquote><div>Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life. (John 3:14-15)</div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div><b>Self-pity, you don’t get to sink your teeth </b> </div><div><b>Self-pity, I won’t let you taint my grief</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Multiple sources mentioned that recognizing self-pity can interrupt its vicious cycle. I can reject it without rejecting grief and other difficult emotions. The Psalms, drenched with emotions, cry out to God and focus on Him rather than on self. </div><div><br /></div><div>Self-pity is never inevitable. James Jennings' sermons highlight the example of Barbara Youderian. The night she learned in 1956 that her <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger_Youderian">husband had been martyred</a> as a missionary in the jungle of Ecuador, she wrote that she was</div><div><blockquote><div>"[...] trying to explain the peace I have. I want to be free of self-pity. It is a tool of Satan to rot away a life. I am sure that this is the perfect will of God." </div></blockquote><blockquote><p>(quoted in Elisabeth Elliot's <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56634.Through_Gates_of_Splendor">Through Gates of Splendor</a></i>) </p></blockquote><div>Of course, the ultimate example is Jesus. The only human in history to be entitled to self-pity, he never gave into it. Jesus wept tears of blood in the garden of Gethsemane, knowing he was innocent and about to endure unparalleled suffering. But he submitted to his Father's will, going to the cross "for the joy set before him." </div><div><br /></div></div><div><div><b>Self-pity, healing blood has been transfused</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Do you know what antivenom is? I didn't until the marvelous Liz Helm sent me some articles. First you milk creatures like snakes and spiders to extract their venom. Then you inject the venom into a domestic animal, usually a horse or <a href="https://www.abc.net.au/news/2005-05-23/sheeps-blood-provides-rattlesnake-anti-venom/1576314">sheep</a>, whose blood produces protective antibodies that can be harvested for human use. </div><div><br /></div><div>Does that sound familiar? A lamb who suffered the results of our sin, overcame it, and gave his blood to rescue us? Jesus' blood flows in my veins to guard me against future attacks of self-pity. I love finding these metaphors for salvation built into the operations of biology.</div></div><blockquote><div>"'He himself bore our sins' in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; 'by his wounds you are healed." (1 Peter 2:24)</div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div><b>Self-pity, you’re no match for gratitude</b></div><div><br /></div></div><div>Nearly every source I found, secular or Christian, agreed that <a href="https://coachcampus.com/coach-portfolios/power-tools/shannon-norman-grateful-vs-self-pity/#:~:text=Gratitude%20is%20a%20feeling%20of,and%20increased%20awareness%20can%20grow.">thankfulness</a> is a key solution to self-pity. The two are mutually incompatible. While self-pity says, "I deserve better than I've received," gratitude says, "I've received better than I deserve." My gratitude journal has been a tremendous help to me the past decade plus, and I write in it often. </div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone has something to be grateful for, but nobody has more than Christians. As Tim Keller writes: </div><div><blockquote>The gospel is this: We are more sinful and flawed in ourselves than we ever dared believe, yet at the very same time we are more loved and accepted in Jesus Christ than we ever dared hope.</blockquote></div><div>Believing the gospel makes my challenges pale, my pride melt, and my gratitude overflow. Self-pity can be truly deadly... and I've received undeserved new life and a way of escape.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Goodbye, you pitiful fool </b></div></div><p>This was Sara's last contribution, changing "piteous" to "pitiful." It even feels better in my mouth. </p><p>This line brings me the catharsis that self-pity never delivered. And this line, along with the rest of the song, have already helped me ward off or interrupt its venomous visits. </p><p>A thousand bites in, I know which of us is destined to thrive.</p></span></div></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-30263554815153425762022-06-20T06:04:00.016-07:002022-06-22T20:44:03.358-07:00How to get a Cambodian driver's license in 66 easy steps<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I always swore I never wanted to drive a car in Cambodia. I lasted 11 years... but then I moved to the province. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijUU_L-wQWAqU7mxhhLiKqoyL5C9aFlyOU0jZU8m4JGz3h40kqtYm33G40KB_wgkh5d20YhX7rEvOWxilvQ_40ESohr4ezD8bHA-_p2CU0lN4V_-HelHVnogQ2ckAHqAMjsKrXJEIZSyC7npGqYQ7VKHUzLabPFb-tfI59FrRryGLwiJANLRIyhIn/s1334/IMG_1088.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijUU_L-wQWAqU7mxhhLiKqoyL5C9aFlyOU0jZU8m4JGz3h40kqtYm33G40KB_wgkh5d20YhX7rEvOWxilvQ_40ESohr4ezD8bHA-_p2CU0lN4V_-HelHVnogQ2ckAHqAMjsKrXJEIZSyC7npGqYQ7VKHUzLabPFb-tfI59FrRryGLwiJANLRIyhIn/w225-h400/IMG_1088.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My teammates told me that while I didn't have to drive, it would really be helpful: one, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">to transport myself to distant villages, and two, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">to transport others without vehicles like our students. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">They offered the use of their pickup truck on occasion. My little 50CC Honda Today is a great town bike for a single rider, but it isn't built for fast speeds, multiple passengers, long distances, or rutted muddy roads. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYupT5gkKEYLUuDEf-XiqqImPcJ7upG8sx6YOezOP_Ep8kIBv-JpL_ua_-17t88e7tet_-60Hy7NgTBxtcZLmhFU2G3nn2X1gVupNk6MQa225LEvjpndFH2mVHha7-2V4mLLoT9JbQugLRJy1SrI1xMy9fopG9Jh1Y8_G3dDbenXrXJSue6yCwHC2/s1632/WP_20170917_13_54_40_Pro.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="916" data-original-width="1632" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYupT5gkKEYLUuDEf-XiqqImPcJ7upG8sx6YOezOP_Ep8kIBv-JpL_ua_-17t88e7tet_-60Hy7NgTBxtcZLmhFU2G3nn2X1gVupNk6MQa225LEvjpndFH2mVHha7-2V4mLLoT9JbQugLRJy1SrI1xMy9fopG9Jh1Y8_G3dDbenXrXJSue6yCwHC2/s320/WP_20170917_13_54_40_Pro.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Soon after that, colleagues in Phnom Penh asked if I'd be willing to borrow their car in June and July during their trip to the US, so it wouldn't sit idle that whole time. So I found myself undertaking a process that I'd never particularly looked forward to, and it turned out much more difficult than I'd expected. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">If you're an expat wanting a Cambodian license (not an international license converted from your passport country), don't despair! For me, it was worth it despite all the grief. It is possible to pass the test, and I'd love to share with you what I learned from my experience in hopes of improving yours. You can find my study notes, tips, and illustrations in this 15-page <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Fam09CjkObmQ5n-2lEd2eCLwtjW5CGu-/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=112110229154638762162&rtpof=true&sd=true">Google doc</a>. (Or you can pay a driving school to pay off the instructors and make sure you'll pass the first time.) But if you're here more for the story than its moral, read on.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGBYKcCciEJyrhFA83Em_OcwDcBUKUpoz5dWmatwlrPy_bIvT8Idc38oJjVB-8tAFbt5h4pHCgN2-MhonTcPO_cpiTDKolCSAnpQmHOuZiXj0dmZ4P9xploICkGM91-PFdJ9eb-NJvzYQki1MSholO5KN65Lhw85EmpL9xXgCKV4NPOd1C8QGJoP4/s1334/IMG_1034.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxGBYKcCciEJyrhFA83Em_OcwDcBUKUpoz5dWmatwlrPy_bIvT8Idc38oJjVB-8tAFbt5h4pHCgN2-MhonTcPO_cpiTDKolCSAnpQmHOuZiXj0dmZ4P9xploICkGM91-PFdJ9eb-NJvzYQki1MSholO5KN65Lhw85EmpL9xXgCKV4NPOd1C8QGJoP4/w225-h400/IMG_1034.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCnhKTJNTxqnv5kiX1wsLd0NVawM0Z6kM_PGwGCvoLWJd9XCbqgyGqIl5o0UKfy-70xIvJuS-1UJnwRZpG2wqzZ4tRl34LmBhlv9f_Ff2q0VNs9Z_fBrlRKpAyO9cQrutXAzECVxC_him5ZMrdjW5JusoQNFb-Rt9qijZBbKyoJ7RCuF-HkhPM1kpt/s1334/IMG_1040.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCnhKTJNTxqnv5kiX1wsLd0NVawM0Z6kM_PGwGCvoLWJd9XCbqgyGqIl5o0UKfy-70xIvJuS-1UJnwRZpG2wqzZ4tRl34LmBhlv9f_Ff2q0VNs9Z_fBrlRKpAyO9cQrutXAzECVxC_him5ZMrdjW5JusoQNFb-Rt9qijZBbKyoJ7RCuF-HkhPM1kpt/w225-h400/IMG_1040.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>How to get a Cambodian driver's license in 66 easy steps</b></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">1. Ride a public taxi for 5 hours to Phnom Penh.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">2. Take your US driver's license, passport, several ID photos, and $45 in cash to the driver's license center at the mall.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">3. Find out you need a residency letter from the regional government. This normally requires a lease with your name on it, which you've never had. You also need to convert your international driver's licence at least one month before it expires in September, but not within 30 days of your visa's expiry date in late July, so basically you have three months to get it done.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-family: georgia;">4. Ask your former landlady if she'll write a lease for you. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">In your 4 years living there, you were never listed on a lease; there was just an unofficial agreement.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Argue politely that you're still keeping stuff at your old place and visiting monthly, and you were sharing the rent with a friend until recently. She kindly agrees to put you on a 2-year lease.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">5. Meet landlady and recruit 2 witnesses to watch you sign the 2-page document she printed out in Khmer. Wonder if this could pose future issues if your friend moves out in less than two years. Hope for the best since there's </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">usually</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">a high demand for this kind of apartment.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">6. Call a guy who helps foreigners get residency letters. He says it will take at least 3 business days, which would be fine except that it's Saturday and you need to drive 5 hours back home tomorrow. Can they rush for you? Probably not.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">7. Learn from this guy that the landlady's lease will not be official enough to merit a residency letter at the government office. He says you need to pay him for a six-page lease and start over with the landlady... but you don't have time to meet her again before you leave.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">8. Return to Preah Vihear wondering if you'll ever get a license. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">9. Ask housemates if their landlord would consider adding you to their lease, which hasn't been updated in ten years, even though leases generally only list one name for the entire rental property. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">They suggest trying to get a residency letter without a lease, since the Preah Vihear office is sometimes more relaxed than in Phnom Penh.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">10. Wait a couple weeks for the office to reopen after Cambodian New Year. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">11. Go to the office and wait a few hours. Notice the enclosed dirt area out front, which your housemate refers to as the "cow impoundment lot" for residents' stray livestock. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">12. Be pleasantly surprised when they give you a residency letter on your word that you are staying with your housemates, whom the employees have known for over a decade. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">13. Ask an employee to reprint the letter four times to correct your name, birth date, passport expiration date, and visa number.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">14. Leave the office hours later amazed to have a residency letter in hand, without having shown proof of residency or paid any money.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">15. Drive five hours back to Phnom Penh for other commitments. Bring the residency letter and other documents to the driver's license center on a Monday, a few days into your 9-day trip. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">16. Reply "no" when they ask if you've ever had an international driver's license. Receive the startling news that you technically had one for a year long ago when licenses were required even for motor scooters under 125 CC. Since it expired in 2012, a late fee of $0.12 per day has been accumulating, totaling nearly $500. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">17. Argue that you never drove a car during that decade, weren't required to have a license for your motor scooter, and lived outside Cambodia for two years of that period. Admit defeat when the sympathetic employee does not budge.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">18. Try to understand the employee's advice in Khmer to avoid the fee by taking the national driver's test, which includes theory and practical sections. Take down the center's phone number and address </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">at the Heavy Truck Training Center,</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 45 minutes outside town</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">19. Find out that your residency letter is still incorrect. The last sentence (which you didn't proofread because it didn't have any blanks to fill in) says the purpose of the letter is to apply for a job, not a driver's license. Realize that few people in Preah Vihear have ever taken the test for a driver's license. Snap a photo of an sample residency letter for the PV office to use as a reference.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOhjc2zQ21jCoy3KJVKlqCjBhzdC9__ZD0rgfTUgNodYhiEPV8lRxTqd-7IEwgub4FyEOKbLt3wjIMBCzlGCvbNR9Hl0ZZEsBUTpbwC9FJhAh2kRKOoVf3DKVOOKcFGj7ce3QM8m6v6O3NSf8_kt1swBPIA_hdwqL_2NWPeIkTFKBOsmuNGeZIF55/s4032/Copy%20of%20residency%20letter%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVOhjc2zQ21jCoy3KJVKlqCjBhzdC9__ZD0rgfTUgNodYhiEPV8lRxTqd-7IEwgub4FyEOKbLt3wjIMBCzlGCvbNR9Hl0ZZEsBUTpbwC9FJhAh2kRKOoVf3DKVOOKcFGj7ce3QM8m6v6O3NSf8_kt1swBPIA_hdwqL_2NWPeIkTFKBOsmuNGeZIF55/s320/Copy%20of%20residency%20letter%202.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><p style="text-align: justify;">20. Call the Heavy Truck Training Center, which tells you that you need to come in person to make an appointment for 3-5 days later.</p></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">21. Ask friends in Preah Vihear to go back to the office for you Tuesday, get the residency letter corrected, and send it down on a taxi. Since you brought all your ID photos with you, you need your friends to print more ID photos before they go to the office, since the office has already used the five photos you gave them last time. This would be impossible except that you just got ID photos taken last week and the photo place sent you the file for them for the first time in your life. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Count it as a minor miracle when the PV office corrects the letter without you physically being there.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">22. Meet the taxi driver at an unexpected place Wednesday to get the letter. Go straight to the heavy truck training center. Take an eye exam and book the appointment for the following Monday morning (3 days after you'd planned to leave the city). </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">23. Wrestle with the unexpected question of whether to take the exam in a standard or automatic transmission car. You learned how to drive a manual back in 2008, and while you got lots of practice that year, you haven't driven one in over a decade. But if you test in an automatic car, your license won't apply to manuals. You've never noticed what's common in Cambodia, so you ask a colleague's advice and go with an automatic.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">24. Pay $10 extra when a driver claims your fare without actually picking you up, preventing you from booking another ride home for the next 30 minutes. Argue with the tuk-tuk company for a refund, which they eventually provide, and a credit toward your next trip, which they deny.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">25. Learn that the test is very difficult and that you need to study for both the theoretical portion and the driving portion. Your Thursday and Friday are booked solid, so this leaves the weekend, when you thought you could finally rest and have extended time with God.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbK8e_U7jyyl_XsxiTcF6tkh8YmMji6uMr2p19fVQiDl4-k2DlZ-PF35BoENkWEffNGxpTXiNmDAks3D8-CZ8ZKpMHVuiUVUje1ro1zp7hmR9ao4yEKzNdDyebRZtuu31j5hnH6vTU9R0qW_1u76oR9XnToTrfd4CtnA3tJIbU-qsJ2ShN9emt-QJf/s1334/IMG_1060.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbK8e_U7jyyl_XsxiTcF6tkh8YmMji6uMr2p19fVQiDl4-k2DlZ-PF35BoENkWEffNGxpTXiNmDAks3D8-CZ8ZKpMHVuiUVUje1ro1zp7hmR9ao4yEKzNdDyebRZtuu31j5hnH6vTU9R0qW_1u76oR9XnToTrfd4CtnA3tJIbU-qsJ2ShN9emt-QJf/w225-h400/IMG_1060.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">26. Spend about six hours studying theory in English on the app. Quiz yourself repeatedly. You can miss five questions and still pass. You fail about half the practice quizzes, partly because the English doesn't always make sense. Discover last-minute that you've overlooked one section of content. Wake up early to study more.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21VfKEkq7VTN6HZk3VDYP2QqY2jGFLrjbwxT4HlKvY0B2otoIRzrEhQzYZsVmcNXkAqIWrsJI8lS9d1dlM0P_DOKix-QJP4CESYDkJMMjtHMyi2tHeODWOOwP0Ok8OzkuO7nz62GWENoYNliKNBZfHH-ziB6L0_fUF57Ve4sJdOmIPTn0vsEzMHgt/s1334/IMG_1039.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg21VfKEkq7VTN6HZk3VDYP2QqY2jGFLrjbwxT4HlKvY0B2otoIRzrEhQzYZsVmcNXkAqIWrsJI8lS9d1dlM0P_DOKix-QJP4CESYDkJMMjtHMyi2tHeODWOOwP0Ok8OzkuO7nz62GWENoYNliKNBZfHH-ziB6L0_fUF57Ve4sJdOmIPTn0vsEzMHgt/w225-h400/IMG_1039.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMr6fTj0dmu34pW9jYlQQLcT3OnfPjObAGEmIJR5ktbUmRf3gH0Q_WjNXXaCP1r8Vdz37fmM4gxB5Oco1REqaEeYE1QxzV_V3s9Vbj1GIJsqtM3MGvAzeqY5rjGQwbqmGnVMe10UYU_e8Waz1ZRd-HtigEMShuS7zlG97eyh60ZS1qqrTDK0C8t1u/s1334/IMG_1091.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMr6fTj0dmu34pW9jYlQQLcT3OnfPjObAGEmIJR5ktbUmRf3gH0Q_WjNXXaCP1r8Vdz37fmM4gxB5Oco1REqaEeYE1QxzV_V3s9Vbj1GIJsqtM3MGvAzeqY5rjGQwbqmGnVMe10UYU_e8Waz1ZRd-HtigEMShuS7zlG97eyh60ZS1qqrTDK0C8t1u/w225-h400/IMG_1091.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">27. Try the quiz in Khmer to see if it's easier. It's not... unless you want to spend hours learning extra </span><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">transportation </span><span style="font-family: georgia; text-align: left;">vocab. But one question makes more sense now that you've seen it in Khmer.</span></div></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0u50nT89NCQ0S9S6sBVYAUkRdLmXbIIN8qUy4k0k4wLDmjcwyoYSzQIjyus42KBM_Mp68142ZNRkPhb-_laL48m7DQybfe7jD4qksKRZ4Xgu7TdB20DbRVW4hUAtqiikRBMo47kCN2Qb7sLv-nrXOitGtbnIW-TNlSU5wwXfBO7YEQhamgemEfIGi/s1334/IMG_1061.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0u50nT89NCQ0S9S6sBVYAUkRdLmXbIIN8qUy4k0k4wLDmjcwyoYSzQIjyus42KBM_Mp68142ZNRkPhb-_laL48m7DQybfe7jD4qksKRZ4Xgu7TdB20DbRVW4hUAtqiikRBMo47kCN2Qb7sLv-nrXOitGtbnIW-TNlSU5wwXfBO7YEQhamgemEfIGi/s320/IMG_1061.PNG" width="180" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">28. Show up at 8 AM Monday morning. Pass the theory section at 9 on your first try (yesss!) and learn that you need to take the driver's test right afterward, not in the afternoon like you supposed. Realize you won't have time to rent a car from the center and practice like your colleague recommended. Study the driving course diagram. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiICyTVW_x5_OYEp-g6Nlmz_N7dS_4LGPt7PDz6tkoksb5CHs1KUypTFqVL1IoEVebx29_7WBce0gQedIHHMuK6Y2KswciH_9lbFXU5WKxeAt0awlVh7sJ8LLTSBAA-tRv-U7kyI8Xl1EntAALDZu9SlD3inxyrnxuEtp-Jl2dAzufd6IK7GxiYfSnz/s4032/IMG_1102.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiICyTVW_x5_OYEp-g6Nlmz_N7dS_4LGPt7PDz6tkoksb5CHs1KUypTFqVL1IoEVebx29_7WBce0gQedIHHMuK6Y2KswciH_9lbFXU5WKxeAt0awlVh7sJ8LLTSBAA-tRv-U7kyI8Xl1EntAALDZu9SlD3inxyrnxuEtp-Jl2dAzufd6IK7GxiYfSnz/s320/IMG_1102.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">29. Try your best on the driver's test at 10:30. Notice there are almost no Cambodians taking it. Fail when you forget what turn to make </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">(answer: a very sharp one)</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">at an intersection with three options and have to back up to make the turn. </span></div></span><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">30. Do the walk of shame, leaving the car mid-course and returning to the building. Exchange sympathetic looks with everyone else who failed. Ask when you can rent a car to practice. Answer: Not today. Only 7-8 AM.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tuPhGlh2uuxtNDHEmloHyyiRBwEEXXPOkxjx2Q5WZtEWj5RVGUZDHQGr724dSXsSzyfpPK2QH5VOTmZDpjJ3aKA5vKbMfCCgAOj0iKowyBgcckdGtWLfPsGQjmCzXXIL6A4p6ycdBxks_YYI_DPiAX1E-VnmHuuqSUqgu0StALeZVl-eySICu6ds/s1334/IMG_1032.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tuPhGlh2uuxtNDHEmloHyyiRBwEEXXPOkxjx2Q5WZtEWj5RVGUZDHQGr724dSXsSzyfpPK2QH5VOTmZDpjJ3aKA5vKbMfCCgAOj0iKowyBgcckdGtWLfPsGQjmCzXXIL6A4p6ycdBxks_YYI_DPiAX1E-VnmHuuqSUqgu0StALeZVl-eySICu6ds/w225-h400/IMG_1032.PNG" width="225" /></a></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">31. Plead with the staff to print your license early if you pass tomorrow. Usually they print it after their lunch break, around 2 or 3, but that would mean you'd have to stay an extra day. Tell them you live 5 hours away and you've already extended your trip four days trying to get this license.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">32. Call the taxi driver returning to Preah Vihear. You've really hoped to be on tomorrow's taxi, which leaves at 1 PM, but might go right past the training center 30 minutes later depending which route it takes. The driver agrees to save you a spot but wait until noon tomorrow to hear you confirm if you can ride with him. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">33. Put on your last set of clean clothes and eat the rest of the groceries you bought Saturday, the day after you were supposed to leave town. Go to visit former neighbors, which you naively think will be a brief, relaxing visit. It's anything but. Realize how exhausted you are.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYahqrrV02twerGF4AoC6rtxQzI4ObjIqRjuI31fZ11gTZZwfrRoYlg4qqUQl6Y0uIU4ZqqosPv-0nM9aNGlUleSnGbgQSnYWhvR1dEXuoUdHbZXBfJ06XILNLK0QK3gx4_trZIlE6DEfpLXkUATIjr4lTG-ecjwCKnZABVm0Pb790ZZm5EcVt49n/s1334/IMG_1076.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNYahqrrV02twerGF4AoC6rtxQzI4ObjIqRjuI31fZ11gTZZwfrRoYlg4qqUQl6Y0uIU4ZqqosPv-0nM9aNGlUleSnGbgQSnYWhvR1dEXuoUdHbZXBfJ06XILNLK0QK3gx4_trZIlE6DEfpLXkUATIjr4lTG-ecjwCKnZABVm0Pb790ZZm5EcVt49n/w225-h400/IMG_1076.PNG" width="225" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;">34. Return the next morning at 7 AM with all your stuff from the past twelve days. Practice for an hour ($20), with some help from a compassionate examiner who gives you all the tricks (in rapid Khmer) for fitting a standard 4-door sedan into ridiculously tiny spots for the T-parking (reverse perpendicular parking) and parallel parking portions. These include things like, "When you see pole #2 aligned with the Toyota sticker in your back right mirror, come to a full stop and turn the wheels completely to the left." Wonder if it's advisable in any other context to turn the wheels when the car is fully stopped.</span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">35. Endure his scolding whenever you get anything slightly less than perfect. Try to ask clarifying questions. Be patient when his answers are unhelpful.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">36. Get kicked out of the car after exactly an hour, when you are starting to get the hang of his instructions but not yet confident you understand them all, let alone will be able to apply them in a testing situation. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">37. Wait 2.5 hours in the heat again to retake the driver's test. Recognize several faces from the day before, since most test-takers failed their first and/or second attempt. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Rack your brain to write down all the tips he gave you. Realize you have a few blanks in your memory</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">38. Panic at 10:30 when your name isn't on the list they announce. Run into the building where they tell you you should have signed up and paid $15 by 9 AM for the retake. You plead for mercy, pointing out you've been there waiting since 7 AM. They let you register now, but they don't take cash and the payment app isn't working on your phone inside the building.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbL8W10ZKgTM2m8z7q_O0jOfKMuthKhNpW4MXsrMSgm1bvCclnIg-w4g_MoWjg6lCLSdHeAqUaPC8US6Y7-kfJMR7MUQCb6S3qNDlXut5GC87CXrhd0OB4Pi33aPrjNHE27DZ1zqLNovGIJ-OUBlIMxKftiM7pXvyK9oB8FPvKaFgsEzbVhMNuAEop/s1334/IMG_1055.PNG" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbL8W10ZKgTM2m8z7q_O0jOfKMuthKhNpW4MXsrMSgm1bvCclnIg-w4g_MoWjg6lCLSdHeAqUaPC8US6Y7-kfJMR7MUQCb6S3qNDlXut5GC87CXrhd0OB4Pi33aPrjNHE27DZ1zqLNovGIJ-OUBlIMxKftiM7pXvyK9oB8FPvKaFgsEzbVhMNuAEop/w225-h400/IMG_1055.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">39. The staff point you to a green building across the street which they say is a Wing, a business where you can send money or pay bills. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">40. The people at the green building tell you it's never been a Wing. They tell you to walk ten minutes down the street. You'd book a tuk-tuk ride, but a) your phone data still isn't working, and b) you know from experience that there's almost no tuk-tuk service this far out of town.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">41. Rush back to the testing center, sweaty and sunburnt. They ask in amazement where you've been all this time. "Going to the Wing like you told me." All other test-takers have finished. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">42. Pray as you start the test, "Lord, my time is in Your hands." Acknowledge that you have control over very little in life, and that failing the test again is actually not the end of the world.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">43. Fail the test again when you start the T-parking too far to the right. Knowing you're probably going to fail, you try to inch forward and turn enough to get into position, but end up knocking over a cone. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">44. Endure repeated scolding from the examiner, telling you, "You knocked over a cone!" as if you didn't know that was grounds for failing. Finally interrupt him and tell him, "I know, that's why I'm not arguing." </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Repeat the walk of shame off the driving course.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">45. Endure another lecture from the examiner who helped you that morning, saying you didn't follow his instructions. Actually you tried to... he said not to start too far to the left, but in your conscientiousness about that you started off a bit too far to the right.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">46. Be mocked by the parking attendants for failing twice in a row. (Not like it's that uncommon!) They tell you to sign up for driver's school this weekend. Tell them, "I can't stay until the weekend. I have to get back to my job 5 hours away." You know your options are to pass within four tries (by Thursday) or else return to PV without a license or a way to transport students to Saturday's baptism.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">47. Stand under the noon sun. Have trouble getting a tuk-tuk once again. Finally get a ride with the guard's friend. Find out ants have infested your packed lunch while your bags were sitting in the guard shack all morning. Load all your stuff back into a tuk-tuk. Consider crying. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Try to figure out why you are so very bothered about not being back to PV yet.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">48. Return to the office where you're staying. Take a long nap. Ask friends to use their washing machine. Buy a few more groceries. Get a much-needed pep talk from a colleague. Spend time with the colleagues who are flying out that night and leaving you their car. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">49. Return to the testing center at 7 AM. Rent a car for another hour. Feel much more confident.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">50. Update your notes. Share them with a woman you recognize who sometimes leads worship at your former church. Chat with her for the first time ever. Try to help her pass on her first try, since she doesn't have much margin to spend here.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">52. Celebrate when she passes the theory test. Try to encourage the British guy who just failed the theory test for the third time. Tell him, "I know the answers are ridiculous, but if you practice more with the app, you'll start to memorize them."</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">53. Take the test for the third time. Everything goes flawlessly until the last section, parallel parking.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">54. Back up and angle into the spot at a diagonal. Think you hear the sound of tires hitting the curb. This is not an automatic fail, but you're only allowed to pull forward and correct once, so you have basically no chance of success if that's what you just heard. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">55. Get flustered and forget what step you're on in the stupid nitpicky method you have to use here, which is not like the common-sense intuitive method your dad taught you. Sit frozen for a moment.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">56. Listen to the examiner yell through your window in Khmer, "Great, now turn your wheels hard to the left!" Bless him silently and realize your wheels were never near the curb. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">57. Get out and look at your parking job. You needed both your right wheels to be within 25 cm (9.8 inches) of the curb, but you've gotten them more like 5 inches away without a single correction.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">58. Stop at the final stop sign and do a victory dance when they tell you you've passed!</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">59. Call the afternoon taxi driver. He's not driving today so there's no point in rushing home. Decide against trying to drive your colleagues' car from Phnom Penh all the way to Preah Vihear by yourself. Waiting one more day won't kill you.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">60. Wait inside the building while the staff prepares your license. Chat with the driving instructor who helped an American guy pass on his first try. Wonder how much kickback she paid for him to pass right away and how much time she's saved him. (He showed up at 10:15, just in time for the driving test, and now she's getting his license for him.)</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> 61. Get your license from the staff within five minutes. They tell the driving instructor, "This girl lives way up in Preah Vihear. She's lived here for 11 years already!" They don't tell her how you failed twice. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">62. Walk out with a grin. You have a license for the next ten years.</span></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYwE2BCYLAMTyBLqmzu4_HrgB6w33vj_FmPhBB35xtTxkTq065__DX74F8oA_6kWSzdyHzP3SYpfJehlpP5nv5WkT86owTK0HvQ0GXTxcljFz4iQK2ukfARlhQPNntxUMWoKs85sBzcxUvDbfmHCsgto07t0w3CtQBcEVYkOdomqh5RPSHQXbwRrW/s4032/IMG_E1112.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYwE2BCYLAMTyBLqmzu4_HrgB6w33vj_FmPhBB35xtTxkTq065__DX74F8oA_6kWSzdyHzP3SYpfJehlpP5nv5WkT86owTK0HvQ0GXTxcljFz4iQK2ukfARlhQPNntxUMWoKs85sBzcxUvDbfmHCsgto07t0w3CtQBcEVYkOdomqh5RPSHQXbwRrW/s320/IMG_E1112.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bonus: I can drive tractors up to 3.5 metric tons.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">63. Return to Preah Vihear on Thursday, 15 days after you arrived in the city, six days later than you expected to leave.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">64. Load up your teammates' pickup truck with 17 students that Saturday. Drive them 30 minutes away to a waterfall. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78Asm8rsRo02QHaER-GwysEAjHudnqUy9bERR3sRmWaAyuDD55YKko8pPbyCWaXAq3iYsCaMgOXWRKwUZyJzruSHTuB8ocqnFyw_kIgpgZBpAkkKQQ_vnLMKfBetco9axicY1YPnx2mFfb5lp1vHZeH8rr4rIKa4dqiY_BYiJWlV5posuy9AiC6cM/s4032/IMG_1220.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi78Asm8rsRo02QHaER-GwysEAjHudnqUy9bERR3sRmWaAyuDD55YKko8pPbyCWaXAq3iYsCaMgOXWRKwUZyJzruSHTuB8ocqnFyw_kIgpgZBpAkkKQQ_vnLMKfBetco9axicY1YPnx2mFfb5lp1vHZeH8rr4rIKa4dqiY_BYiJWlV5posuy9AiC6cM/s320/IMG_1220.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRkQpbY__oYwLbmdRmxMmZFxOQR4GL3JFrCqAJHE545WOGPnnalqmBPrk3yYrnueUEwghePEdF2TxfFyR40BMm9UM2r8m8I_MWyDQjDOw1DmRXhvHNsCQBp-F-4zpqfPNTzjvLVgy3b1oWnQ7FTvBKU4SxjblZXTq2N8nd5grtsjXmJYefl-ntJ-4/s3088/IMG_1154.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGRkQpbY__oYwLbmdRmxMmZFxOQR4GL3JFrCqAJHE545WOGPnnalqmBPrk3yYrnueUEwghePEdF2TxfFyR40BMm9UM2r8m8I_MWyDQjDOw1DmRXhvHNsCQBp-F-4zpqfPNTzjvLVgy3b1oWnQ7FTvBKU4SxjblZXTq2N8nd5grtsjXmJYefl-ntJ-4/s320/IMG_1154.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><p style="text-align: justify;">65. Park by the waterfall in a field with no curb, much less a 10-inch distance requirement. Hike in and watch eight students be baptized. The joy is infectious. </p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-nU02X97wVXx2OjAaZu1b3xUNY-BvvDuAmc-0hAMfWlfBJe6SdvXXSIF3hbNpxG9Khah1vPWCbSeeOkyaa25NJqv3JEJbxOTwejZwShs_IEvocy92JcfK2XtsCr_hDwpnNHoINtmCFM4Hjrfebu3VE2MKKR0o-Wmw6l-jTeiZPtCOHTLbu4_eaGl/s1204/284795000_10158810386743546_4910043401575774377_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="1204" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv-nU02X97wVXx2OjAaZu1b3xUNY-BvvDuAmc-0hAMfWlfBJe6SdvXXSIF3hbNpxG9Khah1vPWCbSeeOkyaa25NJqv3JEJbxOTwejZwShs_IEvocy92JcfK2XtsCr_hDwpnNHoINtmCFM4Hjrfebu3VE2MKKR0o-Wmw6l-jTeiZPtCOHTLbu4_eaGl/s320/284795000_10158810386743546_4910043401575774377_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">66. Write down <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Fam09CjkObmQ5n-2lEd2eCLwtjW5CGu-/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=112110229154638762162&rtpof=true&sd=true">everything</a> you learned along the way, in hopes of saving others a few dozen steps.</span></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-16730033986942825602022-04-30T18:39:00.006-07:002022-05-01T07:50:09.755-07:00Mangoes like manna<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">For the first time in my life, the past two months, I've had unlimited all-I-can-eat access to free mangoes. How many mangoes is that? A lot. I haven't counted, but I'm sure my average consumption is upward of one mango per day. It's been a definite highlight of my transition to Preah Vihear. I'm not alone in my enjoyment: we've given away boxes and bags full, let visitors pick all they want, offered mango smoothies to every dinner guest, and left maybe 1000 to rot on the ground. And the season's not over yet!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy_UjQSFYx-JV4iz9cMUCCxjFmmlILs4A99C-jaRnQEknSpWS7MumQtryIJKZs4r97NZ1dE2axKjCO-NG71sg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">Not pictured: about 5 more mango trees</span></div><br /></span><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My hosts, Jim and Carolyn, laugh at me. They say my <strike>obsessive</strike> enthusiastic mango collection efforts mark me as a newbie. And they're partly right. I've wasted a lot of time gathering and cutting into goners. But I'm learning along the way: how to use the best collection techniques, which unpromising specimens are worth a second look, and how many mangoes I'm able to eat before tiring of them. (Not enough yet!) </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Phnom Penh, I ate plenty of mangoes too, but most of them I had to pay for, and I was only vaguely aware of the growing process. The only house I rented with mango trees was all sour mangoes which were less appealing to me, and the landlords never invited my housemates and me to help ourselves. I haven't had free access to fruit since my childhood in Vermont, when my family went to pick raspberries and blackberries down the road every summer. So I've enjoyed investigating one of my favorite-ever foods.</span></p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">In our yard, we have two main types: one called "turmeric" because of the flesh's dark yellow color, and one called "Chinese," which are </span>are less common and more prized<span style="font-family: georgia;">. I'm not sure of the English names because many varieties in <a href="https://balconygardenweb.com/different-types-of-mangoes-best-mango-variety-in-the-world/">this article</a> look like what we have. They're both tasty, but the Chinese ones are </span>more fragrant, less fibrous, and commonly considered more delicious, which I can understand<span style="font-family: georgia;">. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My friend Sina's dad has turmeric mango trees on his farm, and I asked how he cares for them. He said they don't need any care, they just grow, but he's been cutting them down because there's no market for them. I get his point. With no freezer space and quickly ripening mangoes, I'm having trouble keeping up with the bounty. The few sellers in town that bother with them are advertising 1000 riel ($0.25) per kilo. When multiple friends declined to take any mangoes home because they have too many, it reminded me of my favorite Vermonter joke:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Q: Why do Vermonters lock their cars?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A: To keep their neighbors from putting zucchini inside.</span></div></span><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I've observed four basic techniques for harvesting mangoes:</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>1. The Easter Egg Hunt. </b>By far the easiest method, and how perfect is it that mango season and Easter occur so close together? But it's frowned upon by many Cambodians because the fallen ones are often overripe and/or full of worms. Not always, though! I found many that were only half-filled with worms (hey, if one side is still good, why not?) and some that were unscathed.</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ24seZa9ZMSIe92oDpCmWfOlx24KNDaEvfeP2z-EdN9PAWgdF6pO1QfII441BfySorWugl-PHU7Lzf3F1JDlhtM2SrfVJjbeAcTVZ7jy3Ft3dkOk5TW7KxKB73WitsLr4Npju_wOT4YYQLxMgVqhD_ZPVqfhXHzUZzd0jSFeLwyiBb4YJPLy-_e5k/s912/Scavenged%20yellow%20mango.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="605" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ24seZa9ZMSIe92oDpCmWfOlx24KNDaEvfeP2z-EdN9PAWgdF6pO1QfII441BfySorWugl-PHU7Lzf3F1JDlhtM2SrfVJjbeAcTVZ7jy3Ft3dkOk5TW7KxKB73WitsLr4Npju_wOT4YYQLxMgVqhD_ZPVqfhXHzUZzd0jSFeLwyiBb4YJPLy-_e5k/s320/Scavenged%20yellow%20mango.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I hesitated to pick up this yellow mango, but it was in perfect condition</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This technique works especially well after a storm. It's literally a windfall, where pristine mangoes are torn from their branches and whipped to the ground with terrific force. If they're still firm enough, they won't even be bruised. But these days, when I hear mangoes falling, there are so many already on the ground that it's hard to spot the latest arrivals.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxIYAPm9z52Zas8Z7oVTYnuP_yHo43mtufPDCBk_brzLgGicce2bqVtmDazuRmgaX9OUAdU01_dxFzlA29X-A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Cows are also partial to this technique. We don't mind, but the local cowherd does. (He never used to, so we're theorizing it might be because of the big new wall that the Gabriels' landlord built around the perimeter last year.) They seem to be OK with even the rotting ones - good for them!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYpRE6fLSPjMVzIRvSbIiBclSJ0o5Hy3QYa9Z7sLuWTYYwrat-0ZVl_bMEPyho01MJ9ZmunYzi4bGEIjlXHFVN_uF0pZWqcZ4-2lrMG_hoeDFSHx4OZb5HPeegxQDM1esrCtTb9sXHYt9_jQCHXVvSeKwVYYNjpsFnKhy3yO7Eu72iSkDi_0DYjz7/s4032/Cows%20eating%20mangoes.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYpRE6fLSPjMVzIRvSbIiBclSJ0o5Hy3QYa9Z7sLuWTYYwrat-0ZVl_bMEPyho01MJ9ZmunYzi4bGEIjlXHFVN_uF0pZWqcZ4-2lrMG_hoeDFSHx4OZb5HPeegxQDM1esrCtTb9sXHYt9_jQCHXVvSeKwVYYNjpsFnKhy3yO7Eu72iSkDi_0DYjz7/s320/Cows%20eating%20mangoes.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzCaXuH3WESZQOzTS-lpmJlxfV9DeKV16ZbsNi9ePX-qWsZITnb-RyGKcYZPBbC7zwd3DYVoor6B_dJSK11Nw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: justify;"><b style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="font-weight: bold;">2. The Lacrosse Game.</b> AKA the "right" way. The apparatus varies, but basically you need a very long pole attached to some sort of basket. It's possible to <a href="https://www.amazon.in/Hectare-Picker-Replaceable-Cotton-Harvester/dp/B07N82J9P3/ref=pd_sbs_sccl_1_1/257-7807539-1078355?pd_rd_w=9io8X&pf_rd_p=2cc6ee6d-5e48-4262-84d1-99c2a988deb6&pf_rd_r=XTSBWP077TJ3K6VAYENN&pd_rd_r=28b21fec-9bc1-462a-ae6e-ab0e2d7a542e&pd_rd_wg=JGgSW&pd_rd_i=B07N82J9P3&psc=1">buy a mango picker</a>, but the Gabriels and many others prefer the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuqDb5eU0TE">DIY</a> route, attaching a bamboo pole to a soda bottle with a hole cut out of the side. Ours was missing a slit at the top to help catch and cut the stem, so Carolyn helped me improve it, which really helped. Previously the mangoes all seemed to fall out of the bottle when I pulled it down.</div></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This month marked my first successful experience picking mangoes this way. Previously I'd watched others when visiting people with mango trees, but my occasional brief attempts had ended in frustration and my turn being given to another guest. At the Gabriels', with no one else in line, I've had a chance for more practice. I still get irritated trying to pick the less-ripe ones which are firmly attached to the tree, even though the ideal time to pick a mango is when only the top is turning yellow. But the fully yellow ones are so ripe they practically fall off when you breathe in their general direction. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwzwb9t3LguIwNyVwu9w6QI86iGLyl0uFc6oAOeteTWI8vAj4oZSVoT3I1wry3g7DFwwfe-mQOz3ogk_y0a-w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This mango ended up on top of my Easter custard, shown below</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Plas Prai dorm students are master mango pickers. They harvested probably 200 good ones from our yard in about 15 minutes in late March. I need to get them to come back soon for a repeat performance, since they have 40+ mouths and almost no mango trees on their property. Our landlords and other visitors, including the roofing crew shown below, also picked some mangoes to take home from the two "Chinese" mango trees out front. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwk0H2af4H-ZXZfpdaE0QwqXmQgURhn3zY38DEr9lxSzVZYAj47xsP72LPj839SElcmI4cXUowZj6fx9iSmOQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>3. The Pi</b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b>ñ</b></span><b>ata. </b>Sometimes it's easier to bludgeon the mangoes to the ground than it is to secure them in the soda bottle and gently lower them. The green ones are resilient enough that this can actually be an effective strategy. This technique also commonly occurs by accident while trying to situate the mango picker. Mangoes on long stems swing around at least as much as pi<span style="line-height: 107%;">ñ</span>atas, and it's much more difficult to aim with a 12-foot bamboo pole than with a 2-foot baseball bat. It's a fun surprise to see which mangoes actually come down!</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="font-family: georgia;">4. The Fly-By.</b><span style="font-family: georgia;"> This technique is not available to humans but is widely practiced among moths and other winged creatures, who lay their eggs in the mangoes. Presto! What seemed to be a delectable mango with one tiny spot on the peel can turn out to be as crisscrossed as an ant farm inside.</span><b style="font-family: georgia;"> </b><span style="font-family: georgia;">I think they're the biggest winners in our mango jackpot, accounting for about 1/3 of our mangoes. But that's OK... there's plenty to go around.</span></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPiZgk5ZHLK_sPqAT0rfLdg2NageDWtJ-LRyB6s86t3AC502bwPDJeImNzyykYvf9KQH-Cjpi7mv2c_JOurK3bKE3HhdkD4t1O-M2cKWUsbJPSwmp0s1P5PB4bkoXoWN9H_7qjl6bbgoa1410gnKqeIC30D-19PjJ4beq3ABZXENHwxDM1eQ1eQ3H/s4032/IMG_0535.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZPiZgk5ZHLK_sPqAT0rfLdg2NageDWtJ-LRyB6s86t3AC502bwPDJeImNzyykYvf9KQH-Cjpi7mv2c_JOurK3bKE3HhdkD4t1O-M2cKWUsbJPSwmp0s1P5PB4bkoXoWN9H_7qjl6bbgoa1410gnKqeIC30D-19PjJ4beq3ABZXENHwxDM1eQ1eQ3H/s320/IMG_0535.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">Plas Prai dorm students and I made mango bread with mangoes picked by their classmates</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51d6uzOrltAbu9g6hQXxsW1h9-e31ixGM8q635mFw0QGrCKaoa5NBdJN9fvz-NyswR_efulmIZk1nzeExTITmoelmXf1ld-7kHbflOvlsRqLSDESIxlFhBpVkZDTvzhEvXh3tR8sAy3HYUH687hPL1qVogm8fxjzTePBowceWVdUA-qS3XllzbyJX/s4032/IMG_0572.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj51d6uzOrltAbu9g6hQXxsW1h9-e31ixGM8q635mFw0QGrCKaoa5NBdJN9fvz-NyswR_efulmIZk1nzeExTITmoelmXf1ld-7kHbflOvlsRqLSDESIxlFhBpVkZDTvzhEvXh3tR8sAy3HYUH687hPL1qVogm8fxjzTePBowceWVdUA-qS3XllzbyJX/s320/IMG_0572.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My plan to bring mango bread to Plas Prai's Khmer New Year party spurred on my scavenging through early April</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW8uuPbRR9PmsRXCU2n7GKN2NARSWRs8v4Pdoqv0_V6Ex5spRuiqDNGmGCAmn1jn-z4Mfh0rFkrcfMs6kfqb5XzJMvyz3n0jQQkouPN1oLsM7GaZru3zyakUbBJ-wxgdUHYnjm3RCIQL6pvqCfWKGEWBW-gBHKePv4vZpO45GsJjY0db5FpmtOz8V/s4032/Mango%20coconut%20custard%20before.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWW8uuPbRR9PmsRXCU2n7GKN2NARSWRs8v4Pdoqv0_V6Ex5spRuiqDNGmGCAmn1jn-z4Mfh0rFkrcfMs6kfqb5XzJMvyz3n0jQQkouPN1oLsM7GaZru3zyakUbBJ-wxgdUHYnjm3RCIQL6pvqCfWKGEWBW-gBHKePv4vZpO45GsJjY0db5FpmtOz8V/s320/Mango%20coconut%20custard%20before.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Easter dessert: mango coconut custard adorned with a fresh-picked mango (see picking video above in #2) </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">Preah Vihear has a limited selection of groceries, but it's amazing to me to find mangoes in such abundance. Picking them, especially off the ground, reminds me of the Israelites in the wilderness. They went out each morning to gather manna that they hadn't worked for, didn't understand, and mostly took for granted. To an unappreciative bunch of whiners, day by day, God gave a life-sustaining gift. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I don't know if I'll be quite this diligent every year to gather, slice, freeze, and cook with mangoes. But I'm committed to spend time each year enjoying them and helping others enjoy them. They are still my favorite part of hot season and a source of joy to this highly experienced whiner. Mangoes, like manna, are a relentless gift. </p></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-14664944717479827602022-03-31T22:56:00.010-07:002022-04-01T02:16:50.712-07:00Humans of Preah Vihear 2<span style="font-family: georgia;">Today I want to introduce you to Ry. I first met her when she was in grade 10, her first year as a student at the Plas Prai dorm. Like other students, she was from a low-income rural family that lived too far from a high school to send her there without help. I remember Ry was always up for a volleyball or soccer game, and she consistently attended the optional Bible study. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">After graduating in 2020, she attended Discipleship Training School with YWAM. Last fall, at age 21, she joined YWAM as a faith-based volunteer at our dorm. She was offered a full scholarship to university, which we're hoping she'll accept after her 2-year dorm service. She's also a student in our part-time <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2022/01/school-of-applied-ministry.html">Bible school</a>, and like the others, she recorded testimony videos with our guest lecturer Bora back in January. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ry is laid-back, quick to laugh, and passionate about Jesus. No wonder some of the male students have crushes on her. </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I'm getting to know not only Ry but also her family. Ry's younger sister Khoun, age 20, is a new grade 10 student this year at Plas Prai. (Many rural students start school late because they have to walk or bike to school, and repeating grades is also pretty common.) Last week, I got to join Ry and two others to visit Ry's parents back in the village. More on that below.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uwWPAhoojns" width="320" youtube-src-id="uwWPAhoojns"></iframe></span></div>
<div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><b>Video 1: "<a href="https://youtu.be/uwWPAhoojns"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My life has hope</span></a>"</b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Hi, my name is Ry. I’m from Jey Sain district, Preah Vihear province, and currently living in Preah Vihear town. I volunteer at the Plas Prai dorm for high school students, which is where I first became a Christian. I want to tell you about how I first believed in Jesus.
I used to be really shy and critical of myself, always comparing myself to others. I was insecure, timid, and afraid. I was so focused on comparison that I didn’t want to be around other people. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">But when I came to live at Plas Prai, I learned a lot about the God who created the world. He’s the only one who can rescue us. He came to earth, died for our sin, rose again, and returned to heaven.
When I believed in Jesus, my life changed dramatically. I understood my identity: who I am, where I came from, and where I’m going – to heaven to be with God. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Once I believed, I wasn’t afraid anymore. I trusted God’s plans for my future and stopped comparing myself to others. I understood Jesus’ love for me and I wanted to show it to other people around me. Jesus humbled himself by giving up heaven to become a humble person and He loves people no matter their situation or status. He forgives our sins. The Bible says healthy people don’t need a doctor – only sick people do. Similarly, Jesus came to save people who know they are sinners. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">In my life, since believing in Jesus, I’ve seen that He’s with me every day and He won’t let me lack anything or be afraid, no matter what situation I face. He’s our best friend who will never abandon us. In Matthew 28:20, Jesus tells us to teach others to obey His commands and know that He’s with us until the end of time. Learning all of this helped me to trust Him even more and see how amazing He is.” </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ivBKv9OxJTc" width="320" youtube-src-id="ivBKv9OxJTc"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div><b style="font-family: georgia;">Video 2: "</b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivBKv9OxJTc " style="font-family: georgia;"><b>My experience being mocked for my faith</b></a><b style="font-family: georgia;">"</b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I want to talk a bit about my experience when I first believed in Jesus. I experienced some persecution as the first believer in my family, but more than my family, it was my neighbors and especially my friends who really spoke out against me. They made fun of me and called me 'Jesus.' But I told them, 'No, I’m not God.' My older brother-in-law had learned about Christianity before, but it was so different from what I had learned about God: that He’s the God of salvation who created the heavens and the earth.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">My friends also used to criticize me: 'You’re graduating high school [which is rare in Jey Sain] but you don’t have a job. Why do you want to be a volunteer serving God with no salary?' But I told them, 'I’ve received Christ and now want to serve Him. I don’t need to focus on earthly wealth that can be stolen or devoured by bugs and rats. I’m focusing on treasure in heaven that can’t be lost or burnt or destroyed.' To me, the most important thing is to see people around me receive salvation. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">God encouraged me that even though I’m a poor volunteer right now, I can have joy in seeing people accept Christ.
We can’t take money with us when we die, but God is preparing amazing heavenly treasure for believers. So I want to encourage my fellow Christians not to worry about wealth on earth and what to eat every day. Let’s trust God and follow Him daily.”</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Ry's family</b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The trip to Ry's village last week was 27 miles but took us about 90 minutes, mostly on the last few miles after we got off a good road. It was so bumpy that poor Sophoeurt, Ry's best friend and fellow dorm grad-turned-volunteer, got carsick multiple times even after moving back to the truck bed. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">On the way, Carolyn and I asked Ry about her parents. She said her mom is quiet but her dad is social. They married for love, somewhat unusual for their generation, and still love each other, which is even more unusual. They don't fight much, partly because Ry's dad rarely gets drunk. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ry is the 6th of 8 children and the first in her family to finish high school.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgo7qJfMeOCwp00vpfvykicheri9SB-bu5l3zobGopAR3hCT1o0JMEDuO_sNghC9weRCSp1sNwM0NQUDgA_VUE-QWA3i2OV3kj_daKWpHmzp74BzlGni_ai5Ghu4m61YccO7oXZLsCvHihA5JqYsKlDJUcCfNIUbildgoZgB0JJEzl-2yDBG9l9DOE/s4032/IMG_0489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgo7qJfMeOCwp00vpfvykicheri9SB-bu5l3zobGopAR3hCT1o0JMEDuO_sNghC9weRCSp1sNwM0NQUDgA_VUE-QWA3i2OV3kj_daKWpHmzp74BzlGni_ai5Ghu4m61YccO7oXZLsCvHihA5JqYsKlDJUcCfNIUbildgoZgB0JJEzl-2yDBG9l9DOE/s320/IMG_0489.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L to R: Sophoeurt, Ry's parents, Ry</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">When Ry was a child, her dad had a plowing accident and lost a toe, but because the local clinic didn't treat it well, his foot became infected. Ultimately the regional hospital had to amputate his whole foot and he now has a plastic prosthetic from a NGO (non-profit group). Since then, he mostly stays home from farming their rice and cassava fields. But he loves running errands by motorcycle to the market in the nearest town, maybe a 20-minute trip, for the few staple ingredients that they don't grow themselves, like oil, sugar, and salt.</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We went mostly to ask permission from the village chief to conduct a clinic at their house in July with a short-term medical team from the US. Their home is plain and the yard is all dirt, but things seemed well-cared-for. Ry's younger brother and older sister were there most of the time, as well as the sister's husband and son, but they said hi briefly and then went off to do other tasks. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">It was my first time meeting a village chief, and I wasn't sure what to expect. I asked if I needed to dress up, knowing that for meetings with Phnom Penh officials, there can be quite a formal dress code. But Jim and Carolyn told me to wear my regular rubber flip-flops instead of nicer shoes so I wouldn't make him look bad. They were right - he didn't make a special effort to look nice. I guess going to someone's house is different from meeting at a government building.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The first five minutes with the village chief were terrifying. He told us to keep the clinic very low-key by accepting ten patients once a week, so the school wouldn't have too many absent students. Clearly he'd heard a very partial account of our plan. We hesitantly explained that the visitors were coming to this village for just a day and that they hoped to welcome 100 patients. Thankfully, he was open to that and our other ideas, and sat with us for hours under the house, chatting about his trips to distant provinces and eating Ry's mom's delicious sticky rice with jackfruit and coconut... all three were home-grown. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkslWUwx_VmovKKnYWmCRGH8qNhzuQg6xXQk37eG23KIUQfMNWZeiflZZoQFcocwdXBYHfyQj5oW08B30dDBd30uX83KxZ5rkmAqxEJVad6P6V8pj2nGm7AhAubvoMEFf1MetfVk3gnlnHWaBJ1AsVjFeBIByOBGEKxDmvNQGZvDbeTty2vLS3ZVF/s4032/IMG_0479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZkslWUwx_VmovKKnYWmCRGH8qNhzuQg6xXQk37eG23KIUQfMNWZeiflZZoQFcocwdXBYHfyQj5oW08B30dDBd30uX83KxZ5rkmAqxEJVad6P6V8pj2nGm7AhAubvoMEFf1MetfVk3gnlnHWaBJ1AsVjFeBIByOBGEKxDmvNQGZvDbeTty2vLS3ZVF/s320/IMG_0479.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rice (regular and sticky varieties) grown by Ry's family</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9GrHxUpbONXVQ5_7DjJM8OzDk7JbTKUZ958zdiUJU7mdzKmIThyd2UOM_cc7iGm5EWppDDmIODK0MVPZlPH2yd_lr0hfjetoYckIEc4LOqemTajwVSbJM2L-c4b4oMTq2QndytOYeEuD1JK35RRs6QhAfUHvUIFp5Zos5wk3rkKvi0nyNJFkDzxr/s4032/IMG_0485.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9GrHxUpbONXVQ5_7DjJM8OzDk7JbTKUZ958zdiUJU7mdzKmIThyd2UOM_cc7iGm5EWppDDmIODK0MVPZlPH2yd_lr0hfjetoYckIEc4LOqemTajwVSbJM2L-c4b4oMTq2QndytOYeEuD1JK35RRs6QhAfUHvUIFp5Zos5wk3rkKvi0nyNJFkDzxr/s320/IMG_0485.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ry's mom sent the leftover sticky rice with Ry for Khoun and the other dorm students</td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">The chief's house, right across the road, will be our second clinic site so we don't have to cram 100 patients under one house all day - especially if it's stormy or sunny. He and Ry's dad debated for a while about which road would be more reliable in rainy season. The conclusion? Both could be problematic for the pickup truck. Unless a bridge is built over a creek on one road, we'll probably need to rent a tractor to make it through the mud on the other road.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxXceiO3z8hXy5xpF6d-Iv5zHTUzGxeoK3V1RorBME5yI1rFKlf7vxnLp5nXL-5c7yPol0atZ0Ft7mrEL2-cA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A bridge is apparently coming soon. In the meantime, the creek is passable during dry season, but might not be by July.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Ry and Sophoeurt cooked lunch for us with Ry's mom ("Auntie") while we met with her dad and the chief. Afterward, Carolyn and I begged for permission to help wash dishes so we could spend time with Auntie, who surprised us by being very sweet and happy to chat with us, though a bit shyer than Ry's dad. We watched her make another kind of sticky rice to send back for Khoun (her younger daughter) and the other dorm students, along with a jackfruit and another kind of fruit that Ry and Sophoeurt scavenged in the forest behind their house.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-3miljihjo1SGOqIHG0EmCVQElx1LqJeRLI6IlnVcNgcSZvy81eeUBV2SbGWGFb69kzjAXoSmt8gGA_ugeka2VtekN6b_czscTtNXEP_r1hZiOr4gyiN7CcS-tF3BO-x7wAsq56OqMVpnYxKXE55scoc4lfE2H7rW8ifpkO9DN6N7OAbTgRhOfmA/s4032/IMG_0490.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-3miljihjo1SGOqIHG0EmCVQElx1LqJeRLI6IlnVcNgcSZvy81eeUBV2SbGWGFb69kzjAXoSmt8gGA_ugeka2VtekN6b_czscTtNXEP_r1hZiOr4gyiN7CcS-tF3BO-x7wAsq56OqMVpnYxKXE55scoc4lfE2H7rW8ifpkO9DN6N7OAbTgRhOfmA/s320/IMG_0490.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sophoeurt shows off her forest findings - a bit like grapes</td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div><br /></div><div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJgdwsbG0rgX1xAsJM6eM1vd6PfBdwwGyuKbGQhWSifXGKbmRsgRIcdGlEo_cz0DfW81byfpbampXb55YdPc1POOD7rAGQr1HrpKMXSomDy_q5K40UM6o4dJCm9fY0V5OMvzrG6ZHTNviBCtodkepkhPb_Hy-yEeF-tQJTCTKl5vM4E-Q2tf0fkp0/s4032/IMG_0475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYJgdwsbG0rgX1xAsJM6eM1vd6PfBdwwGyuKbGQhWSifXGKbmRsgRIcdGlEo_cz0DfW81byfpbampXb55YdPc1POOD7rAGQr1HrpKMXSomDy_q5K40UM6o4dJCm9fY0V5OMvzrG6ZHTNviBCtodkepkhPb_Hy-yEeF-tQJTCTKl5vM4E-Q2tf0fkp0/s320/IMG_0475.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ry's mom steaming the sticky rice over an open wood fire</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7l0VQXr96MY9hJfCsks4INAENLyBFO4C1cb68h5DWiqMZTLhqevBAcrfmlGZ5aoJA1QzZIDjP5YEMdzFeG31m4WGCzrlN2vvtU4RULgzbu4VPvs9vF0q2NdeZE7G8s3cYsjepZsECPCTFxTa6kgKMrTsgE6UbcaxOFRhilb1FwKBoJYAHzEcSIS-/s4032/IMG_0476.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP7l0VQXr96MY9hJfCsks4INAENLyBFO4C1cb68h5DWiqMZTLhqevBAcrfmlGZ5aoJA1QzZIDjP5YEMdzFeG31m4WGCzrlN2vvtU4RULgzbu4VPvs9vF0q2NdeZE7G8s3cYsjepZsECPCTFxTa6kgKMrTsgE6UbcaxOFRhilb1FwKBoJYAHzEcSIS-/s320/IMG_0476.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Effortlessly flipping the sticky rice to steam the other side</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ry's mom said she feels stupid because she doesn't know how to read, even though illiteracy is common among women of her generation. I told her it's pretty amazing that she raised eight children to adulthood. It couldn't have been easy to care for them all. I also surprised her by telling her that in America we don't know how to make sticky rice or wrap things in banana leaves - in fact, I'd never seen a banana leaf before moving to Cambodia. Doesn't she make it look easy in the video below? (The banana leaves keep the hot sticky rice from melting the plastic bag, which Ry had brought from the market in town - the only plastic bag they could find in the house. I'm sure the leaves were from a nearby tree. Cambodians often wrap smaller snacks in just banana leaves, but such a big amount would be hard to secure.)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyrAD10JIZhz-aq1BxdDKps7WRkSMduOi8lQ6TNCiE43Uz-waQCghozXczScSvH7g_BbxjlNyAfJ6vHjUFhmg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We joked that Auntie is the opposite of Ry, who was at the top of her class but isn't known for her cooking. She and Carolyn bonded over their adult children and the fact that neither of them knows how to drive a motorcycle... Carolyn drives a truck, but Ry's mom can't leave the village unless someone takes her. We asked her what she thinks about Ry being a Christian. "No problem," she answered. What would she like Ry to do in the future? "It's up to her." Most of Ry's siblings are farmers in the same village. Her older sister, who thinks she's 22 (Ry's age) or maybe 23, has a 7-year-old son. Her younger brother dropped out to help on the farm - subsistence farmers often can't afford to let their sons finish school. Ry's life is such a contrast!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">While Carolyn and I were up in the kitchen with Ry's mom, Ry gave her dad a small device with a recording of the New Testament, which she'd received the previous week from a local NGO. When we came back downstairs, her dad was listening to it. Her parents are not yet believers, but she's courageously shared the Gospel with them, and they're interested in learning more. Ry says Khoun has also changed - she used to make fun of Ry for her faith, but since coming to Plas Prai, she's become more spiritually open. She prays to Jesus when she has a headache or at bedtime when she's afraid of spirits. She even cut off the amulets around </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">her waist</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">, which were meant to offer spiritual protection. I'm praying for their family and glad I'll have more contact with them. They seem warm and resilient, they were very patient with my Khmer, and they made me feel welcome. </span></div></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSbAa_UrmnYI_BiQWFMPWLaV-tDMldM7mJs8qqWjAkG2XyC8wCN61xrnUEJCdDY7xftKmC99ZmpagSv0EeaWqHQC2qBAPQAP0pWJQFd-WcqhXOSkaLFbH8jM4rMePZpoKIsnQCkYIa_QALiHYVorFgfFEnp9aWgGH-pFK3nENTYa0DWve74Oygxg5N/s4032/Khoun%20learning%20guitar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSbAa_UrmnYI_BiQWFMPWLaV-tDMldM7mJs8qqWjAkG2XyC8wCN61xrnUEJCdDY7xftKmC99ZmpagSv0EeaWqHQC2qBAPQAP0pWJQFd-WcqhXOSkaLFbH8jM4rMePZpoKIsnQCkYIa_QALiHYVorFgfFEnp9aWgGH-pFK3nENTYa0DWve74Oygxg5N/s320/Khoun%20learning%20guitar.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khoun is learning guitar at the dorm</td></tr></tbody></table></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-73004572778491508742022-02-22T07:51:00.175-08:002022-03-04T21:32:22.109-08:00Humans of Preah Vihear 1<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>In this blog post, I want to introduce you to three Bible school students whom I got to visit last weekend: Map, Ngoeurt, and Chantha. My World Team colleague Joel and I drove out to their homes last week on the western edge of Preah Vihear province, Kulen district, to follow up with them and encourage them. We're their mentors throughout Bible school, trying to meet them once monthly in-person and once monthly on Facebook Messenger. (Joel is mentoring Map and Ngoeurt; I'm mentoring Chantha.) I also listened recently to Map and Ngoeurt's testimonies of coming to Christ, which they recorded during last month along with </span>most of the Bible school students and instructors. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GLFAFFJKOnc" width="320" youtube-src-id="GLFAFFJKOnc"></iframe></span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">Map </span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I want to
tell you about my life before I believed in Jesus. I used to be very stubborn. I’d
stay out drinking until late at night, and when I came home, I’d curse and start
arguments with my wife, kids, and other family members. My wife took me to see a fortune teller who
predicted that she and I would get a divorce. I still loved my
wife, and hearing that I was destined for divorce made me afraid, especially
because I have children.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"My
mother-in-law believed in Jesus and I saw God do a miracle in her life. She
used to be sick all the time. The witch doctor told her she was demon-possessed
and needed to tear out a pillar in her house where the demon lived. She tore
out the pillar, and he said, “Now put in a new pillar or else a disaster will
happen to your family.” But by that point, she had believed in Jesus and
been healed from her bondage to spirits
and witchcraft. Her physical health was restored. Seeing these miracles, I realized that ever since she believed,
my mother-in-law has really had freedom from demonic bondage.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I let my
wife believe in Jesus before I did, but I gave her a hard time about it. “Are
you following that Jesus guy? You’re gonna believe in the foreigners’ god?” But
my wife replied, “This god isn’t just for foreigners. My mom told me to believe
in Jesus because he created the heavens and the earth. He has victory over evil
spirits, and He doesn’t want us two and our family to split apart, but to love
each other.” I believed her, so I joined her to worship with other believers. Once I became a Christian through her and had freedom, I<i> </i>buried
my<i> </i>sin with God. I was free to serve God and I had hope of rising from
the dead with Him. I really believed that He would break the chains that evil
spirits had used to enslave me.</span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I have
freedom in God. Christ died for my sin and washed me as clean as He is so I can
walk in the way of righteousness. My body is well and I have victory in Jesus. My relationships with my wife and family and neighbors aren’t like before, and I've seen other miracles. Now I’m leading a house church in Sbal village.
Back while I was still a terrible person, God chose me." </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwjikAsmmW9fjPnP1MqTJoA9Sbw5FqXCOwvY7k7FPAivr4JUm1_02O3oJSPV2RtVbkiNNwWxeQUzpoB2jtECG--iuRWzW1l7Mr1rr_aLa7kj3vKWtFGY8xypmTwwcUgzy0Ebh9R9McB1vA0oZSdazLKN4EpThauQMhU8eQZ3cYAfyQdd7Q8oTEOKLe=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwjikAsmmW9fjPnP1MqTJoA9Sbw5FqXCOwvY7k7FPAivr4JUm1_02O3oJSPV2RtVbkiNNwWxeQUzpoB2jtECG--iuRWzW1l7Mr1rr_aLa7kj3vKWtFGY8xypmTwwcUgzy0Ebh9R9McB1vA0oZSdazLKN4EpThauQMhU8eQZ3cYAfyQdd7Q8oTEOKLe=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>Map welcomed us at his in-laws' house, which is still missing a center pillar. </i><i>Joel told him, "It's just as well, that pillar would have been in the way when you host the church here every week." </i><i>You can see one of the other center pillars between two of the fence posts. </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/SYspkuA__yY" width="320" youtube-src-id="SYspkuA__yY"></iframe></div><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Map joined us to visit Ngoeurt and Chantha. On the way back to his house, he played a recording of his wife singing a familiar Christian hymn about Jesus at Calvary, but with a new melody that she made up. "I love listening to her sing to our family in the evenings," he said. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">As we listened, I took this video of the country roads we were driving down. Enjoy this peek of authentic rural sights and sounds!</span></i></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/GT53oQ3kQK4" width="320" youtube-src-id="GT53oQ3kQK4"></iframe></span></b></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><b><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ngoeurt</span></b></div></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Hi, I’m Snguon
Ngoeurt. I’m 32 years old and I have a wife and two daughters. When I first
believed in Jesus, a lot of people criticized
me because I was the very first believer in our community. They looked down on
me and persecuted me a lot, and sometimes I felt weak and tired and discouraged.
But thank God that he still loved me and encouraged me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"One month later, I went on a
trip to study the Bible and share the Gospel with others. My relatives were
criticizing me to my wife: “How will you provide for your kids if your husband
is busy with this stuff?” they asked. They really made her feel bad, and said
that we'd lost our traditional religion. God reminded me, “We’re
believing in Jesus for salvation, not for other gain. We just want the life
that God promised us.” I told my wife that no matter how much wealth we have on earth,
it’s worthless if we don’t believe in God. She started to talk more with me about Christ and
she didn’t turn away to the right or left.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Soon after that, my mother-in-law
was still harassing me and saying, “You give stuff away, but I don’t see
people giving things back to you.” I used to have everything I needed – rice,
soup, food – and I gave it away to help people in need around me, even though they never gave anything back to me. So I said, “God told us to do good deeds and
forgive our enemies.” Many people in our village, like the district chief, were
talking about me being a Christian. Thank God that I really trusted Him and
persevered. God helped me to be strong.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Another time, I got a serious
cut on my foot and two toes were severed. The doctor wanted to amputate, but I said,
“Please don’t amputate them. Sew them back on. I’m trusting God to keep them on.” The doctor was skeptical, but he sewed them back on and my foot was fine.
The toes stayed attached. When I cut my foot, people criticized me more than
ever and I felt down. I thought, “Why does life have to go up and down like
this?” But God touched my heart through his word. I kept sharing the Gospel and
many people in my family believed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Then my wife had another
problem. She and I were in the rice field, far away from our village, and neither
of us knew anything was wrong. We ate dinner and went to sleep out in the field.
Then her body suddenly stiffened and her jaw locked tightly closed. I shook her and she didn’t wake up. I tried to open her mouth but I couldn’t.
I panicked and started crying. Then I remembered the God of salvation. I prayed
and prayed, three times. She woke up and opened her mouth, asking, “What
happened to me?” I was so relieved. Thank God. If not for Him, she might not be
here now.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"From then on, I was stronger and persevered in
my faith. People stopped harassing me and looking down on me. I was so
convinced that “Jesus is God and He saved me from my sin and all these problems in
my life.” I kept sharing the Gospel and saw many more relatives and neighbors
believe. There were 100 people at one point but now there are fewer… some of
them just wanted healing and didn’t really care about Jesus. Thank God that my
wife and I really trust him now and our community no longer mocks our faith." <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiVmlxajVqhugOM3U2kZ-5awwvxqMeR8nd3ye8lUUGNoQ8PeTxVEbFleMJZGbKEODXu4sCmFalaojUMIRRnAd7LDSrknSaESlItdqMTMp-_ihc076x8tcaUh4Zc_NboeJ-QtOStKgkvZgXvsnHCjE4gmm_155ckZs_hERCGBA2pdWXYasijiuO-GRQ=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgiVmlxajVqhugOM3U2kZ-5awwvxqMeR8nd3ye8lUUGNoQ8PeTxVEbFleMJZGbKEODXu4sCmFalaojUMIRRnAd7LDSrknSaESlItdqMTMp-_ihc076x8tcaUh4Zc_NboeJ-QtOStKgkvZgXvsnHCjE4gmm_155ckZs_hERCGBA2pdWXYasijiuO-GRQ=s320" width="320" /></span></i></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Ngoeurt (left) and his daughters (as well as his wife and parents) welcomed Joel (center) and Map (right) last Sunday. Ngoeurt's wife, not pictured, is also a strong believer who would like to attend our Bible school in the next round.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">Chantha</span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Chantha and I only overlapped for one day of Bible school, so I didn't get to know her as well as the others who spent four days studying the Gospels with me. (That's also why she wasn't there to make a testimony video.) But I heard great things about her, and I can see why. When she sat down to look through her homework assignments with her previous mentor Saroth and me, she shone. (Saroth is busy raising three young kids and helping with the Plas Prai dorm, and she can't make it out to Chantha's village, so I'm taking over Chantha's mentoring for the second half of Chantha's two-year commitment.) Chantha was supposed to memorize eight of ten Bible verses, but she'd memorized all ten so fluently Saroth and I could barely keep up reading them. She was supposed to keep a prayer list and pray through it daily, missing no more than 20%. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Wow, it looks like you didn't miss any days at all!" Saroth praised her. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Yeah, but I wish I'd prayed longer. It was only about fifteen minutes some days." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Hold on. You prayed at least fifteen minutes every day the past three months? That's really great!" </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Chantha just blushed.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Chantha works a few days a month for World Vision's relief efforts. I think she also helps on her family's farm, but I didn't quite understand her answer... I'm still adjusting to conversations with people here. At thirty-one, she might be the oldest single I've met here, so it's neat that we have that in common. I didn't get to see her home when Joel and I visited, but she told me she lives with a teenage sibling, while many other siblings and her mom live in the same village. She and Ngoeurt are neighbors, so she just came over to his house to meet with me while Joel talked with Ngoeurt. Ngoeurt's mom and Chantha's sister-in-law, fellow believers, joined our conversation. Besides this sister-in-law, Chantha has two siblings who are spiritually open but no other Christian family members.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Chantha told me she's still going out sometimes to another village where she shares the Gospel, but it's been challenging with her ministry partner away all last month. After worshiping at Ngoeurt's house Sunday mornings, she drives about an hour each way on her moto to encourage several elderly believers who are shut-in and ill. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Is that safe?" I asked her. Joel and I had just been discussing how I shouldn't go too far out of town alone in case my moto broke down. These roads are pretty empty and you're at the mercy of whoever comes by first. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Yeah, I'm not worried about it." </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">The girl's got gumption!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiomQNwWrS8ioOoj4sAH5-Kz2XvcO7gEk-aVnEvYvzgu9NxANMQHEm0mSq7CmEPFb3HF8xW1IynEFYPez8ym47xolnLSYz4D226T4HB0VEgNHF00v_DAA57Sij-bBwvzlc5CH1Z3BEAw3I0x1PZ4biNSZhXUOj9h5qY6Re1q-wLx8RQpaIfZcClQl2f=s3088" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiomQNwWrS8ioOoj4sAH5-Kz2XvcO7gEk-aVnEvYvzgu9NxANMQHEm0mSq7CmEPFb3HF8xW1IynEFYPez8ym47xolnLSYz4D226T4HB0VEgNHF00v_DAA57Sij-bBwvzlc5CH1Z3BEAw3I0x1PZ4biNSZhXUOj9h5qY6Re1q-wLx8RQpaIfZcClQl2f=s320" width="320" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>L to R: Chantha, Ngoeurt's mom, Chantha's older sister-in-law</i></span></div><p></p>
Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-18265066170412248192022-01-31T06:58:00.003-08:002022-02-02T15:16:47.903-08:00School of Applied Ministry<p style="text-align: justify;">Made it in the nick of time! I moved to Preah Vihear (the capital of a rural province in northern Cambodia) on Saturday, January 15, and Bible school started two days later. If I'd had to quarantine on arrival, I would have missed most or all of it. These meetings Monday-Friday made up module #4 of 8 in a two-year period. I'd never been around for it before, so I was looking forward to joining this cohort's fifteen students. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Each cohort member is from somewhere in Preah Vihear province and is actively involved in ministry. That could mean evangelism, discipleship, and/or leading a house church. They don't get a salary for that work, so most are also farmers. The school's one-week modules are timed to coincide with the agricultural seasons. Some students live nearby, but most travel in for the week and stay in the wooden house upstairs above our open-air training area (the same house I stayed in for ten weeks in 2018).</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0Nc4vwwdyntMKV4hCHvxIQ5xwhMg54QyGZoh9PqVRHGQxCAhOhb6ezZYN5GeNg9AfOC3p3sndzJGU0Uo_TpcHlQcDjDJYsElobOA01pACbWxu6Q0rfixIHq-sZPXGh0w9Brh8GXERemY5q02H3a1KBw5keGRvj8hUnplqjvBtq0_kIEckrCZ8KptC=s1632" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0Nc4vwwdyntMKV4hCHvxIQ5xwhMg54QyGZoh9PqVRHGQxCAhOhb6ezZYN5GeNg9AfOC3p3sndzJGU0Uo_TpcHlQcDjDJYsElobOA01pACbWxu6Q0rfixIHq-sZPXGh0w9Brh8GXERemY5q02H3a1KBw5keGRvj8hUnplqjvBtq0_kIEckrCZ8KptC=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">My goal? Not to help - just to participate alongside the students. Eventually I'll use my teaching experience to support the instructors, who are mostly Cambodian, but for now I wanted to stay in the learner's seat. It was a great way to re-immerse my brain in the Khmer language, get to know cohort members, and deepen my understanding of the Bible. It also familiarized me with the school's style.</p><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">So what is the Preah Vihear School of Applied Ministry (PVSAM) about? In short, the Bible. <span style="text-align: left;">But the goal isn't just for participants to understand the Bible better, but to use it in their communities. As you might guess from the name "School of</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><b style="text-align: left;">Applied Ministry</b><span style="text-align: left;">,"</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">the PVSAM aims to be transferable and reproducible, offering tools that students can use in their everyday lives as Christian lay leaders. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Its motto is "Equipping, Practicing, Sending."</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">We want to help them make disciples, who will in turn make disciples, who will... well, you get the idea.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Its core is a broad overview, illustrated in the timeline below, showing that "the Bible is one unified story that points to Jesus." (The timeline is by my teammates and their daughter, not by the <a href="https://bibleproject.com/">Bible Project</a>, but we did watch several Bible Project videos in Khmer throughout the week.) This module, #4 of 8, focused on the four Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), so it was all about Jesus.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbNPaiwY5hTRgXXuo3Z3EAOJW9riE8qCGfK8o0otswHdjaKF8dRPrHIf3sd3HXeR2hJnQysIY9-mk1CSyuRZcQeIAm0RA-IZ7riJu50p5x6OB0wqAkDBLmzHzOYWRiqaZKgWTD8yBBlao4bE2mGAIzUMI5lA0HkPzzfV_Uf90ADXgd9h48xOWdSZIJ=s812" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="110" data-original-width="812" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjbNPaiwY5hTRgXXuo3Z3EAOJW9riE8qCGfK8o0otswHdjaKF8dRPrHIf3sd3HXeR2hJnQysIY9-mk1CSyuRZcQeIAm0RA-IZ7riJu50p5x6OB0wqAkDBLmzHzOYWRiqaZKgWTD8yBBlao4bE2mGAIzUMI5lA0HkPzzfV_Uf90ADXgd9h48xOWdSZIJ=w640-h86" width="640" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Each picture on the timeline has a title and several sub-points that students learn to say while doing an action. Part of each module's exam is to say and act out each picture they've learned so far. My good friend Sina made a brief video (below) demonstrating what students would need to know for the Module 4 exam. You'll see general points in the first minute, and then the two new pictures and their sub-points that were covered this module, representing "Jesus" and "Savior." </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0irepevp4ks" width="320" youtube-src-id="0irepevp4ks"></iframe></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">In between the eight modules, students' homework includes reading or listening to each book of the Bible twice, memorizing key verses, and praying daily. They also need weekly involvement in ministry and in spiritual conversations with unbelievers. Finally, each student sets a personal application goal following each module to complete in the three months before the next module. Each student is assigned a mentor who checks in with them at least every two weeks, including some in-person home visits out in the villages. Mentors pray with participants and help them apply what they've been learning in the modules and homework to their daily lives. I'm planning to help mentor one young woman whose passion for prayer and evangelism was infectious - I know I'll benefit from our time together, whether or not she does!</p><p style="text-align: justify;">In class, everyone read overviews of each book of the Bible from <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/What-Bible-About-Young-Explorers/dp/0830723633">What the Bible Is About for Young Explorers</a></i> (see sample pages below in English and Khmer) and studied the books through lectures and interactive activities. There were many opportunities to read and take notes, but the PVSAM is designed to be accessible to those with limited literacy. One current participant is functionally illiterate, while a few others are weak in reading and writing. So students received photos and images corresponding to various teaching points (ex. a mountain for the Sermon on the Mount, or a painting of the wedding at Cana). Students could paste them into their notebooks and were encouraged to draw their notes, not just write them. All written materials were read aloud so students could rely mainly on listening if needed. And the activities were all doable without writing.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYGsTkCV4tVlqPXJTOkexA6Pal-Pelf_kzsWI3l2Vpmf-r0s_TRWLdb81QWxzocP8bOTpjRSq6f-D_FnE3_zKN3RMtymdeBh8eIfkP4SGZNaYMEHgQeBWbwaPvGLj8IEYTCuhf59zmpm79wjaSkT3VlyEaBDoLkh1QWroko5uGcK0MYqcLvxxgVPdK=s812" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="812" data-original-width="747" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiYGsTkCV4tVlqPXJTOkexA6Pal-Pelf_kzsWI3l2Vpmf-r0s_TRWLdb81QWxzocP8bOTpjRSq6f-D_FnE3_zKN3RMtymdeBh8eIfkP4SGZNaYMEHgQeBWbwaPvGLj8IEYTCuhf59zmpm79wjaSkT3VlyEaBDoLkh1QWroko5uGcK0MYqcLvxxgVPdK=w294-h320" width="294" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJFv7EnwMrUWBRwWoHVtRH8CQ_xXxB7TOuyHyC40ZK5Pac1PVEKfLrrAHU3CpPpKxW7W8QkOn2G9X1A5gRWKvmgmk1uuJMXwclm6u3TnUNYWJuabQKVhCYmCx0fELFhVU280Bl3H_NYNu3QBJs1R27NeLNYGGHkTJ6mPvqOvgGtmNrfaRraQVEg4ZS=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJFv7EnwMrUWBRwWoHVtRH8CQ_xXxB7TOuyHyC40ZK5Pac1PVEKfLrrAHU3CpPpKxW7W8QkOn2G9X1A5gRWKvmgmk1uuJMXwclm6u3TnUNYWJuabQKVhCYmCx0fELFhVU280Bl3H_NYNu3QBJs1R27NeLNYGGHkTJ6mPvqOvgGtmNrfaRraQVEg4ZS=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">For example, after learning that Matthew portrays Jesus as the long-awaited King in David's line, we made paper crowns for ourselves as children of the King. Small groups took turns acting out key events in Jesus' life and ministry, as well as retelling and explaining parables. We cut out paper in the shape of praying hands, and on the papers we wrote or drew things related to the Lord's Prayer. We made up hand gestures for the seven word pictures in Jesus' "I Am" statements (the Good Shepherd, the Way, the Vine, etc.). We recited aloud the four core points of orthodox Christian doctrine (Christ came to earth, died, rose again, and ascended to heaven) and discussed how cults distort these doctrines. We also prayed, sang worship songs, danced to a kids' song, played games, watched the Jesus movie, did an aerobics workout, and ate together. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The program was over 12 hours a day. I was exhausted even though I missed Friday's sessions to travel to another event. But the team packed a lot in! The video below can give you a glimpse of our week together. I'm thankful for my conversations and participation with everyone. I felt warmly welcomed and included as a newcomer, and I was encouraged by others' insights and stories. Despite the fatigue, I'm looking forward to future modules. God is at work among these courageous young leaders, and I don't want to miss a minute!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/QsqVO4LZVs4" width="320" youtube-src-id="QsqVO4LZVs4"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-62784471645026321232021-11-30T20:00:00.007-08:002021-12-01T18:34:56.171-08:00The bravest people I know<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Did you ever meet someone who gives you a window into another world? Someone whose life story is so radically different from yours that just listening to them feels like hallowed ground? Someone who makes you question, "Am I strong enough, brave enough, to live like them?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I had that feeling one night this year when I met "A" through a mutual friend. A and his wife and kids (now teens and tweens) fled their homeland a few years ago due to religious persecution. They are now in limbo, caught between violent threats in the country they left, dead ends in their current host country, and financial barriers to the country they want to enter. They've inspired me to start a <a href="https://gofund.me/f48485fe">GoFundMe page</a> for the first time in my life - not as courageous as their actions, but still an intimidating step into the unknown.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This is not ancient history or an impersonal news article. It's the real-life experiences of a husband and wife and their four kids, regular people who knew the massive risks of serving Christ in their context... and said yes anyway. They're night owls who enjoy biking and SpongeBob. They're cutthroat card players whose laughter echoes off the walls. One daughter covered my hands with henna designs. Another helps her mom cook seriously good food. This is the unfinished story of my friends, and I want you to hear it in A's own words (edited for clarity and security).</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvHwoCCww_CjN2oeEHmDXR46f1PgRGrBLAmJUf1qrJqkfWZnlR6cPNh4LlXLLBUCwFtE5-_2dSKHTUo07BBxAnTj8sHArIwTvqDiX_9pzw5-nlRcnyRbmvmTRO7Hs8t5BKPpEtIzX8gM/s800/Henna.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="601" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvHwoCCww_CjN2oeEHmDXR46f1PgRGrBLAmJUf1qrJqkfWZnlR6cPNh4LlXLLBUCwFtE5-_2dSKHTUo07BBxAnTj8sHArIwTvqDiX_9pzw5-nlRcnyRbmvmTRO7Hs8t5BKPpEtIzX8gM/s320/Henna.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3GAl_bUQbtU-IsjaPzsNmkpVatasPOZp6wo0dJCz9-CH_00_z0emadw7nUL6j5QmQn52V_r1Yfq5bPuZwQdyd7xGjTD4B8DsUT4-m2Kh31Tt3kSs_8AUgSYjnKrnCHyoOMcv_u1dGBSQ/s2048/IMG_1252.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3GAl_bUQbtU-IsjaPzsNmkpVatasPOZp6wo0dJCz9-CH_00_z0emadw7nUL6j5QmQn52V_r1Yfq5bPuZwQdyd7xGjTD4B8DsUT4-m2Kh31Tt3kSs_8AUgSYjnKrnCHyoOMcv_u1dGBSQ/s320/IMG_1252.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 16px;">***</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #333333; font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;">My name is A.M. My family and I are from South Asia. Due to religious persecution, we have fled from our homeland and hope to resettle in North America. To apply for visas, we need funds for our first year of living expenses there.</div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"> </div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, our home country's law is dictated by a religion that seeks to harm and eliminate citizens of other faiths. As Christians, we lived without protection.</div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"> </div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;">I used to go to different villages for prayer meetings. God enabled me to donate to poor families who were in need. I became aware of people trapped in debt-slavery, laboring day and night in brick kilns. I began to spend money to free these families and also shared my faith with them. Some had been forced by the kiln owners to convert to the majority faith, but they wanted to return to Christianity. Soon, their numbers increased. People showed interest in following Jesus after being freed.</div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"> </div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;">This interest did not go unnoticed by the religious leaders and brick kiln owners. They grew angry over the freedom and faith of these poor people. My family and I began to receive threats from extremists with power and money. They would follow my daughters and try to kidnap them, in hopes of forcing them to convert and marry older men of the majority religion.</div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"> </div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLj887vk2Bnj-s97ee820jn7TxbU4SMCnMA3f9leVaVNgVZhQ-2D1RZXsp5Ugho1Vvo6uiEbCWYhkNyCgtT4eK49jIqiyNRuvYwU5Xh4QvUDCMO6MsGSmSjIrOphjUnObGu0YqrF9ZX4/s2048/pkfam.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLj887vk2Bnj-s97ee820jn7TxbU4SMCnMA3f9leVaVNgVZhQ-2D1RZXsp5Ugho1Vvo6uiEbCWYhkNyCgtT4eK49jIqiyNRuvYwU5Xh4QvUDCMO6MsGSmSjIrOphjUnObGu0YqrF9ZX4/s320/pkfam.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></div>A few years ago, they attacked me and tried to kill me, but God graciously protected me with His mighty hand. People came to my assistance. However, government officials would not protect me, fearing for their own lives and families. Despite the many threats, my appeals for protection were ignored. The men who were against me found out about my appeals, and the persecution increased.</div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;">For security reasons, my family shifted to another city, but we were tracked down. The locals pleaded with us to go, so we moved again. The same thing continued to happen: we were tracked and had to flee. Religious leaders sided against us, and the police and courts threw out my case.</div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;"> </div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;">My church and my friends helped us to escape from South Asia and find refuge in an intermediary nation. It's been difficult to be stripped of culture, language, work, extended family, etc. Although we are safer here, we do not speak the language, and we cannot become citizens. We have struggled to find employment in this poor country with a faltering economy. Our children have not been able to attend school in several years. <br style="box-sizing: inherit;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit;" /></div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif;">Our fervent hope and prayer is to be granted asylum and a new home in North America. A trustworthy refugee resettlement agency has offered to obtain permanent residency for us, with the right to work and a clear path to citizenship. But first, we must secure funding for our first year of living expenses. Our family of six needs $45,000 for housing, food, transportation, and other basics during that year of transition. We are grateful for your support as we pursue a brighter future for our children.</div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;">***</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Several friends and I are teaming up to run a <a href="https://gofund.me/f48485fe">GoFundMe page</a> for A's family. We hope this fund-raiser can provide them with much or all of their first-year expenses in North America. If they cannot attain that dream, donations may be redirected toward helping them rebuild their lives in their current host country. Got questions? (I sure did!) Send me a private message and I'd be happy to share more. We'd really appreciate your prayers and gifts for their family! </span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-76237464804564728472021-10-21T17:55:00.005-07:002021-10-25T17:59:06.221-07:00The Carnival: Songs from the Tilt-a-Whirl<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In February 2020, I read and loved N.D. Wilson's <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Notes-Tilt-Whirl-Wide-Eyed-Wonder-ebook/dp/B002EPNHHW/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3FJJ0BJJ4SE2S&dchild=1&keywords=notes+from+the+tilt-a-whirl&qid=1634862941&sprefix=notes+from+the+tilt%2Caps%2C353&sr=8-1">Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl:Wide-Eyed Wonder in God's Spoken World</a>. </i>This genre-defying book combines humor, storytelling, philosophy, commentary on visual art, and more, to wrestle with questions like "Why would a good God allow suffering?" and "How do we know what's really true?" It's quirky yet profound, captivating my heart and mind with observations on the minutiae of his surroundings:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"></div><ul><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The ants pouring out when he lifts a rock to mow the lawn. </span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The man who elbows him in the head playing basketball. </span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The functions of intestines. </span></li><li><span style="font-family: georgia;">The quest of his toddler to touch a butterfly. </span></li></ul><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Many times during Covid, I thought back to some of the book's vivid imagery and creative perspectives. It strengthened me to laugh, to trust, to bring fresh eyes to my stale surroundings. I wanted more people to experience the joy I had in reading it, but name-dropping it didn't have much effect. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Earlier this year, I sent some favorite passages from it to a friend, Jeff, whose apartment building was quarantined for several weeks. I thought it might be a fun diversion, but h</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">e replied with something like, "I'm so confused. What is this about? Is it random word generated prose?" Hang in there, I urged. The writing isn't always linear, but it slowly builds a line of thinking that's worth the fight. "I think I need to hear this as a song," Jeff concluded. On their own, these brilliant paragraphs weren't quite communicating like I'd hoped.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">That sparked an idea. I'd recently begun <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2021/09/homebody-original-song.html">experimenting with songwriting</a> and thought this book could be a great fit. I tried to turn one part into a song, but it kept expanding as I spotted more connections between ideas and images. Finally, I split it into multiple songs to let the story unfold at a leisurely pace.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Some of my favorite albums are those that tell a story. Has a lyric, concept, or musical element from one song ever surprised and delighted you by re-emerging in a later song? I love that. Maybe I could tell this story via songs, and maybe listeners wouldn't feel as stressed about the connection from one song to the next as they would if reading a book. That's what drove </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">this</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Songs from the Tilt-a-Whirl" project. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">So far I've written seven songs, inspired by the first 20% of the book. How many more to come? No idea. Whether or not they all find an external audience like you, I've really enjoyed this way to engage more deeply with Wilson's work. But you'll have a chance to hear at least the next few in the weeks to come.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Here is song #1, based on the book's opening pages.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/p3IjiGirMeo" width="320" youtube-src-id="p3IjiGirMeo"></iframe></div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b></div>The Carnival</span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I am a traveler
Not on the road like *Kerouac
I am a traveler
More like the flea on a dog’s back
I am a traveler</span></span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">
Couldn’t stop this journey if I tried
I’m with the Carnival
It’s where I’ve played and I’ve grown up
I’m with the Carnival
Where I’ve slept and I’ve thrown up
I’m with the Carnival
Death will get me into the gnarly rides
We all spin around
As we orbit 67,000 miles an hour
We all spin around
In this hurricane of stars
We all spin around
I cling to the lawn fearing I might fly
What is this tilt-a-whirl?
Full of bugs and full of spheres
What is this tilt-a-whirl?
A pockmarked ball pulls the oceans near
What is this tilt-a-whirl?
Wilder than pulp fiction could describe
<i>*Jack Kerouac is an American author whose 1957 novel </i>On the Road<i> is based on his travels with friends across the United States.</i></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Whenever possible, I spliced together Wilson's original language, and I haven't added any of my own meaning. The opening line, "I am a traveler," is not inspired by my time overseas. It's the book's opening sentence, discussing a kind of travel experienced by all humans. This song also explains the book's title. If you find it confusing, don't be shy to write me. :) </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Like my other songs, it's condensed and missing a ton of the book's great phrasing and content. But </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hope it hints at the flavor of this chapter, maybe even enough that you'll want to read the original. (Because we all know the book is better.)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So far, my songs have not persuaded Jeff to read the book... but he did say they helped him value its content. He graciously collaborated on this one, providing vocals (I'm on backup), guitar, and the video. Thanks Jeff!</span></span><b><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><b></b></span></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-52788484378716404962021-09-30T13:09:00.009-07:002021-10-01T05:27:16.866-07:00Homebody - an original song<p><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: georgia; white-space: pre-wrap;">I've gotten into songwriting the past year. I guess it's my new Covid hobby. Most of the songs I've written so far are part of a series that I'll introduce soon. But this one, "Homebody," stands alone, and even though it's my most recent, I'd like to share it first. </span></p><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d;"><span><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In the group where I originally shared it, we had a "no disclaimers" rule. Each participant had to play their song and share the lyrics before explaining anything. So I'll abide by that policy here and give the background below.</span></div><div style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></div></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0d0d0d; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KQFACYzGPRY" width="320" youtube-src-id="KQFACYzGPRY"></iframe></div></span></span><div><br /></div></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0d0d0d;"><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The Lyrics:</b></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">1. What’s it like to leave Peoria</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">After a whole century?</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Looking out your bedroom window,</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Do you ever have to blink?</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Daddy’s fields are far from sight.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">You’ve always been a homebody.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Why see Chicago?</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">All you’d ever wanted was right there.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">You delighted in the flowers and birds </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And people you’d known all your life</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Like your love could never fade away. </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">2. I tasted travel as a toddler.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Now it’s in my blood, I think.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Looking out my bedroom window, </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Still some days I have to blink.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Phnom Penh streets are bold and bright.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I’ve never been a homebody.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Why shut out the wide world?</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">My heart has scattered pieces here and there.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Fighting to delight in the flowers and birds </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And people revolving through my life,</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I pray my love will never fade away. </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">3. A third your age and triple the hometowns,</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Both of us are moving on.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">You finally outgrew your old house,</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Hungry for a deeper bond.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Home beckoned you across the night.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Now you’ll always be a homebody.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Why miss Peoria?</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">All you’ve ever wanted is right here.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">You’re delighting in the flowers and birds</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And people like you’ve known them all your life</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Filled with love that only grows more dear. </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">4. What’s it like to trade your body</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">After a whole century?</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Looking in your bedroom mirror,</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Can you even help but blink?</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Abba’s beauty floods your sight.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Nobody does homebody like you</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">But someday I’ll be a homebody too.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>The Story:</b></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In August, just before returning to the US, I joined an online workshop on songwriting. It included two Zoom sessions with a facilitator and a small group of peers who performed original songs for the others to critique and encourage. I was way out of my league, but I loved hearing what they'd written, and their insights for me were valuable!</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">For the second session, we were asked to write an original song with one week's notice, incorporating these four elements:</span></div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Starts with a question</span></li><li><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Addresses someone we haven't talked with in a long time</span></li><li><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Mentions a room in our house</span></li><li><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Uses only three chords (in any combination or order) in the chorus</span></li></ul></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I was intimidated by the thought of combining all these aspects, but if you search for "creativity constraints quote," you'll find many different people who have observed that the latter fuels the former. My song flowed quickly once I started.</span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I decided to write a song for my step-grandma, Irene Hoeltje, who married my grandpa (both were widowed) before I was born. She loved my family and me like there was no "step" about it. She passed away in July, a month shy of her 100th birthday, which was literally during the workshop in August. A lifelong Peoria resident whose retirement community was built on land from her parents' farm, Grandma Irene was never a big traveler, but in recent years she couldn't wait to go meet her beloved Jesus. </span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">My song is inspired partly by my <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2016/11/my-homebody-hero.html">2016 blog post</a> about visiting Grandma. It's also reflecting on the parallel between her passing and my decision the same month to leave Phnom Penh and start over in a small Cambodian town next year. I'm excited to move to this community that's drawn me since my first visit years ago, but part of me wishes I could put down deeper roots with one place and group of people, like Grandma did. This song explores how our sharply contrasting lives are shaped by the same love and hope. Heaven holds what neither of us have been used to, but what both of us have always wanted most.</span></div><div style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></div></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitD9gLhxZ40kcD0jwnRIdGzTtCGzJlL1qPoSk9J1yberNkSMSOvV3blb9D8583R85pWBP3eTiumVEdFqBoH9gpIYJFdpAHZAVopa8UlcBN2yDxBJaCpltr8Dx5rDZku17HwkFsFetrkl4/s1593/V__FBC0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="1593" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitD9gLhxZ40kcD0jwnRIdGzTtCGzJlL1qPoSk9J1yberNkSMSOvV3blb9D8583R85pWBP3eTiumVEdFqBoH9gpIYJFdpAHZAVopa8UlcBN2yDxBJaCpltr8Dx5rDZku17HwkFsFetrkl4/s320/V__FBC0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span>With Grandma and her daughter, my Aunt Linda</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0d0d0d; font-family: georgia; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0d0d0d; font-family: georgia; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div>If you've been reading my blog for a while, you might remember that <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2020/11/hutchmoot-homebound.html">last year's Hutchmoot conference</a> initially sparked my interest in songwriting. Specifically, I was moved by Hutchmoot's discussion of the Tolkien short story "Leaf by Niggle." (Hutchmoot is coming up again October 8-10 and I can't wait! It's about art, music, story, and faith. Join with me and we'll have fantastic conversation starters. <a href="https://www.hutchmoothomebound.com/">Tickets are $20 </a>for dozens of hours of online content, which you can livestream or watch later.)</div><div><br /></div><div>As I explored lyrics and music last fall for the first song I ever wrote, unsure which should come first, I came up with the guitar riff used in "Homebody." It never fit right with that song, but there's a clip of just the guitar in my <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2020/11/leaf-by-niggle-and-pursuit-of-mediocrity.html">blog post about "Niggle."</a> </div><div><br /></div><div>In August, after I wrote the lyrics and started the melody for "Homebody," I realized that this guitar riff worked perfectly for both the verses and the chorus. Plus its arpeggios use only three chords, complying with the songwriting prompt. I wasn't sure I could play something so complex while singing, but it came together with a bit of practice. I was amazed! It's like this was meant to be. </div></span></span></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-28573437300299391402021-08-03T02:21:00.001-07:002021-08-03T19:56:19.164-07:00Ten things I wonder about my life next year<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">It's official! I'm leaving for the US in two weeks and will return to Cambodia around New Year's... but not to my status quo. Instead, I'm planning to move to the capital of Preah Vihear province, a small town about five hours away. I <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2018/07/seven-things-i-love-about-my-life-in.html">loved immersing myself</a> in Khmer language and culture there and <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2020/07/">have often visited</a> <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2018/10/visits-are-my-favorite.html">since then</a>. But of course moving there long-term will be an adjustment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I've been wondering for a while about the timing of my US trip and the team that I should join next, now that I'm no longer on the education team. So it's great to have both of those questions settled. At the same time, as I announce this news, I'm fielding questions that I've been contemplating myself. I'm posting some of my questions here with my best stab at their answers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>1. What exactly will I be doing?</b> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">World Team's Preah Vihear (PV) team has many great things that I could get involved in: a high school dorm for students from low-income rural families, a Bible school for house church leaders in the villages, Bible studies and church plants in the villages, translation and creation of Christian resources, and trainings for Sunday Schools teachers. There are other possibilities like guest-teaching for education majors at a local college and teaching English to kids in town. I won't be able to invest significant time into every one of those. It sounds like early on, a priority will be visiting Bible school students and dorm alumni in their homes out in the villages, to encourage them and help them start more Bible studies. As I observe and dabble in other programs, hopefully I'll find my niche over time. For now, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I'm also continuing my role as a language coach for other World Teamers in Cambodia, mostly remotely.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fmwRq0xBRxiii4h0QI_Tn1r0oxWquEpjiiMi3uZ7nyJn_RgmnRGAKz3bpyTAOj_Else-dfXWciVHmv_3PGKlogZr2XYSCr75TWYy8Kbgf3UTEkqSNcRKytL00YTqAOfhzT7l6L6mvBg/s2048/IMG_4460.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fmwRq0xBRxiii4h0QI_Tn1r0oxWquEpjiiMi3uZ7nyJn_RgmnRGAKz3bpyTAOj_Else-dfXWciVHmv_3PGKlogZr2XYSCr75TWYy8Kbgf3UTEkqSNcRKytL00YTqAOfhzT7l6L6mvBg/s320/IMG_4460.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small group of dorm students discussing during a nutrition seminar I led in 2018</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">2. Where am I going to live?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I'm going to start out living with fellow World Teamers Jim and Carolyn Gabriels in their traditional Khmer wooden home while I adjust to life in PV. I'm so grateful they were willing - I feel very comfortable with them, and it makes my transition more gradual. The plan is that for at least the first six months, I'll share the rent for my Phnom Penh apartment, where my dear friend Rachana will be staying. That means I can leave most of my furniture here for now and will still have a bed available when I visit PP. I'll see what's available for rent in PV and eventually transition to my own place there... after that, I can stay in a guest room at the World Team office when in PP. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1BL0Z75Le4pwBfvEwi8HXw8JkDb0IliaH34vwmppiXuOcRSJt5_F7KlUOqT3wXVr7Kq_DH0GzK3KLsnXLTy2PfPhqbxP-Auu4n6W_6NuwwAaX8ZxE58PzdzYniANlXjegbAcT-yFBUI/s2048/WP_20160710_07_22_45_Pro.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1150" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1BL0Z75Le4pwBfvEwi8HXw8JkDb0IliaH34vwmppiXuOcRSJt5_F7KlUOqT3wXVr7Kq_DH0GzK3KLsnXLTy2PfPhqbxP-Auu4n6W_6NuwwAaX8ZxE58PzdzYniANlXjegbAcT-yFBUI/s320/WP_20160710_07_22_45_Pro.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Petting a neighbor's calf in front of the Gabriels' home during my 2016 visit</td></tr></tbody></table><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">3. How much time will I spend in Phnom Penh?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Gabriels and their teammates Joel and Sina recommended that I plan to visit the city about once a month. That will let me decompress, maintain friendships here, stock up on groceries (anything most Cambodians don't eat is probably not for sale in PV), manage errands and appointments, and meet my language coachees. I'm not sure how long each visit will be - probably between two and five nights. It depends partly on how much I need to do in each place and how much can be done remotely. I'm hoping to find a balance that will allow me to thrive, and I'm not sure yet what that will look like.</span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">4. What will I drive?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was initially assuming I'd need to buy a larger, more powerful motor scooter. My 50-CC Honda Today runs pretty well, but it bottoms out even on some speed bumps and can't handle rutted or flooded dirt roads. But Jim recommended that I keep it for now and plan to borrow his motor scooter and/or car for my trips to farther-out villages. My Honda Today is fine for getting around this town of 24,000; we'll see if I can make it work for a while or will want more freedom to go to the villages. Either way, I'll need a license for the first time after a decade here. (I don't even have a driver's license for motorcycles, let alone cars - I think licenses are only required for motos above 125 CC.)</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopj6aCLy1VkKIJNAzyY3dme-J7Q0-FZwfvIQCv0EX2gmwo7dWrwTfYwqErbFoQCPebrSBItXVfg11-64PF2sz6JqRHQZjgfKCTNfBw3VloMjQxoElY2fezcI6ap5yxdpEYWNj8QDfif4/s1280/IMG_2076.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhopj6aCLy1VkKIJNAzyY3dme-J7Q0-FZwfvIQCv0EX2gmwo7dWrwTfYwqErbFoQCPebrSBItXVfg11-64PF2sz6JqRHQZjgfKCTNfBw3VloMjQxoElY2fezcI6ap5yxdpEYWNj8QDfif4/s320/IMG_2076.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you believe Silat and I beat the storm home that day?</td></tr></tbody></table><b><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></b><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">5. Who will I spend time with?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I know some of the people that I hope to hang out with. Besides the four other World Teamers, who are some of my favorite people ever, I'd count one Cambodia YWAM staff (Silat) as a dear friend and am friendly with the other three as well as the three staff kids. (Can't wait to be the kids' "ming" again!) I was also excited to see my teammates' plans for following up with dorm alumni and Bible students; I enjoy several of them who lived in the dorm during my summer there. Turnover is inevitable - some friends are planning time away to study or get more experience, and several dorm alumni would like to return as dorm staff now that they've graduated from YWAM's Discipleship Training School. In short, I'm excited to renew existing relationships but I'll need to stay flexible and begin many new friendships. It will be a big change for me to have very few other foreigners around, and I'm expecting to feel lonely and out of place at times. But the Cambodians I know there are very gracious and I've been so glad to see the deep mutual trust they've built with my fellow American teammates.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPH3aViwzlrB0ibBqKMNXJLnCNpu4BqhveG7ItB6jgzZZOB16zI-qFM3RrIKc8cJbjm8qpQQtHMDnQOAbEf-WpGcxDIoMgdGW3fhkkZb76ZO8dmojEQxEbR_hhhSGawqSye8QUGtRbOqE/s1280/image2+%25282%2529.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPH3aViwzlrB0ibBqKMNXJLnCNpu4BqhveG7ItB6jgzZZOB16zI-qFM3RrIKc8cJbjm8qpQQtHMDnQOAbEf-WpGcxDIoMgdGW3fhkkZb76ZO8dmojEQxEbR_hhhSGawqSye8QUGtRbOqE/s320/image2+%25282%2529.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">6. What is God going to do?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I really don't know this one. If the past year didn't teach us that life is hard to predict, I don't know what would! What I do know is that when World Teamers first went there, Preah Vihear had about a dozen believers in the whole province. Now it has dozens of house churches! I believe God wants His children in Preah Vihear to mature, let truth permeate every area of their lives, and multiply as they share the good news of Jesus with their families and neighbors. I hope to come along for the ride. </span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">7. What new things will I need to learn?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">A lot, I'm sure. How to change a tire. How to ride a manual moto. How to find my way around rural roads and villages that all look similar to me right now. What to do when my home is visited by a biting gecko or a vicious centipede or even (<i>shudder</i>) a snake. How to grocery shop for a month at a time. I'm going to be spending a lot of time in farming communities, and I can barely pick a mango or remember the word for "plough." My Khmer speaking will definitely need to improve as I'll have a lot more conversation time, and I hope to get better at understanding the PV dialect. I have a feeling next year will also stretch me spiritually and teach me new things about myself. I'm expecting a lot of growth opportunities!</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgC2RO9sui2O25E6psXynswaBRP6UGT5uWEA9bpn4R7d9kxLDhXly89uahIZWJZePVf3rNmeBlqBqmrepvG-4LAlk_3AEcXIsO696VJ5btQETp9FXjZ515zvo-5R2YETs3ognZJW4aTs/s4320/2018-10-26+10-18-08P.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4320" data-original-width="3240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGgC2RO9sui2O25E6psXynswaBRP6UGT5uWEA9bpn4R7d9kxLDhXly89uahIZWJZePVf3rNmeBlqBqmrepvG-4LAlk_3AEcXIsO696VJ5btQETp9FXjZ515zvo-5R2YETs3ognZJW4aTs/s320/2018-10-26+10-18-08P.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes visitors do you a favor and eat each other. Photo credit: Holly Ferguson.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">8. What will I do for fun?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">One thing I'm excited about is the scenery - PV has more "mountains" (OK, foothills at least) than most of Cambodia. There are day trips in the area to waterfalls, a sort of lake, etc. During my summer there, I often had fun cooking Western food like tacos with help from my Khmer friends, who have mad kitchen skills (homemade tortillas? better than mine!) and flexible taste buds. We also played a lot of Nerts, a card game, so I'd like to stock up on card/board games that don't require a lot of English. Dorm activities included regular aerobics classes and dance parties. Cambodians in general are good at sitting around chatting without needing a lot of structured activities. I've always been an avid reader and have recently gotten into songwriting, two hobbies that are portable and can be done in solitude. (Though I'd love to try partnering with Cambodians to write a song in Khmer!) I'll be 2 1/2 hours from Siem Reap, a popular destination for my Phnom Penh friends as well as international visitors, so I'm expecting to spend some weekends there. There are many options, and who knows what else I'll discover?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5E7XLvvSEsZ_1KJzBK53tocwVDUtOUpU1p9-hzVtjUDJGA9wGNlTCbjPwqSdGHV6NdA-y9guOhH8CTTSCtdSR5zOtSSYPZ3MCtBnJCMcya6VzSla95QdeBOhUrvmRJWEedTGB72Ew-qU/s2048/IMG_2042.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5E7XLvvSEsZ_1KJzBK53tocwVDUtOUpU1p9-hzVtjUDJGA9wGNlTCbjPwqSdGHV6NdA-y9guOhH8CTTSCtdSR5zOtSSYPZ3MCtBnJCMcya6VzSla95QdeBOhUrvmRJWEedTGB72Ew-qU/s320/IMG_2042.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirid63bfZ18iFXdA7tn4li1pLZSkf2ayOP7KrUp5wFMEwI6cjvHx4V0faEObR8pq8QKCm-V8GxL3P4xO0wHoAY3xi5hHTCd3OwsIpx27zPrxQ_6rSDkjskXm5KycLHLO0gkiH-XEi_BL8/s2048/IMG_1557.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirid63bfZ18iFXdA7tn4li1pLZSkf2ayOP7KrUp5wFMEwI6cjvHx4V0faEObR8pq8QKCm-V8GxL3P4xO0wHoAY3xi5hHTCd3OwsIpx27zPrxQ_6rSDkjskXm5KycLHLO0gkiH-XEi_BL8/s320/IMG_1557.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">9. Will I feel ready to move?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My US visits have ranged from three weeks to two years, and I've never felt fully "ready" to say goodbye to my family. So even though this trip (4.5 months) is longer than the last few, I'm sure my return will be bittersweet. Plus I'm nervous about all these unknowns. But I'm already excited and hoping to feel recharged and ready to jump in come January. I've felt drawn to PV since my first visit in 2016 and have wondered what it would be like to make it my home. Here's my chance.</span></p><p><b><span style="font-family: georgia;">10. Will I be OK?</span></b></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">There are so many ways to define "OK"-ness and so few guarantees about what next year holds. I don't think next year will always be comfortable or straightforward, though I do think I'll have a good group of people rooting for and helping me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">This quote keeps coming to mind:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLVz3po6rY1y30sM_8Ei0YFgztrG0-_M7aRSoTQQfWqICv3t5l-dxppqmIDu2sZJWGX-PeVOV1xKwxaUm5FHNHoIR07YezdU_wYFD_pmQMofSi5nGa_7_sfYjIFA5u0CpW_nFQ6cCav0/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img alt="" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLVz3po6rY1y30sM_8Ei0YFgztrG0-_M7aRSoTQQfWqICv3t5l-dxppqmIDu2sZJWGX-PeVOV1xKwxaUm5FHNHoIR07YezdU_wYFD_pmQMofSi5nGa_7_sfYjIFA5u0CpW_nFQ6cCav0/" width="240" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Next year I will need God in new ways, and in many of the same ways that I have always needed Him. And next year, He will be available for me, abundantly providing His presence and goodness. He goes ahead of me and He meets me wherever I am. That's really the only answer I need, for next year and for all the days leading up to it.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0S3Q1gAuO9Zq82r-Zt5VXcaRWlO0ZNUD8L6z-aDl9Forhk3Jr1jp-l4iDmr71zkULDaaoyxkExF-Aet12Cj3SO2wKjKFfN4WgF01LTDzYONpAhDfe3bq0E0nVoxr43Hj97RSpxB2CEM/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="587" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0S3Q1gAuO9Zq82r-Zt5VXcaRWlO0ZNUD8L6z-aDl9Forhk3Jr1jp-l4iDmr71zkULDaaoyxkExF-Aet12Cj3SO2wKjKFfN4WgF01LTDzYONpAhDfe3bq0E0nVoxr43Hj97RSpxB2CEM/" width="240" /></a></div><br /></span></div><p></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-11976068836050400832021-05-18T08:39:00.012-07:002022-05-29T07:37:56.505-07:00Adventures with strangers<p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Some people
think life in Cambodia must be constantly exotic and inspiring. Let the record
show: despite being far from home, my life is often pretty mundane</span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. In
April, walking the <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2021/04/locking-down-with-new-roommate.html">dog I was sitting</a> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">was the highlight of most days, a break from typing, reading,
and Zoom meetings from my living room. Sound familiar?</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">But every
now and then, a day hurls enough comedy, tragedy, and adventure at me to make up for months of monotony. </span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>One of
those surprising days happened two weeks ago Tuesday. And it all started with walking the dog.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Remember
the dirt alley next to my house that I passed through four times a day on Agrippa's
walks? The one where kids always stopped us to say hi? I started recognizing
more neighbors there. I stopped a few times in front of an open door where a woman
inside looked at me. I smiled. She didn't.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">One
day, there was a much older woman sitting in front of the door. "What
animal are you kids looking at?" she asked. I realized she was nearly
blind. "A dog," they replied. "Oh, I like dogs too," she
replied warmly.</span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>The
next afternoon, both women were waiting by my gate for us. "Could you
please give me money?" the elderly one asked. "I don't have a family.
I need food and medicine. I'm 95 years old." I was startled - </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I’ve never seen people begging near my house, though my neighbors have a wide range of income levels.</span><u1:p style="font-family: georgia;"></u1:p><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Puzzled,
I looked at "Auntie" for verification, who nodded while "Grandma" sat serenely,
inches from Agrippa's massive frame. "I'm not her relative. I just found
her a couple days ago, sleeping on the street. I felt bad for her so I invited
her into my home. Her only living relatives are teenage street kids with no
phone numbers. She got stuck in our area because of the lockdown and I can't
get her back to them. I've been trying to buy medicine every day for her but
it's expensive. She has a chronic condition." Auntie gestured at evidence
of her guest’s poor health. <u1:p></u1:p>I was embarrassed; Grandma wasn’t.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Was Grandma really
95, a quarter-century past Cambodia's life expectancy? When had she become this
vulnerable, and how had she landed at Auntie’s? Whether or not the whole story was
true, clearly neither woman was wealthy. Nor were they closely related: I couldn’t
imagine a Cambodian disrespecting their mom enough to claim she was actually a
homeless stranger. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>I
gave Grandma some money and offered to take them soon to a Christian clinic that
partners with churches and NGO’s to offer discounted rates for low-income
Cambodians. Though it was my first time referring patients, I was much more comfortable covering
medical care than giving cash like I’d just done.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>I
returned to Auntie's house two days later with a medical form. Grandma was
lying on the floor shirtless with her back to the door. She was barely
conscious and didn't move the whole ten minutes that the rest of us struggled with
her form. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"She
won't eat or drink. She wants her grandkids," Auntie told me.</span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"Should
we still take her to the clinic? It’s an hour away and it doesn’t take
overnight patients. Maybe she should just rest." </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"No,
she needs a doctor. If she gets better, I can take her to look for her
grandkids… she knows their general area. And I have a throat tumor, see? It’s
why I can’t work. I have to take meds every day or I'll die." My medical
vocab isn't that great, and Auntie's raspy voice was hard to understand through
her mask. So even if Auntie had a correct diagnosis, I’m not sure I heard it
right.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"OK, we'll ask the doctor to look at you too." I
asked if I could pray for them both, and nobody minded. I kept praying
that evening, feeling very hesitant and out of my depth. <i>If nothing
else, I’ll get to know them better through this trip, </i>I told myself. <i>I’ve
been wanting to reach out more to neighbors and show Jesus' love.</i> <i>This could be my chance. </i>I
practiced a <a href="https://www.language180.com/post/the-good-news-skeleton">brief Gospel presentation</a> just in case.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>The
next morning, it took us 30 minutes to get a groggy Grandma into a shirt,
shoes, a mask, and a neighbor’s tuk-tuk (motorcycle taxi). "The doctor
will give you an IV so you'll feel better!" Auntie told her brightly.
Auntie's 16-year-old granddaughter "Kunthea," who'd come along to
help out, nodded. Auntie's cheerfulness faded as we drove on and on. "Does
this hospital have good doctors?" </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"Yes,
very good. And we can trust them to tell us the truth." I just hoped our trip
wasn't in vain. Auntie had wanted to let Grandma sleep in, and we arrived 90
minutes later than the recommended time for new patients. Thankfully, it wasn't
too crowded. The staff asked us the standard questions about Covid exposure and
symptoms, took our temperatures, let us in, and helped Grandma into a
wheelchair - what a relief!</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Signing
in was comical. </span><span>I misread the handwritten Khmer on our first form and copied Grandma's name wrong.</span><span> </span><span>Her medical history was blank. Same with her
address and phone number. For her birthdate, I wrote 1925, shocking the
receptionist. Her health complaints were vague. I felt like the kind, polite staff weren't sure what to do with us.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Next,
I joined Grandma and Kunthea in the waiting area, sending Auntie inside to
register. "But I can't write!" she protested.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">"OK,
then dictate to the receptionist." <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Ten
minutes later, she hadn't emerged. Instead, the receptionist came to ask
if we could help tell her Auntie's info. I couldn’t, and neither could Kunthea.
"What do you mean, you don't know your grandma's name?” asked the startled receptionist. “What do other people call her?" <u1:p></u1:p>Kunthea
shrugged shyly. (Later Auntie told me Kunthea went to elementary school but had
trouble learning.)</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"Auntie
knows all this. Can't you just ask her?" I pleaded. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"I
can't. She's already inside." I was baffled, but the receptionist
had already walked away. Later, we learned Auntie had been coughing and they’d
sent her to the Covid isolation area. I told the staff that Auntie’s cough was
probably from her chronic throat condition, but they said to go ahead with Grandma’s
appointment and meet Auntie at the end. What choice did I have?</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Kunthea
smiled when I returned to the waiting area. "Just now, someone was telling
us about Jesus. I like hearing about him. I used to go every week to a kids'
program near my house. People told stories and gave us snacks, but now they've
stopped meeting." </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Delighted,
I asked if she remembered any stories about him, but she said no. "I love
stories about Jesus too," I told her. "Maybe we can read one together
today." </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Grandma's
turn came to check vital signs. To everyone's chagrin, she kept pulling off her mask. I put it back on, feeling bad for her. It was my fault she was going through this discomfort, and </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I still wasn’t sure the clinic would be able to relieve her symptoms. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"Has she eaten or drunk anything today?
You need to make her," the nurses admonished us as they sent us back out. We tried, with other patients looking on across the waiting area, but Grandma was too stubborn. Kunthea, on the other hand, was happy to share my snacks and water.
"I usually get to eat </span></span><span style="font-family: georgia;">just</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">once or twice a day. What about you?" </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Oof. No
wonder she's so thin. </i></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>They
called Grandma back in to take a blood sample. Grandma was not happy. Neither
were the nurses, when they saw her low oxygen levels. They consulted with each
other, then took her temperature. She'd passed the temperature check at the
entrance, but now she was definitely feverish. "Take Grandma to
isolation. You can meet Auntie there." </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>A friendly isolation nurse asked me, “Auntie seems like a really kind person. Is she
Christian?”</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>“I
don’t think so…” I asked Auntie and she said that she was. I was surprised - I
thought I’d seen a Buddhist shrine in her home. She added that she misses her old
church and can’t read the Bible on her own. I offered to read a Bible story aloud
later and she seemed pleased.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>The
nurse returned with our receipts and told me, “Please take them both for a Covid
test, pronto. Let us know the results." Auntie and I reassured an anxious Kunthea that needing a test didn’t necessarily mean you’d be
positive.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>As
we loaded Grandma back into the tuk-tuk, the staff reminded us, "Please go
right away to the Khmer-Soviet Hospital!" </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>The
driver turned to me, alarmed. "Why do you need to go there?" These
days, it's used exclusively for Covid testing and treatment. I told him tests
were needed, and he grew agitated. "Don't tell them I was your driver!
They'll lock me up too! I'm not going to that place!" </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"No,
we don't have Covid," Auntie snapped. "Everyone's fine. We're going
home. And we’re dropping off Grandma on the way." She muttered about the strict
hospital staff, started a rapid phone conversation, and occasionally slapped
Kunthea, making me wince. Every five minutes, Auntie coughed, making the driver
wince. <u1:p></u1:p>Kunthea was squished up front next to him. Grandma was
squished between Auntie and me. Whatever germs were present, we were sharing them
all.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZcUyy6csVyeMqFBBHmF0e5bgkCcGuH9jdZULULuvdyuls7__QgKejMJsktyWxX5s8QqvCxMoxhXwBO-2ZhMlo3Bmd46ioCiND-NaLbJTMisxrw6MzUQXYEr4U4o9XBCQLdTHk02kBKY/s2048/IMG_0431.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZcUyy6csVyeMqFBBHmF0e5bgkCcGuH9jdZULULuvdyuls7__QgKejMJsktyWxX5s8QqvCxMoxhXwBO-2ZhMlo3Bmd46ioCiND-NaLbJTMisxrw6MzUQXYEr4U4o9XBCQLdTHk02kBKY/s320/IMG_0431.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Grandma's hand resting on my leg on the way back</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>I
didn't argue with Auntie. It was already 11:30, and we’d been together since 8.
We were all tired and thirsty. Was it OK to buy water on the way if we might
have Covid? What about lunch? How long would we have to wait for tests? Would
our driver abandon us and leave us to prop Grandma up for hours? Could we find
another driver willing to pick us up from the testing center? I was
overwhelmed, but I knew they needed these tests. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>I
let us go all the way home, right past the Covid testing center and 30 minutes
farther. As we piled out into the crowded alley, rumors started flying before I
could even pay the driver. "Is it Covid?" someone asked. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>"Of
course not!" Auntie retorted. “That’s ridiculous!” </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Once
we'd gotten Grandma into the house, I pulled her aside. "Eat lunch and
take a nap, but we’re going at two for Covid tests." To my surprise,
Auntie didn’t argue. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>Fortified
by lunch and water, I booked a new driver with a bigger tuk-tuk so Kunthea
could sit in the back with us. He kindly agreed to wait with us so Grandma
could stay in the tuk-tuk. I was so grateful! Kunthea and I took turns guarding
Grandma’s side of the tuk-tuk since she kept trying to stand and threatened to tumble
to the ground. Our driver seemed remarkably unfazed, even with two terrified testees
gasping and wheezing loudly nearby. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>The
staff said they couldn't test Grandma and Auntie, who hadn't brought ID along to verify their address and phone number. “But you have to – another
hospital sent us here and said they have to be tested!” Meanwhile, the Christian hospital was calling me
to ask if the tests were completed. We finally convinced them to list my contact info instead.
After that, Auntie and Kunthea quickly made it through the line, and the staff
tested Grandma right inside the tuk-tuk. Amazing! </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>On
the way back, Auntie was desperate to drop Grandma off. I told her we should wait for the
test results before sending her somewhere new, but Auntie directed the driver
to another part of town. She called someone and yelled for a while before giving
up and telling the driver to go home. “They’re still locked down,” she sighed, defeated.</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>I
flipped my Bible open to Mark 5, where Jesus heals the dead girl and the sick
woman. It was so perfect, my eyes welled with tears. I don't think Auntie was really able to concentrate on my
narration, but she told me it sounded pretty. I told them, "Jesus loves old
people and young people, people who are sick for a long time and a short time,
people with and without a family to help them. He even called the penniless, sick woman his daughter."<u1:p></u1:p> </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>When
we got back, Auntie started telling neighbors, “It's fine, we tested
negative. I told you we would!” I wasn't sure when to expect results, but I knew
she didn’t have them yet. She invited me inside to sit and chat, and I
thought, <i>Why not? If they have Covid, I’ve already had plenty of
exposure to them today. </i>So I sat with her family for ten minutes,
sipping on the cool water they brought me. </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>A
man around Auntie’s age coughed frequently. His skin was covered in red circles, indicating he’d done <a href="https://www.webmd.com/balance/guide/cupping-therapy">cupping</a> recently. <i>Auntie
told the hospital she didn’t know anyone with symptoms. This is crazy. Why did she want to
go with us if she was afraid of testing? </i>A pale young man, shirtless with a necklace and
an asymmetrical haircut, asked about my age, my marital status, and if he could
add me on Facebook. I almost refused, but I let him send a request. A young woman with
tattoos, probably his sister, asked, “So you helped today because of
Jesus?”</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: georgia;"><u1:p></u1:p>
</span><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Yes!
He's the reason I have hope, the reason I want to show love to Cambodians!"
They told me they were "all three" religions - Christianity,
Buddhism, and... something else I didn't recognize. I summarized the story I’d read that afternoon
with the three women, and told them a <a href="https://www.language180.com/post/the-good-news-skeleton">one-minute version</a> of what Jesus has done for us, the
first time I’ve shared with a group. They listened attentively. Then I went home,
took a hot shower, boiled my clothes, and disinfected my bag and its contents. That's when I realized I'd never told Auntie's family about the results not being in yet.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I
spent most of the evening on the phone. My landlady Pheak asked me to
self-quarantine until I knew the test results in a day or two. My neighbor Rachana kindly
agreed to walk Agrippa for me. The isolation nurse from this morning and the young man (Auntie's son) both
asked me to verify Auntie's story about already receiving negative test results. <i>I’m so glad I added him! Now I can
communicate with their family. </i>I asked him to have the whole family
stay inside while waiting for results. O</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">n behalf of his family,</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> h</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">e thanked me again for my help. Thanks for what? My impression is that nobody with Covid wants the government to know, unless they need serious medical attention. I wondered if Auntie was ranting about my meddling.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was sad but not surprised the next evening to learn that all three women were positive. But there were more surprises ahead. My next two weeks would be homebound, but far from mundane.</span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">Continued in <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2021/06/in-my-previous-post-i-told-how-id-taken.html">Part 2</a>...</span></i></p><p></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-57688506636257763332021-04-30T23:13:00.009-07:002021-06-01T05:25:56.894-07:00Locking down with a new roommate<p><span style="font-family: georgia;">When my roommate moved out last July, I wondered, "Should I look for someone new?" While I'd never wanted to live alone, I was a bit commitment-shy. I work mostly from home in general, a lot more people have been working from home because of Covid, and it seemed like an intense adjustment to be together 24/7. Since my rent is affordable, I decided to wait until I found someone I knew well.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then lockdown started last month, and to my surprise, two days later a new roommate arrived. My first male one, at that!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">As roommates go, he's been pretty easy. He's laid-back and social. He loves how I cook chicken, and he never complains if I leave dishes in the sink. He doesn't mind if I have work to do, but while he's the strong silent type, he's always up for spending time with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yup, Agrippa is a great dog.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHubYMznxB9bOn4MKBpQquQiqIfSZqFYl_Dv6ykwI9bV78Aubs1nc5aMCYztbFFQ8yIn2RWLZIFpkE4nZrgkUXbaF_HOOOt5ZTLIB-ofDw6uG7KcJnWmo3YOXvhGyQACd9Ehx_FcSh34/s2048/OGCZ4557.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1151" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHubYMznxB9bOn4MKBpQquQiqIfSZqFYl_Dv6ykwI9bV78Aubs1nc5aMCYztbFFQ8yIn2RWLZIFpkE4nZrgkUXbaF_HOOOt5ZTLIB-ofDw6uG7KcJnWmo3YOXvhGyQACd9Ehx_FcSh34/s320/OGCZ4557.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><p>This wasn't my first time sitting for him, but it felt different. Previously, I've watched him at his owners' house while they went on vacation for a few days. This time, his new owner dropped him off at my house before heading to the US for a few months. She planned to leave him with another family I know, but discovered he had a fungal infection on his rear that was contagious to kids unless they washed their hands well. Understandably, with a 7-year-old who loves lying all over the dog, they were hesitant, so I agreed to take him until he recovered. Today, the first day lockdown was lifted, he moved over there (another surprise - I thought I had about a week left). </p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">On a Thursday four weeks ago, his owner asked me to watch him, the same day that we started a city-wide lockdown. On Saturday, outdoor exercise was banned. On Sunday, Agrippa arrived. On one hand, lockdown seemed like a perfect time for dog-sitting... he wouldn't be lonely and I wouldn't be away when he needed to be let out.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> On the other, I wasn't sure about this "no-exercise" thing. Agrippa has lived with foreigners all of his nearly five years. He's used to being walked mornings, afternoons, and (very briefly) evenings. And while my landlords later gave me a key to the rooftop for rainy days, Grip thought it was too clean to poop on.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrz6oPjJ5VQEBg0RU2lWygEND9COuD4ekWV3KVtoLMlFN5LOu4rsp1gN6RVXEB0mhCtlxFnItqPxvNUY_smoOtS3GJjUQcJuduGY4SfDEGYwMEydpfhHjuIvMK78sYtS2ZGFBaOfW7kbE/s2048/IMG_0436.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrz6oPjJ5VQEBg0RU2lWygEND9COuD4ekWV3KVtoLMlFN5LOu4rsp1gN6RVXEB0mhCtlxFnItqPxvNUY_smoOtS3GJjUQcJuduGY4SfDEGYwMEydpfhHjuIvMK78sYtS2ZGFBaOfW7kbE/s320/IMG_0436.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But he loved being off-leash in an open area!</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">In Khmer culture, he's an anomaly, even though German Shepherd mixes are really common here. But Khmer dogs are usually tied up, locked inside a gate, or roaming free, not taken for walks. So I wasn't sure "I have to walk my dog" would count as an exception to the policy, and I wasn't sure I had an alternative. So I braved the streets with him, hoping that if I stuck with quiet streets close to home, wore a mask, and social distanced, I could get away with it. I soon discovered that...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">1) The few police that passed us didn't care, and</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">2) Walking a dog is difficult when the neighbor dogs aren't used to it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Many dogs are raised to guard and protect their homes and owners, and they take this duty seriously, often chasing passersby well beyond the property line. It's one reason I don't like jogging alone (there's some safety in numbers) and am always ready to slow to a walk if I see a dog approaching me. One of my landlords' dogs feels this way even about people, and as a result is always separated from the renters by a chain-link fence. Last week he clawed a little boy, the great-nephew of his owners, who has lived on my side of this fence since before the dog was born. He barks at anything that moves. But intruder dogs are especially suspect, for him and for others in the neighborhood.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Soon my neighbor, the one whose son got clawed, gave me a stick. "Use this to help break up the dog fights," she told me. "Otherwise it's too dangerous to walk him by yourself." I felt empowered, but even with the stick, I was experiencing multiple adrenaline rushes (or "cardio bursts"?) per walk. I experimented with various streets near my house, but most of them had dogs that would try to attack Agrippa, and confrontations seemed inevitable when both ends of my block had pairs of aggressive dogs. Grip is great at staying calm to a point, but when they get too close, he'd lunge back at them or wriggle out of his collar, running off to safety. Would he ever engage in an all-out battle? I didn't think so, but I didn't want to find out. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Then I tried the alley.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2npBZqOrdNKIgxSef2Xkmr64hf5c-FLYoTssKWr8JbNG1QYxq6kavVysHAADJmwFGocc7L7qn73sHwCpyAEXaHVwIbuWZ-FhFiC83fsjvm1wI-pJBL7ZLKIhurr4Nvyb8R8Ty7elt90g/s2048/IMG_0420.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2npBZqOrdNKIgxSef2Xkmr64hf5c-FLYoTssKWr8JbNG1QYxq6kavVysHAADJmwFGocc7L7qn73sHwCpyAEXaHVwIbuWZ-FhFiC83fsjvm1wI-pJBL7ZLKIhurr4Nvyb8R8Ty7elt90g/s320/IMG_0420.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking back at my tall green building from the far side of the alley</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">By cutting through the alley next to my house, I could get to an adjacent street and continue on a loop where the few dogs soon left Agrippa in peace. I rarely jog or drive that way since the alley isn't paved, but it made our walks so much more enjoyable. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX9mO_4Fta-MABQcovT-QGUfWhWSZ8FnHEcdjLu48s2S99AR_HgUjDFvfS34g7WeGyoUA2hCoCjscyzbt8wsq9SQN5k0qQKo1o3D9J5GlaxpMA0uxjEjgrYT1hIAEl8GBBxSfegZM7go/s2048/Faithful+greeters.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgX9mO_4Fta-MABQcovT-QGUfWhWSZ8FnHEcdjLu48s2S99AR_HgUjDFvfS34g7WeGyoUA2hCoCjscyzbt8wsq9SQN5k0qQKo1o3D9J5GlaxpMA0uxjEjgrYT1hIAEl8GBBxSfegZM7go/s320/Faithful+greeters.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Faithful greeters<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">We weren't the only ones who preferred this route. The kids in this alley had been missing a playful Golden Retriever, Mango, who moved away a week before Agrippa arrived. I made the mistake of telling them he was friendly and telling them "Wash your hands!" instead of just saying "Don't touch," and soon it was too late - they'd all rush up to him each afternoon, disregarding instructions. (At least they mostly avoided his infected rear.) I was so happy to get to know a few of the kids that I'd often seen playing in front of my building - I don't usually hang out there like Mango and his owners did. Within a couple weeks, they were telling me stories and giving me hugs. Teens were stopping us to ask questions about what he ate and how much he cost. One of the worst "culprits" was my downstairs neighbor's helper, whom I barely knew before Agrippa arrived. We'd get to the gate and she'd hold him hostage for several minutes of petting. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It took forever to get past them and start our walks. I didn't really mind. In fact, I relished the idea that in lockdown of all times, I was connecting (however slightly) with all these new people. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylkkDXgcJlDwd6oW9x2fXt9D8iuDyo7N-gd3ZZrC_S9yzU_wUBiX63G1ajBck9B2wkQ_dX2sO7BSIcyGS0_JoUpgT15u5f1CswwbF5bFBf9zI5AmLQ3_uJnD0q6j-59Tl33v-QM18nDo/s2048/IMG_0421.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjylkkDXgcJlDwd6oW9x2fXt9D8iuDyo7N-gd3ZZrC_S9yzU_wUBiX63G1ajBck9B2wkQ_dX2sO7BSIcyGS0_JoUpgT15u5f1CswwbF5bFBf9zI5AmLQ3_uJnD0q6j-59Tl33v-QM18nDo/s320/IMG_0421.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The helper and another downstairs neighbor coming to say hi...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGBL_s6rbeL0edgIdzlMuKqYgMJIKEji0-62W_-y4KupweEpRV3Yfg9nq0WyWeX0bk93fDgYpbJfQfEHom5eaODcuzosEAv0rVYHM0TeJxFDCDQZ-dW70K5cHqhxNhGP0dG2y3ovXVa0/s2048/IMG_0424.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUGBL_s6rbeL0edgIdzlMuKqYgMJIKEji0-62W_-y4KupweEpRV3Yfg9nq0WyWeX0bk93fDgYpbJfQfEHom5eaODcuzosEAv0rVYHM0TeJxFDCDQZ-dW70K5cHqhxNhGP0dG2y3ovXVa0/s320/IMG_0424.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and to pick sour mangoes from the tree down below (why have I never done that?)</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I've always heard that babies and dogs are a great way to start conversations on walks. It's true! </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">All throughout our route, neighbors would stare and comment. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Yikes, h</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">e's so big!" "Does he bite?" A few picked up their children or backed away looking concerned. They were torn between responding to him as a threat (a large, unfamiliar German Shepherd approaching them) and as a novelty (a dog on a leash with a foreigner). I kept calling out, "Don't worry, he's gentle! He doesn't bite!" And gradually, they got used to us. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrqpw9fTPNDKh9__jGdnqgUr6sicHmOOiovne3-TeQmljYAQOq4Lle-cLwU5PjsroAY1hyPR7IcgKd0fqaGqVwpyWOQM_CBwH0hwNAKpp5VsiEFAskT6QeQOgiW2j27y9lORdALPhoIM/s2048/IMG_0335.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidrqpw9fTPNDKh9__jGdnqgUr6sicHmOOiovne3-TeQmljYAQOq4Lle-cLwU5PjsroAY1hyPR7IcgKd0fqaGqVwpyWOQM_CBwH0hwNAKpp5VsiEFAskT6QeQOgiW2j27y9lORdALPhoIM/s320/IMG_0335.JPG" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">One grandma would sit in her hammock out front with a grandson, telling him "Look at the do</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">g!" Others taught me the word for "German Shepherd" and told me about their love for dogs, or asked me why I knew Khmer. Kids asked me, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">"What did he eat today?" and </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Is he a police dog?" and "Does he need a leash because he was hit by a car?" Still others, complaining that "Agrippa" was a hard and unusual name (can you blame them?), found all kinds of ways to mangle it. They often settled on "Kiki," which is kind of like the middle syllable repeated, and a common way in Khmer to call a dog toward you. I even saw a few other dog walkers - not on the streets, but at the tiny park a half-mile away. I realized Khmer people had a broader range of attitudes toward dogs than I'd previously assumed. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie8hPMyl1hVuaImwiqGskEfkgZ-mI_RC_aRQCw43yanFyBT0J3DcyfVYaCbwujnmE8OXbgiWyQnDKmnE-dsqrfybxF6F2APDH9vhlx3fAJ2a3a21QqWTc_vql4ioMmBxq1oY48lAYMJo/s2048/IMG_0414.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgie8hPMyl1hVuaImwiqGskEfkgZ-mI_RC_aRQCw43yanFyBT0J3DcyfVYaCbwujnmE8OXbgiWyQnDKmnE-dsqrfybxF6F2APDH9vhlx3fAJ2a3a21QqWTc_vql4ioMmBxq1oY48lAYMJo/s320/IMG_0414.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meeting a friend's dog at the park</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I wasn't sure how long it would take Agrippa to recover from his fungal infection. About ten days in, I took him to the vet, who said he was doing much better but needed to return in 2 weeks. I decided to do that follow-up appointment next Tuesday before passing him onto the next family. I didn't mind the extra time with him, though he didn't love being blown dry after his weekly baths (treatments for the fungus) and had a special knack for spitting out his pills no matter how well I buried them in chicken. </span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZacH8m3-Sm5MfEm1qF5Uzv4w42Zb3ryhrzz67_tKqwNCkOsLYVU9p2xLDlUnmfIBMvVrq5rhngLI9-rQtim2dGGXOmuH4uzPK_KHMfBP0KX41cw3fHcMw0rh7XcGg_EfJQ2Ar9P7GbGI/s2048/IMG_0385.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZacH8m3-Sm5MfEm1qF5Uzv4w42Zb3ryhrzz67_tKqwNCkOsLYVU9p2xLDlUnmfIBMvVrq5rhngLI9-rQtim2dGGXOmuH4uzPK_KHMfBP0KX41cw3fHcMw0rh7XcGg_EfJQ2Ar9P7GbGI/s320/IMG_0385.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We tuk-tuked through flooded streets and past police barricades to get to the vet</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Walking Agrippa was less intense than my occasional HIIT workouts and twice-a-week jogs, but also more fun... and more consistent, so probably as good for me overall. Compared to driving or jogging, I had time to slow down and notice faces and flowers, puppies and produce vendors (forced to go mobile during lockdown)</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">. I discovered a beautiful, massive vegetable garden just 2 blocks away, and a small recycling center even closer, where some of Phnom Penh's poorest live and work. I always try to smile at the "Aichai" workers when they go by, but I never thought of them as my literal neighbors. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Last week, when the government allowed exercise again, a neighbor from my building joined me on several walks. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">Across from the recycling center, a home/restaurant had a sign: "Mangoes, 1500 riel per kilo" (17</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> cents a poun</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">d). We sat and watched while a grandma and her grandkids picked 8 pounds of mangoes for us, as another granddaughter entertained her baby sister and laughed at Grip for drinking rainwater from a bucket.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfrLTs3K8gKw4_tCrH4GRGHowqLCy62JW_bNQlyiloMAvYxqaHcjfeI6yqU64hzzatCkHweyosnqnIIwca-wTj1AKAov7jzf8mbGny6DTghbuPiVSYySnibhzj9NlHifZ2aCVNdsIch3A/s2048/IMG_0372.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfrLTs3K8gKw4_tCrH4GRGHowqLCy62JW_bNQlyiloMAvYxqaHcjfeI6yqU64hzzatCkHweyosnqnIIwca-wTj1AKAov7jzf8mbGny6DTghbuPiVSYySnibhzj9NlHifZ2aCVNdsIch3A/s320/IMG_0372.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHMObOvdvuephBJk2u3MrNnBIm2G6WCoiIHX2eFSalMnfDnaPiAAiEZfQOMKjub7dHg6REPQifTiZUiHu8aHSv1jdT29k1uReXP7JfLDSv_Aq8jDBWigFSBH4VoUWt6CbAljjX2CS0Dc/s2048/IMG_0411.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIHMObOvdvuephBJk2u3MrNnBIm2G6WCoiIHX2eFSalMnfDnaPiAAiEZfQOMKjub7dHg6REPQifTiZUiHu8aHSv1jdT29k1uReXP7JfLDSv_Aq8jDBWigFSBH4VoUWt6CbAljjX2CS0Dc/s320/IMG_0411.JPG" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYkaRYPtZx_wT_Em28oG1Pw8Ids56TBgl-hlxf1lTgLXBCSrJjnCXDYOAZq7_0f9g7iQXVgoIlgat5DVQBQybnv2qhE5Nekuk8Q9_ckuhx5qKf7sUckLIP5L4JMDJ4uxZ3EAWQDW4jnM/s2048/IMG_0413+copy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1542" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDYkaRYPtZx_wT_Em28oG1Pw8Ids56TBgl-hlxf1lTgLXBCSrJjnCXDYOAZq7_0f9g7iQXVgoIlgat5DVQBQybnv2qhE5Nekuk8Q9_ckuhx5qKf7sUckLIP5L4JMDJ4uxZ3EAWQDW4jnM/s320/IMG_0413+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">Walking Agrippa led me straight into one of the biggest adventures I've had here, one that's still unfolding, which is the reason he left early. I'll probably post about that story soon. (Update: <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2021/05/my-road-trip-with-strangers.html">Here's the sequel!</a>) But while most days with him weren't thrilling, he brought warm fuzzies to lockdown. Thanks, Grip! </span></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-34830108089362099042021-03-31T22:39:00.006-07:002021-03-31T23:19:51.990-07:00The case of the disappearing produce<p> <span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The answer was obvious - why was she denying it?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I was already frazzled. I was suddenly cooking dinner for six people, hoping to drop off some of the food before biking with a friend at 5. I dragged myself out in the mid-afternoon heat to buy groceries. My first stop, for meat at the grocery store, was quick. My third stop, for fruit at the open-air market, was quick. But the middle one, for vegetables, took longer. For one thing, I was buying a lot more veggies than usual. For another thing, "Auntie" was extra chatty that day. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">As her <i>moy </i>or loyal customer, I've been buying from Auntie for over three years. She knows I always prefer my fabric bags to her plastic ones, she gives me fair prices, and she smiles at me good-naturedly, even when I make dumb mistakes in Khmer. But she's less of a talker than I initially expected. I've never felt the closeness with her that I did with my pre-2015 seller, Little Sister, who patiently conversed with me in Khmer and still remembered specifics about me when I visited years later. Still, if Auntie's not too busy, we’ll exchange a friendly comment.</span></p><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable"><tbody><tr><td style="padding: 0in;"><div align="center"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable"><tbody><tr><td style="padding: 0in;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><br /></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div align="center"></div></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4qNbqk4r0CLGxQ_FEKQnskXK6ZXjUEBnB1anhn6jvU6DDILaqRNMGAJRDU2JfTEp51V25HB47XOy3Ocj25JYN0QmRy56oz2JUPzWsvGcExpnyfcwY4EX6Rm4HaVXU2yhOhNLpRV_1_I/s320/SAM_1537.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Saying goodbye to Little Sister</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI4qNbqk4r0CLGxQ_FEKQnskXK6ZXjUEBnB1anhn6jvU6DDILaqRNMGAJRDU2JfTEp51V25HB47XOy3Ocj25JYN0QmRy56oz2JUPzWsvGcExpnyfcwY4EX6Rm4HaVXU2yhOhNLpRV_1_I/s4608/SAM_1537.JPG"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></a></div><p></p><div align="center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">On Saturday, Auntie sighed that customers were down due to Covid. I told her I was buying extra to cook for a crowd, but it was my new bag that got her attention: bright blue canvas from a nearby supermarket, sturdier and bigger than my usual bags. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"This is from Thai Huot?" </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Yes, have you been there before?"</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"I live near it. How much did it cost?"</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Ninety cents, but I can use it a long time." She was silent. I knew that must sound like a lot to her for something that just holds food. Unlike supermarkets which charge 10 cents, traditional markets can still give away free plastic bags, though they're pretty thin and flimsy. Full of imported goods, Thai Huot probably wasn't in her price range. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Do you live with your daughter?" I tried to continue the conversation. Her daughter sometimes helps sell.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Yes, with all five of my kids."</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Everyone still lives at home? Isn't your daughter married?" </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"Yes, but she still lives with me. And my husband. He lost his arm in a moto crash and had to stop working as a carpenter. Our lives are hard. How much money do you make?"</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">A typical question here for foreigners, and not my favorite, but I gave an approximate answer anyway to show her that I valued our relationship. She packed up my bright-blue bag and accepted my $5 payment, much higher than most of her customers would spend at once.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Our conversation continued another minute or two before I reluctantly pulled away. Wow, maybe after three years, I was finally getting to know her! </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">After grabbing a dragonfruit from the fruit seller, I continued home, only to realize my veggies were missing. Silly me, they must still be with Auntie! Come to think of it, I couldn't remember loading the bag onto my moto. I sheepishly drove back, knowing she'd laugh at me. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Auntie was busy out front, so I went to the scale where she’d weighed and loaded up my veggies. She stared at me in confusion. "Do you need something else?" </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Hadn't she noticed? "I forgot to take my veggies with me. Did you see them?" </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"No, you took them with you."</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I looked around her stall in disbelief. Nothing blue in sight. Now other customers were staring at me too. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">My mind raced. Maybe I'd left the bag by the stairs up to my apartment. Maybe on the shoe rack outside my apartment. Maybe... </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Maybe I was already late cooking dinner, and I needed those veggies NOW.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I drove off in a frenzy to check at my building. Definitely no veggies. They had to be with Auntie! Why would she steal them? How short-sighted, to steal a bag of veggies and forever lose a <i>moy</i>. Two Khmer friends were there, and I explained the situation. They looked at me skeptically. "We don't think your <i>moy</i> would do that to you." But where else could the vegetables be? I even checked with the fruit seller, knowing I'd only dismounted my moto for a second to take money out of the seat. How could anyone have stolen this bright, heavy bag from the hook beneath my handlebars? </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I returned half a block to Auntie.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"You're back! You couldn't find them?" </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"No, Auntie. Could you please look again one more time? Maybe you just didn't see them." I pleaded with her, convinced I hadn't taken them with me. Her denial made me think she'd intentionally taken them and distracted me, hoping I'd carelessly drive off without them. I knew that directly accusing her wouldn't end well - she'd never admit wrongdoing, and I might even make others around us suspect her, which would fill her with shame and anger. My only hope was to offer her a way to save face and restore the situation. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">"They're not here. You took them. I already told you. Do you need to buy everything again?" I loaded up the plastic basket again, angrily picturing her inwardly mocking me. "Sure, whatever," I muttered flusteredly. "I'm already late making dinner. My guests are coming." <i>I hope you're happy, making $10 on me in one day. You'll never have my business again. I bet your husband never lost his arm. And if you have five kids at home, why is only one ever at your stall? </i>I raced home with the veggies, missing the bike ride but calming down in time to enjoy the evening's visitors.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I'd love to clear her name, but I can't see another plausible explanation. I don't know if she planned from the beginning to be extra-chatty in hopes that I'd forget, or if she just saw me distracted and went with the flow. She probably hoped that she was the first of five stops so I wouldn't be sure where I lost the veggies. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Most crimes in Phnom Penh are crimes of opportunity: picking someone's pocket on a crowded street, stealing a moto from an open gate during a noisy monsoon rain, running an errand for the boss and giving back too little change. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Petty thieves have taken my purse, camera, and helmet. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">If it seems low-risk, some Cambodians will place loyalty to family and close connections ("this can help us pay the bills or get ahead") above honesty with a more distant connection. Auntie's snatch from a <i>moy </i>was unusual, but part of a broader pattern of <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/4185812140333217588/8960942320046914176"><span style="color: blue;">corruption</span></a> here that many of my friends decry as unfortunate but inevitable. Few would feel guilty about dodging taxes or sneaking through a red light. Paying bribes is often essential for getting things done. Playing the system is much easier than fixing it.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I've forgiven her, but I haven't gone back. Two Khmer friends recommended that I not return to her, confirming my instinct. One said that though I could buy from her occasionally, the <i>moy </i>relationship can't be restored, and lots of other vendors could use my business. The traditional Khmer way is not to pursue truth and apologies: it's to pretend everything's OK until you can't, and then sever ties, usually permanently. I've felt awkward shopping at other stalls near hers - I'm sure she sees me sometimes, so I just try to go to the farthest one and avoid looking in her direction. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I feel for Auntie, though. As she well knows, five dollars means so much more to her than to me. The difference between our lives weighs on me. Writing this post made me imagine her life. She's old enough to remember the late 1970s Khmer Rouge era, where betrayal was rampant and deceit was key to survival. Children were brainwashed to rat on resisting relatives. Doctors trying to avoid execution tried to pass for illiterate farmers. Parents and older siblings risked death to pocket food from the fields for starving toddlers. I've heard several Cambodians bemoan this period's devastation of community trust to this day. What did that time teach a young Auntie? How many of these lessons got her through the '80s and '90s, in a nation crushed by economic collapse and guerilla warfare? How is she passing them on to her children in this latest widespread crisis?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">I'm pretty sure telling people "Just have integrity" won't do much. So what could I do? Obviously, I can promote external accountability by checking that I have my purchases before I leave and avoiding repeat business with those who rip me off. But heart change is slower and harder. I can do my best to model integrity. I can try casting vision, pleading with teachers and parents to teach the next generation differently than they were taught. I can pray for the Holy Spirit to give people new hearts that want to love and imitate the God of grace and truth. And I can help disciple Cambodian believers to bring their whole lives under His authority, trusting that He will provide all their needs as they live uprightly. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">It's not easy for Cambodian Christians to be honest here in a sea of deceit, but it sure stands out when they do.</span></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-80589449931263848252021-02-26T02:23:00.006-08:002021-03-08T04:52:14.084-08:00Bonds that build maturity<p>What kind of relationships have undergirded, or undermined, your journey toward adulthood? According to Dr. James Wilder, there are two competing types, based primarily on either fear or love. Our maturity depends on the relationships we have experienced. "Becoming mature requires bonds between people - these bonds are the foundation on which maturity is built." </p><p>When I asked my team's former leader, Lynette Cottle, for the most important topic she'd addressed with Cambodian teachers in her seminars, she told me to read Wilder's book <i>The Life Model: Living from the Heart Jesus Gave You.</i> There, Wilder outlines a course of emotional maturity that cannot progress faster than our physical maturity, but may lag behind it or even get stuck in an early stage. Many American adults, he claims, still have the emotional maturity appropriate for an infant or child, far into their physical adulthood. The key to getting unstuck? Love bonds.</p><p>Fear bonds are based on "avoiding negative feelings and pain," while love bonds "are formed around desire, joy, and seeking to be with people who are important to us." In the former, people's primary motive in the relationship may be the fear of "rejection, shame, humiliation, abandonment, guilt, or even physical abuse." Why do we want to arrive punctually, save money, speak kindly, or eat healthy? Because we're focused on what could go wrong in our relationship if we don't. These fears can inspire positive short-term changes in our actions. But they promote blame-shifting, anxiety, guilt, and hiding that ultimately clog our minds and block our growth. "We become emotionally paralyzed [and] operate far <i>under</i> our potential."</p><p>By contrast, loving relationships involve authentic joy at spending time together. Wilder argues that our brains have a "joy center" in the pre-frontal cortex that helps us be resilient and return to joy from painful emotions and stressful experiences. Love bonds build our "joy strength," which in turn "lays the foundation for all other maturity and growth," empowering us to work through our pain and move on. Loving connections inspire people "to remain faithful under pressure, to help others be all they were created to be, to be willing to endure pain in order to be close to those we love, and to tell the truth even when it hurts." Love surpasses fear and banishes it from our focus. "'Perfect love casts out fear' (1 John 4:18)." While love and fear can mingle in a relationship, one will eventually dominate and overshadow the other. Maturing involves abandoning fear bonds and embracing love bonds so that "we are guided by goals we desire, rather than by avoiding the disasters we fear." </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4A-2E5EdAolH7uQuPMTrrQ1r-Jk4aP0ZK7iXcjT8Chyphenhyphen4MzuMrJaaeKrSc6rNeab7qltl5srZwaqO2JCR64mLsd_5-phtebxhoJwp4hBb0bQQjnIBSid6NAglrzg2VyYgV_W0YI0VKxA/s672/Love+vs+Fear+Bonds.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="638" data-original-width="672" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4A-2E5EdAolH7uQuPMTrrQ1r-Jk4aP0ZK7iXcjT8Chyphenhyphen4MzuMrJaaeKrSc6rNeab7qltl5srZwaqO2JCR64mLsd_5-phtebxhoJwp4hBb0bQQjnIBSid6NAglrzg2VyYgV_W0YI0VKxA/w400-h380/Love+vs+Fear+Bonds.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A chart from Chapter 2 of Wilder's book</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>How do we change our bonds? We need to examine our emotions, the seat of our motivation. What emotions did our parents or guardians use to motivate us as children? If fear was prominent, we'll pursue self-preservation above all else, focusing on avoiding pain even when the pain is not likely to overwhelm us. By contrast, if adults around us primarily showed us love in childhood, we'll have a big head start in the maturity process. </div><div><br /></div><div>How can you spot each kind of bond with children? Wilder doesn't spell it out, so I've been trying to think through my own experiences. In a love bond, it's not that parents are saints with infinite patience and wisdom. But they're trying. They take time to play games with their kids without checking their phones, not because the game is great, but because their kid is. They say "Let's clean it up together" when a cup gets knocked over again. They say "I'm sorry I yelled at you" when needed. They look for chances to praise their children when she works hard on homework, or when he uses self-control, or when they are kind to each other. They try to hug their kid just as tightly at the end of a frustrating day as at the end of an easy one, and to value the aspects of their kids that are the parents' opposites. They're happy to talk when their adult kids call, whether it's been a day or a month since last time. I've never been a parent, so I don't know how hard it is in real life, but I'm convinced that 1) it's very hard indeed, and 2) a lot of parents I know are doing a brilliant job. Thank you to everyone who made this paragraph easy to write.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, that's not the only kind of childhood people have. I've heard parents shame their kids using words like, "Your messy room is a disgrace to our family!" or "You're such an erratic driver, your friends won't want to ride in your car." In Cambodia, I've heard, "Don't play sports or you might get an ugly scar!" and even some empty threats to young children like "If you keep doing that, Mom will stop loving you." A lot of times, I think it's more subtle: parents and teachers who criticize more often than they praise, or who don't show delight in spending time with the child. It's easy to use fear and shame to control the behavior of others, especially kids, but these techniques carry a heavy cost.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a result of too many fear bonds, some people are afraid to make an impact on others. They may "withdraw, placate, entertain, or please others" to avoid shame, confrontation, or rejection. But Wilder points out that if I stop acting like myself, my goal of self-preservation has already failed because I've lost my "self." Conversely, other people fear losing control of or impact on others. They may try to control others using anger, contempt, rejection, and the "silent treatment." Their main impact on others is to create pain and perhaps cripple others' emotional development... not most people's desired legacy.</div><div><p></p><p>Wilder proposes that each level of development has a set of tasks we must master regarding our fears in order to change fear-bonds back to love-bonds. We must work through each stage in order, and it's never too late. I'll list one sample task from each level:</p><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li>Infant maturity - recognize the fear (what am I really afraid of?)</li><li>Child maturity - recognize my part in the fearful situation</li><li>Adult maturity - stay in relationship while letting others have fears</li><li>Parent maturity - take some shared responsibility for the fears of younger minds</li><li>Elder maturity - help "at risk," isolated, and marginalized people with their fears</li></ol><p></p><p>Three processes work in tandem: belonging, recovery, and maturity. When we belong to a spiritual community, receive specific help to overcome trauma and addictions, and have guidance and encouragement in the maturing process, we can experience long-term healing and growth. </p><p>I've been reflecting on my own relationships. I told my parents the other day, I'm so thankful for their loving presence from childhood to present. Their love bonds have helped me grow and mature with a lot less baggage than some people around me. That's worth celebrating! That doesn't mean that I never act out of fear in my friendships and connections. Since reading <i>The Life Model</i>, I've been trying to spot and reject fear as a motivator, asking myself, "What would love look like here?" That's especially true with friends who seem controlled by fear, since those two forces can battle each other in relationships. I have hope and peace in the knowledge that true love can overcome fear - both mine and my friends'. </p><p>What about your experiences? It's common for fear bonds to dominate, but change is possible! Our "joy center" is in the only part of the brain that never stops developing. There's no shame in finding ourselves at a lower maturity stage than our age, but we don't need to stay there. Who do you know who seems to love you fearlessly? Could you ask them for help in learning to act out of love like they do? (And don't say nobody does. We're all invited into a loving relationship with God, who knows all our secrets and is still absolutely delighted to spend time with His children.) As we embrace loving relationships, both giving and receiving, we'll be on our way to ever-increasing maturity. We all have a choice and an opportunity to keep growing into the heart Jesus gave us, a new heart that says "no" to fear and "yes" to love. </p><p>Recently, I've loved hearing stories from some people who grew up with major fear bonds and are being set free by the love of God and His children. God hasn't yet brought reconciliation in their biological families, but they've received a lot of healing, maturity, and strength through loving relationships in their spiritual families. As a result, they can love others well, even their difficult family members.</p><p>I'm still learning how to teach this topic to Cambodian teachers. Honestly, my last training was a bit of a dud. I think there are a lot of reasons: for example, this group didn't know me well, this topic wasn't a high priority for them, I let the training go too long, and I relied too much on discussions instead of varying the activities. Teacher training is a big learning curve for me, and I'm embrace the learning opportunities and acknowledge that I'm still new at this.</p><p>Teachers have such a huge impact on the next generation. I want teachers to get excited about the opportunity they have to show love to students, propelling their students toward increased emotional maturity. I want them to reckon with the long-term cost of using fear to produce short-term compliance from students, which is how most of them were taught. I want them to care about their students, including the slow learners, including the disrupters, and use that care as their main motivator for students to do the right thing. Last time, I'm not sure most of them got there. </p><p>I can make my training more interactive, provide more concrete examples, and find snappier ways of explaining things. But if my alterations are driven by my fear of failure, it's all a waste. The most important thing I can do to help Cambodian teachers embrace love bonds is to model love in all our interactions... especially when the training's not going how I'd hoped.<br /></p></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-79573283978188559072021-01-30T22:18:00.015-08:002021-02-04T04:20:16.836-08:00 Woman at the Window<p style="text-align: justify;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Lately I’ve felt a bit too close for comfort
to the protagonist of the thriller novel <i>Woman at the Window</i></span><i style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">.</i><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> The title character, recovering from recent trauma, lives alone and fears going outdoors. She spends her days
drinking, watching old Hitchcock movies, and spying on her mysterious new neighbors.
I’ll let you guess which of those statements apply to me, but definitely the
spying does. Read on, and see if you can blame me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I live up two flights of stairs in a rowhouse,
known in Khmer as a <i>pteah laveng, </i>which my parents like to call a “potato
van.” It has five rooms in a row… living room, 2 bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen… connected
by a long, thin hallway. Many <i>pteah lavengs</i> have windows only on the far
ends, but since I have an end unit, in addition to my south windows in the
living room, every room has windows facing west. <o:p></o:p></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5s-SgfHaeKrfjISt3KqCZgDrDy5zbYn_CPSuOMNIsYFjFMHMy62GYmfiG-7i2fFmeKTtLidJg5NTZ8J9SQ0Q8mJQPLLGN5h4ockfBdkRqYhC47-X30pRBbKKkhEz3-_qTmdKvHBqx_0/s2048/IMG_0045.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5s-SgfHaeKrfjISt3KqCZgDrDy5zbYn_CPSuOMNIsYFjFMHMy62GYmfiG-7i2fFmeKTtLidJg5NTZ8J9SQ0Q8mJQPLLGN5h4ockfBdkRqYhC47-X30pRBbKKkhEz3-_qTmdKvHBqx_0/s320/IMG_0045.JPG" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the living room, facing north</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">My western windows have always overlooked a
mostly empty lot with a small, unoccupied, traditional wooden home in the corner
below my kitchen. (My teammates around the corner say its owner, an elderly
woman, passed away before I moved here in 2017.) This is great for natural
light and airflow, though the extra sunlight during peak hours does make it
hotter than necessary. The house’s yard was a throwback to a decade ago, when most
of this neighborhood still felt like a traditional village. A massive jackfruit
tree extends across windows in two rooms, sweet aromas wafting inside when fruits ripen. Several <i>piengs – </i>waist-tall
jars of water, ubiquitous among Cambodians without indoor plumbing – dotted the
grass and brush that had grown up around the house.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">One day in mid-December, I heard a ruckus and
looked out to find construction workers starting to demolish the house with
their bare hands, so close I could have passed them a cup of water, with their soundtrack notably featuring Ed Sheeran's "Dancing in the Dark." <i>At least the noise should be short-lived, </i>I reasoned. <i>There’s
not much house to remove.</i> I forgot to factor in the concrete stairs, though.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifWpIX60E7v58RwxL9lSDa6DZs0PMD485AVPwlmWPtsH4mnQxyEzwxsncA92RRg1SXYGelD3LFC3lqN-Sb7u0ZfHhjbMJw8zth0w0bXeu8qMxo2YZrK6R2miWcuwvUKqwNh4Ao4lE6i9g/s3264/IMG_9706.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifWpIX60E7v58RwxL9lSDa6DZs0PMD485AVPwlmWPtsH4mnQxyEzwxsncA92RRg1SXYGelD3LFC3lqN-Sb7u0ZfHhjbMJw8zth0w0bXeu8qMxo2YZrK6R2miWcuwvUKqwNh4Ao4lE6i9g/s320/IMG_9706.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUmQptRbuCEAwcxXRF_EHafN1uG0_2ePAJfL8zuQYnpPlIJY-SgllttVmU8T96ZHgr21tySmqMEDThPomiIuoV2mWpFXOaErBmD9nGQ7xDnHZN3IEDpVDw5w1DHLXaxBCTfDE4nKoNHE/s1838/Untitled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="849" data-original-width="1838" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUmQptRbuCEAwcxXRF_EHafN1uG0_2ePAJfL8zuQYnpPlIJY-SgllttVmU8T96ZHgr21tySmqMEDThPomiIuoV2mWpFXOaErBmD9nGQ7xDnHZN3IEDpVDw5w1DHLXaxBCTfDE4nKoNHE/s320/Untitled.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Then I realized: if the house is going, something new must be coming. The workers left a lot of the rubble where it lay, but began smoothing out the rest of the lot and trucking in sand. As is common, they lived on site, sleeping in hammocks under the jackfruit tree, which suddenly smelled a lot like cigarettes. (Most are probably from provinces several hours away and move around to each job.) A couple of small kids played in the sand. My horror mingled with intrigue at the flip-flop-shod workers welding and wielding jackhammers. Day by day, the lot was transformed.</div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwjUGba3j6nWwNi6SPZPAeTLhmylG0j4xC7w5WiwYI149UGD56Lk8FQ4XFaudqDxns2K_RA4ePUm1pCOgmOIQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1N88vRg6ZJ-XW54msEYNnHf8F8zbK9I2Wi9FKHpS5-OfH_2gDQdyS9Z8EtSH49fCCWJoGzqJUluaMpJdwmqzHOH-oOj0uaYzLVvjNYlVKb3JDZdmzwL6RrmTjpaFPzj0-WPbINVRAjb4/s2048/IMG_9731.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1N88vRg6ZJ-XW54msEYNnHf8F8zbK9I2Wi9FKHpS5-OfH_2gDQdyS9Z8EtSH49fCCWJoGzqJUluaMpJdwmqzHOH-oOj0uaYzLVvjNYlVKb3JDZdmzwL6RrmTjpaFPzj0-WPbINVRAjb4/s320/IMG_9731.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Into what? I didn’t know, but my guesses abounded.
Cambodia has minimal zoning restrictions except inside gated communities, so <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2020/02/look-again.html">other lots on my street</a> contain:</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">A bus parking garage</span></li><li style="text-align: justify;">An ice factory</li><li style="text-align: justify;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Some sort of clinic?</span></li><li style="text-align: justify;">A motel advertising “3 hours = $5” on gaudy
neon signs</li><li style="text-align: justify;">Three apartment buildings for lower-
to middle-class residents, one of which boasts a nail salon, a seafood
restaurant, and two dry-goods shops</li><li style="text-align: justify;">About 10 upper-class single-family villas
ranging from classy to ostentatious</li><li style="text-align: justify;">My building, somewhere in between the other social classes</li><li style="text-align: justify;">And last but not least, the headquarters
of the obscure Grassroots Political Party</li></ul><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9kHy5nAbZoZRvNj7dicQHh8IirEJdKCRDkcTGAwk1-93Vv6r7_dgopbQ8ivdfZYupuM0djnrTp56xlDYnfnA071gCIo4LioTGVeLCCXjxK-79hamVaf2UJ0z6f2H3dXmaDovQDQQ7gg/s2048/IMG_9854.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr9kHy5nAbZoZRvNj7dicQHh8IirEJdKCRDkcTGAwk1-93Vv6r7_dgopbQ8ivdfZYupuM0djnrTp56xlDYnfnA071gCIo4LioTGVeLCCXjxK-79hamVaf2UJ0z6f2H3dXmaDovQDQQ7gg/s320/IMG_9854.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The latest addition to our street, on the other side of my house, took over a year to build.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Basically, it could have been anything. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I worried that it would be a big apartment building like the one that now dominates my northern balcony view. I might lose all my natural light and airflow out those western windows. But to my relief, they almost immediately began building two long, thin brick structures. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next, I surmised it might be two one-story buildings with small apartment units in a line, like the building just past it (the red roof in the above photos). Those are common in my neighborhood. </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigSBtxS_kDaKQR0jJcvosYWfHeBRuMM9l76gQtLzmgSWzTIUy0Go8siOfECOu5EYfXvpgT3PiPYI3oRVWHyrt6b0vWlmtxrXF1xNwr1KqRqVV1Du0cOd_KzNZyXdjeSz5aCqWi_xwF-s/s2048/IMG_0030.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgigSBtxS_kDaKQR0jJcvosYWfHeBRuMM9l76gQtLzmgSWzTIUy0Go8siOfECOu5EYfXvpgT3PiPYI3oRVWHyrt6b0vWlmtxrXF1xNwr1KqRqVV1Du0cOd_KzNZyXdjeSz5aCqWi_xwF-s/s320/IMG_0030.JPG" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Similar apartment buildings seen out my kitchen door </span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">But then they added a square structure with bricks around the perimeter, centered around a large tree in the middle. A courtyard? Apartment buildings never had one of those. And what were the new smaller buildings off to the right?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilx-yxMYlni-GD6HjqF8RjX-abwlFTEQf8kWsykm7__tMD09F79PEt6CdoBG0bbmW60FPQEXas9-lFpaKBYRia06w4h3ynWDCqD3HWfPgOjgAYF7tKF2oT10bJyYibaicVT8vf2p4S8Vc/s2048/IMG_9831.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilx-yxMYlni-GD6HjqF8RjX-abwlFTEQf8kWsykm7__tMD09F79PEt6CdoBG0bbmW60FPQEXas9-lFpaKBYRia06w4h3ynWDCqD3HWfPgOjgAYF7tKF2oT10bJyYibaicVT8vf2p4S8Vc/s320/IMG_9831.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Eventually they filled in the bricks with concrete but still didn't add any walls. One new building looked suspiciously like public restrooms... apartments would have their own bathrooms. It didn't bode well.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">One day, a truck arrived with bamboo, grass, and woven reeds. Within an hour or two, the brick square had become a hut enclosing the tree. This is 2021, in a quickly developing suburb of the nation's capital. Thatched huts are no more normal here than they are in Washington, DC. <i>Must be something touristy, </i>I told myself.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxz2rx84JHzdyJwakJqT2Ri8eFvHmZPx0OsANHBXUW-4tHbQyQ0yU2Swu1siUVQdSgyGakviPb7uKXejcYMKA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSwYbsDZMQoTRGwxXMWZEF6BKGvIM-K5yiIQRRsKgVhYTJ4ALXD1PWj7vbdQqk7kGiU_WYXiYpoyAPSF9lc0Zt58nRyjKNGZwzA68iJP74qfAXMKWTRt_WQxGnmuIwog24vsC-7L0ht0/s2048/IMG_9874.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizSwYbsDZMQoTRGwxXMWZEF6BKGvIM-K5yiIQRRsKgVhYTJ4ALXD1PWj7vbdQqk7kGiU_WYXiYpoyAPSF9lc0Zt58nRyjKNGZwzA68iJP74qfAXMKWTRt_WQxGnmuIwog24vsC-7L0ht0/s320/IMG_9874.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Finally, a new building went up just outside my window, on the site of the original wooden house. Akin to a motel, it was likewise a single story and contained a line of rooms too small even to be $50-a-month studio apartments.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And so I wasn't surprised, only gloomy, when my neighbor broke the news to me. "The workers told me it's a beer garden." <i>Well, there goes the neighborhood.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have visited beer gardens before. Germany had some very nice ones, with tasty bread and sizzling meat, in scenic locations where I could sit and talk peacefully with classmates. Please don't think of that when you hear this term. <a href="https://visura.co/omarhavana/stories/beer-garden-cambodia">Cambodian beer gardens</a> are as tasteful as Hooters, and sometimes a good bit less legal. There are probably ten or more of these fine establishments within five blocks of my house. They're only one step less shady than the giant, windowless KTV (karaoke) buildings. At each, girls sit out front, two lines facing each other, in short skirts and high heels. Salons like the one on my street rely on these girls, who need perfect hair and makeup every night. Many vulnerable young women start out as "beer promoters" or "hostesses," accompanying male clients in drinking, flirting, and singing karaoke in return for tips and/or low wages. The job often leads to illegally forced abortions, prostitution with or rape by clients at nearby guesthouses, and a heavy burden of shame. A 2012 Unicef report estimated 35,000 of these "<a href="https://www.khmertimeskh.com/107469/pregnancy-tests-forced-abortions-reveal-darker-side-ktv/">entertainment workers</a>" nationwide, mostly in Phnom Penh. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That week, nice cars showed up bearing a family in formal clothing, probably the owners. They planted sticks of incense in a line in the dirt and disappeared into the hut, where monks chanted to bless the new business. Day after day, well-dressed people in fancy vehicles kept milling around and laughing together. I couldn't tell if they were clients or owners. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Around then, a big orange sign appeared, with parking attendants sitting out front to direct people in. Less than a month after the first roof panels were pried off the old wooden house, this beer garden was open for business. Like most gardens, its chosen beer brand (Ganzberg) is a prominent part of the sign. The restaurant's name is literally translated as "Shade rose-apple cool heart," but I think it means something more like "Calm in the shade of the rose-apple tree." But it's a mango tree inside the hut, so I'm not sure where the rose-apple is.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3xE6A8gu6x9nW_8ngfSZy4hrYh-srmZ2jtCa1cCZDIoFV4wLBPTAPiFP9RpeOhoyA-pd7nOlZRYN9ZpZuSh8OeuLXQaB7eb7vVf7S4y6Mxi_x6pzbxqbDa6RdN8TSvPmQVcA_LXLa7o/s2048/InkedIMG_9947+-+Copy_LI.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga3xE6A8gu6x9nW_8ngfSZy4hrYh-srmZ2jtCa1cCZDIoFV4wLBPTAPiFP9RpeOhoyA-pd7nOlZRYN9ZpZuSh8OeuLXQaB7eb7vVf7S4y6Mxi_x6pzbxqbDa6RdN8TSvPmQVcA_LXLa7o/s320/InkedIMG_9947+-+Copy_LI.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The red arrow shows my apartment</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #0000ee; text-decoration-line: underline;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjweGFgrj5tuM0dO1LmbxFTWqvNDddXqjsbcj1Mi0iHKS7ixF1UdYiHS_Wt9XLQgCa2eqjjliwP_trEUVtSEqXKntyhkGv6Ko7tthrEWyemEOsmh2YbPUQYvvvBg96i93Lrig0YAkCDurw/s2048/IMG_0024.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjweGFgrj5tuM0dO1LmbxFTWqvNDddXqjsbcj1Mi0iHKS7ixF1UdYiHS_Wt9XLQgCa2eqjjliwP_trEUVtSEqXKntyhkGv6Ko7tthrEWyemEOsmh2YbPUQYvvvBg96i93Lrig0YAkCDurw/s2048/IMG_0024.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjweGFgrj5tuM0dO1LmbxFTWqvNDddXqjsbcj1Mi0iHKS7ixF1UdYiHS_Wt9XLQgCa2eqjjliwP_trEUVtSEqXKntyhkGv6Ko7tthrEWyemEOsmh2YbPUQYvvvBg96i93Lrig0YAkCDurw/s320/IMG_0024.JPG" /></a></div></div><div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Another Ganzberg beer garden displays typical simple plastic chairs and metal tables - </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I'm guessing this one has similar furniture</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The limited parking area remained packed daily with nice cars. From what I could see, the kitchen wasn't getting much traffic. What about this basic hut with no A/C, limited food and hygiene, and ongoing construction appealed enough to draw these big shots for hours of their afternoon? I was baffled why they wouldn't drive five or ten minutes to somewhere more upscale.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I kept bracing myself for nonstop karaoke eight hours a day, like several other places near my house. <i>I might need to move... I've learned to work from home during intermittent karaoke down the street, but nonstop out my window is too much... there's a limit to how often I can visit cafes to get peace and quiet... will it keep me up every night? Will I have to dodge drunk drivers?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite the occasional warblers and a constantly full parking lot, singing has been much rarer than raucous laughter and general hanging out. So far, there's actually less karaoke here than at the seafood restaurant just past it. (The video below features one renowned singer.) But the danger's not over yet. All karaoke places were officially closed last spring due to Covid and could reopen in July only as "<a href="https://construction-property.com/positive-signs-of-recovery-casinos-clubs-ktvs-allowed-to-reopen-schools-to-follow/">restaurants</a>," which has reduced but not eliminated karaoke in my neighborhood. Covid might be the last defense protecting my ears and sanity from a constant barrage of noise. Time will tell.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyfEigXO1OJXFXCMsVvpZCkFBZAOJNYR_POl8ytTo-kE3whLcrQTGF8FZVHDg3AYA3WNdyr1fcSxP5WIdjfIQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another encouraging sign is the chairs out front. Though I've seen some girls walking around inside, I'm not sure if they're employees, and I haven't seen any sitting at the entrance. Instead, it's been men like the parking attendants, or conservatively dressed older women. That lends support to the theory that it's an ordinary restaurant. (Basically every restaurant here sells beer.) Furthermore, the posted hours are 10:30 AM to 9 PM - lunch and dinner hours - rather than early evening through the wee hours, like a bar or KTV. (It's still blared some 10:30 PM karaoke and other music, though.) Khmer friends confirmed that this seems to be an ordinary restaurant. One theorized that its appeal lies in the atmosphere inside. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dy1e5out81Wxd5jTpDaKFKm2YYmlasan4FyS7JsomPin-4qUb-fK8xcrjOizDh2SSznVDXt18-ei1WcIq2uVw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">However, I'm still nervous about that building adjacent to mine with the line of tiny windowless rooms. What's that about? It doesn't seem very family-friendly. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWfbk7azyzX9iDcb-6z3eYFUiaXC2WxkwbLSq2Z9epmP0FruRCCsLV429VIUCTIGorA5ZbQRxJoXRqf8yVCKeeMsPZAO_x9IdGb-oXijuJ3Vhyphenhyphenq99D2JQbN2l_PROEfjbVDqzbUfb6RxM/s2048/IMG_9905.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWfbk7azyzX9iDcb-6z3eYFUiaXC2WxkwbLSq2Z9epmP0FruRCCsLV429VIUCTIGorA5ZbQRxJoXRqf8yVCKeeMsPZAO_x9IdGb-oXijuJ3Vhyphenhyphenq99D2JQbN2l_PROEfjbVDqzbUfb6RxM/s320/IMG_9905.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When they added a tin roof, blocking my view inside, the rooms still had dirt floors and bare concrete walls, lending few hints as to their purpose. We'll see what happens when that building opens. In the meantime, they've installed green plastic netting to keep the parking area cooler, which effectively blocks most of my people-watching. (If only it were sound-proof too!) Thus ends my illustrious career as Woman at the Window.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dycc7UkzltHLYHkmxCp4gopnHswhaAOkJLWU1t3LNi6Sy6BrW_Dr3E5fGvUlmpWhiyOgBssYeB-umTXyj4qPA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsFAborvNbA9ALxzRbidiR961FCtvfg251XAjjQLEvzFPisWQ1e-TYuKrMLItML3rIVAcyKleidthcr8ebiafuaElw_50kOpgOvKNbVuTjhu436WkNF_uZG7KQEDorub4OOtSbvDQISQ/s3264/IMG_0043.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjsFAborvNbA9ALxzRbidiR961FCtvfg251XAjjQLEvzFPisWQ1e-TYuKrMLItML3rIVAcyKleidthcr8ebiafuaElw_50kOpgOvKNbVuTjhu436WkNF_uZG7KQEDorub4OOtSbvDQISQ/s320/IMG_0043.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzytxH8TdKeMWpJNq1wimQ2x_lhX-9zDCwjRc7ycft1dtb4j7w_R3opkGvnoHDUi0ftWyXRY3BjLZV0wosrRw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The other day, it finally dawned on me that while my curiosity may be harmless, my fretting was and is pretty selfish. Shouldn't my heart break more for the women risking their safety, reputation, and hope at places like this all over my neighborhood, than for myself risking my concentration due to noise pollution? Am I praying for Cambodian men to be transformed by Christ into people of integrity, or just for this one business to fail and stop interrupting my life? I conveniently ignore the darkness here, but if I really loved Cambodia, I'd fight for change. Lord, please make me more like C.T. Studd, who wrote:</div><div><i></i></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Some want to live within the sound of a church or chapel bell;</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>I'd rather run a rescue shop within a yard of hell.</i></div></blockquote><p style="text-align: justify;">I don't expect any imminent rescues, but maybe driving past my new neighbors can remind me to pray.</p><div><i></i></div></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-73185118335494959922020-12-31T00:07:00.005-08:002021-02-04T03:08:55.748-08:002020 20's: A found poem<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(To create this found poem, I looked back at all the numbered entries ending in 20 in my gratitude list this year. I reworded many and rearranged them all, but preserved the content, trying to capture moments of gratitude throughout the year.)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">2020
brought me <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">all kinds of surprises, not just the hard kind,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">but also the church lady who told me she prays for me daily <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(it was our first-ever conversation but I’m on the church’s list)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and the gorgeous tree that arrested me on my run through the park,
whose mere photo awakens a sense of longing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">(Maybe Niggle painted it?)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Thanks
to Covid, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My graduation from leadership training was delayed, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">giving me extra Skype encouragement from my mentor;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I learned about ancient Rome with my friends’ 4<sup>th</sup>
grader;<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and I pulled off “Cordoba” on guitar, delighting my
dad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">God
provided, not just enough food, but tasty food:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Luscious pastries before we watched “Mulan,”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">chicken marinated in Italian dressing,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">homemade pizzas providing much laughter and invitations to
creativity </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">with Cambodians </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">when the oven broke midstream.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">He
provided learning resources:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Khmer picture books to share with my coachees,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">rich, clear resources on assessment from someone who left his
heart with Cambodian teachers,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">strategies for introverted teammates to courageously plunge into
community time, <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">quality English books to help kids (including my favorite ones) learn
about Himself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">God
loved me through people:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">my parents offering wise suggestions in a sticky situation,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">considerate fellow campers driving me safely up the mountain on their motos and limiting my load to hold,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">a friend who spent hours helping me process one morning.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-indent: 0.5in;">What am I grateful for in 2020?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: georgia; text-indent: 0.5in;">Plenty.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXRy6grjc4dLiqS5qLwkDwYq0DQsdJ4PRsoWWGQgtsqcuZy2l_W0Wr_9JC-DgL7Vyss5gKFypcldaoldM0rjB0nAJMf48O6l_3vYPm4ZIYWdPkGCBYdH0V6nEZ9iBzr6MPJhfsIzkgEc/s2048/2020-02-15+07.07.18+HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXRy6grjc4dLiqS5qLwkDwYq0DQsdJ4PRsoWWGQgtsqcuZy2l_W0Wr_9JC-DgL7Vyss5gKFypcldaoldM0rjB0nAJMf48O6l_3vYPm4ZIYWdPkGCBYdH0V6nEZ9iBzr6MPJhfsIzkgEc/s320/2020-02-15+07.07.18+HDR.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4185812140333217588.post-48554874923107602162020-11-30T20:50:00.308-08:002020-12-21T18:34:47.821-08:00Leaf by Niggle, leftover art, and the pursuit of mediocrity<p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I didn't expect to become obsessed with a short story about a middle-aged male painter. I read it reluctantly. I'm not even into visual arts. </span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My <a href="http://cranniesandnooks.blogspot.com/2020/11/hutchmoot-homebound.html">last post</a> discussed Hutchmoot: Homebound's online conference on creativity and faith, but I left out the part that most deeply impacted me: J.R.R. Tolkien's autobiographical, allegorical short story "</span><span class="il" style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="http://www.ae-lib.org.ua/texts-c/tolkien__leaf_by_niggle__en.htm">Leaf</a></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="http://www.ae-lib.org.ua/texts-c/tolkien__leaf_by_niggle__en.htm"> by Niggle</a>." Hutchmoot organizers encouraged all participants to download it and some related nonfiction, read them, and participate in the <a href="https://rabbitroom.com/course/reading-group-leaf-by-niggle-by-j-r-r-tolkien/?utm_source=Hutchmoot%3A+Homebound&utm_campaign=cd932c8311-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2018_05_10_COPY_01&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_9c0b24532b-cd932c8311-43137070&mc_cid=cd932c8311&mc_eid=fc1b75651f">discussion forum</a>. At first I grumbled that I couldn't make time before the conference, but I'm glad I did.</span></p><p style="color: #222222;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zRcaHQBDmZk5gwkN7S1e1F88XKPhTIAimOfOtZDd7_lXHTYWf5-PXOAHTreCryb7COvQDo7iJ5RDfCe7IN1GXnUoBUwJ8coBpwY39T_wdXCtXRFeJlYzfmAL4L-Nwan_S2IqzxW8j3A/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zRcaHQBDmZk5gwkN7S1e1F88XKPhTIAimOfOtZDd7_lXHTYWf5-PXOAHTreCryb7COvQDo7iJ5RDfCe7IN1GXnUoBUwJ8coBpwY39T_wdXCtXRFeJlYzfmAL4L-Nwan_S2IqzxW8j3A/" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I first skimmed the introduction and learned that readers often find it confusing and unremarkable at the first read-through, but that it's profoundly impacted many. Of course I wanted to be one of the star-studded few who instantly grasped its weight, and of course I wasn't. I tracked pretty well at first, but got stuck trying to decipher the allegory about 2/3 of the way in. (Later I read an interview with Tolkien saying to treat it more as a myth - it came to him one night and he didn't try too hard to make everything correspond.) But once I read comments from other readers, re-read it myself, and watched a Hutchmoot lecture on it by Matthew Dickerson, it consumed my thoughts. </div></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Tolkien put himself and his Lord of the Rings writing into Niggle, an aging painter, more eccentric than gifted. Despite all our differences, I can relate to Niggle. Like him, I struggle to focus, seethe at other people interrupting to request help, and worry whether others think my work is any good. Like him, my talents are ordinary, barely enough for a decent attempt at painting a <span class="il">leaf. Like him, I watch in dread as time melts away, trying to forget that I am mortal. And though I can't say I have a vision for my life's greatest work like an epic trilogy or the great tree Niggle scrambled to complete, I too can </span>glimpse aching beauty in distant forests and glimmering mountains, far beyond my ability to capture. </span></p><p style="color: #222222;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5gTDc-XOjt8hGf4pORDc-bFNzMEaaYR_VtEfHnXoANrkQQed5LgXNmC296AfrSQMdgtVRBMYafsohwgidrXgIdDRSZlkuwX_O70KyH8b_RBtvQMAq23eqmqJM2V3TSZAm5HRf9DbG8WM/s1922/Autumn+in+Ohiopyle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="1922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5gTDc-XOjt8hGf4pORDc-bFNzMEaaYR_VtEfHnXoANrkQQed5LgXNmC296AfrSQMdgtVRBMYafsohwgidrXgIdDRSZlkuwX_O70KyH8b_RBtvQMAq23eqmqJM2V3TSZAm5HRf9DbG8WM/s320/Autumn+in+Ohiopyle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;">I'm also like his neighbor Parish, a no-nonsense gardener who finds it easier to notice Niggle's weeds out front than his lush landscapes in the studio. I can struggle to say something kind about others' deficiencies and completely miss their gifts. I can focus on my pain and be blinded to theirs. I can convince myself that their time, wood, and canvas would be better served patching my leaky roof than fulfilling an artistic vision. </p></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Like both of them, how I use my life matters more than I know. And it's not too late for good to come of it. Tolkien follows Niggle's story through his "long journey" away from home and into the afterlife. Despite some gloomy bits it's a hopeful story: not necessarily hopeful that things will all work out just in time, but hopeful that all is not lost when they don't. Readers watch Niggle grow in ways somehow akin to the Velveteen Rabbit.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I coerced my three fellow Hutchmoot participants into reading it with me, and we had a follow-up discussion focusing on it. We talked about art and community, how they feed off each other, and how to find our place in both. We talked about holding onto vision and being generous with our time amid a frenzy of demands and requests. We talked about savoring the form of art instead of trying to reduce it to a point and move on. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">We talked about the power we hold to encourage and support those around us who share their creations. </span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I asked my friends, "Is it worth trying to do something when I know I'll be mediocre at best for quite a while, possibly forever? Let's say I attempt songwriting. If the first 100+ songs I write are bad to middling, and I may never make it past those to anything decent, is there still value in my effort?" For Niggle, there was. He was a painter. Even if his best work never surpassed mediocrity, painting is what he was made for. What am I made for? Have I even found it yet? </span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">My grandma just moved into the nursing home in her retirement community, and my parents and her other kids have been cleaning out her cluttered apartment. Recently I went through 169 photos to sign up for items in her home: silver from her parents' wedding, quilts she stitched, figurines she collected, baskets she wove, paintings by her and her Uncle Ed. Fresh from reading Niggle, my eyes brimmed up looking at the list.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mamaw always told me she wasn't artistic, not like Uncle Ed, the professional. </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">I never met Ed and knew him only by his oil paintings in Mamaw and Papaw's house: rundown farms and European cityscapes and abstract shapes and lifelike portraits. But a few years ago, I heard he was also such a good cartoonist that a young Walt Disney had tried and failed to recruit him. </span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As a child, I asked Mamaw for help drawing a girl's feet wearing tights. She grudgingly attempted it while decrying her efforts, which I thought were perfect. Mamaw grew up with her widowed mother, grandparents, and an adolescent Uncle Ed (much her mother's junior), who later drifted in and out between travels. I wonder how often her childhood drawings and paintings were compared to Ed's. Intimidating!</span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-QxhlDzvCszRyqgpo7kDoBeZ739LR9vLlUaJTplOEtVKeiZMmCthy897qkhoQg6ucP2E7UVQjUnl4880QF5DlkSWmNJxEz_vvJavG_q8JOUOK4OrYsKsFJxUyijZcuBkIXtP0H-u8CTA/s2048/IMG_5665.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-QxhlDzvCszRyqgpo7kDoBeZ739LR9vLlUaJTplOEtVKeiZMmCthy897qkhoQg6ucP2E7UVQjUnl4880QF5DlkSWmNJxEz_vvJavG_q8JOUOK4OrYsKsFJxUyijZcuBkIXtP0H-u8CTA/s320/IMG_5665.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mamaw's in the middle, with one of her Uncle Ed's paintings behind her</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4z1cqr5UZ7J5k4hWuKlpKTxOhZEJ0sdjZPRnCBOREyk-XPOnQLSNHmREdZrEGNNTAtdJuFuZVLVGABC1acRhm9fYFPIQBv5EgIPGcNgMw18IU0ddzY3gSFkFo-ve03UN4cWeka6_JUGc/s2048/Uncle+Ed+painting+at+Julia%2527s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4z1cqr5UZ7J5k4hWuKlpKTxOhZEJ0sdjZPRnCBOREyk-XPOnQLSNHmREdZrEGNNTAtdJuFuZVLVGABC1acRhm9fYFPIQBv5EgIPGcNgMw18IU0ddzY3gSFkFo-ve03UN4cWeka6_JUGc/s320/Uncle+Ed+painting+at+Julia%2527s.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Uncle Ed painting that my sister claimed</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Unlike Niggle and Uncle Ed, Mamaw's never been "a painter." Sewing probably best defined her creativity, along with crafting, dancing, and cooking. But in her 70's, she started taking painting lessons </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">with other retirees</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">, I think mostly copying pieces by more prominent artists. Her work eventually brightened her walls next to Uncle Ed's paintings, tangible examples of pushing through insecurity toward creativity. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclEqAUXsawNsR0zUuIUY9VC-UJVPFknKt716Y98XtO6R7xgEDTtwEif-5fKFU4joTakm8rk00R56iGFMAJ_peRfyzOxKG0T7C8IKlojbIpPS0OCrqJIUrNopyIJxT2hsy2WihsVNKEf0/s2048/IMG_2983.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1300" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclEqAUXsawNsR0zUuIUY9VC-UJVPFknKt716Y98XtO6R7xgEDTtwEif-5fKFU4joTakm8rk00R56iGFMAJ_peRfyzOxKG0T7C8IKlojbIpPS0OCrqJIUrNopyIJxT2hsy2WihsVNKEf0/s320/IMG_2983.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A painting by Mamaw </td></tr></tbody></table><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I was one of the last grandchildren to peruse the list of items and make my requests. Unlike Mamaw's hand-woven baskets, colorful quilts, and award-winning smocked baby clothes, none of her art had been claimed. Dismayed, I sat pondering. On one hand, though I signed up for a painting, getting things to Cambodia poses a hurdle. On the other hand, I love Mamaw, and her artwork is way better than mine. </span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Without a family to inherit his paintings, Niggle's work is soon scattered and discarded. One charming leaf on a corner of the canvas makes it into a local museum... which later burns down. What about Mamaw? If her paintings end up in thrift stores, even during her lifetime, does that mean they didn't matter? How can I celebrate this prolific, feisty woman who no longer has any use for her paintbrushes, sewing machine, tap and ballet shoes, or gigantic stash of knitting needles? </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">As her memory and daily life shrink ever smaller, I want her legacy in my life to stay far bigger. </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiiYVKqkRsfyy7ShvmHtELyEFbbHtf1Hb7OsXKJY7g3by4wm2ohfIS9bDvz_V63x42h4AOLt4NEr-dkG_E-xwLw3qU3OHhipoOC-ZigKwmKyCswYjYDg39Oqxd-z75iRM7YL5UPRKOhM/s1080/Quinn+2.jpg" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiiYVKqkRsfyy7ShvmHtELyEFbbHtf1Hb7OsXKJY7g3by4wm2ohfIS9bDvz_V63x42h4AOLt4NEr-dkG_E-xwLw3qU3OHhipoOC-ZigKwmKyCswYjYDg39Oqxd-z75iRM7YL5UPRKOhM/s320/Quinn+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Mamaw's intricately smocked dresses, passed down from my cousin to her daughter</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">So I started writing music. I've long appreciated great songs and enjoyed making up new lyrics or arranging hymns and carols for guitar, but I've never attempted anything original. The past few weeks, I've been playing around with lyrics and a few guitar riffs. (Mine aren't nearly as rock'n'roll as "riffs" would suggest!) It's been tricky trying to merge together music and words, since they tend to come to me separately and resist each other. But after multiple spurts that went nowhere, something is starting to gel toward a song. I keep making changes to both lyrics and music, trying to wrangle it into expressing my heart and satisfying my ears, but it's felt cathartic starting to get it out. </span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I shared my newborn song with the other Hutchmooters, a much more supportive audience than Niggle's neighbor Parish. I was nervous, but performing it felt less risky because I'd invested only a couple weeks into it, not years or decades. I don't think I missed my destiny as a singer-songwriter, but I do think I'll keep experimenting. Whether we're teachers or painters or basket weavers or organizers or personal trainers or a little bit of everything, we're God's image-bearers who are meant to create boldly and wholeheartedly.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">T</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">he lyrics are based on a story that's not mine to tell, at least not in a public forum like this. S</span><span style="font-family: georgia;">o instead, here's a scrap of guitar music that's been rolling around in my head, waiting to be fleshed out with vocals and more guitar. I'm kinda stuck on where to take it from here, but it feels like it has more life in it than this. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Sa2MgiNB-ro" width="320" youtube-src-id="Sa2MgiNB-ro"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;">It's far from an opus, but Niggle taught me that even fragments can spark imagination and gleam joy. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;">If you have ideas for ways to nudge it forward, I'm all ears! </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;">Art and community are meant to interact and nurture each other. This is my way to carry on Mamaw's legacy of courageously creating, of hanging imperfect pieces on the wall. (FYI: Several of Mamaw's paintings are now on her grandchildren's walls, including this one below, which my sister just put up.) </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;">Like Niggle's, maybe the value of Mamaw's endeavors... and mine... isn't limited to the prominence they receive.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_7FzpLhHepFg95lN3TQvvsnyO7zxOcvUU5_706ipWKs-zMa7UMoiIkpoDQdvKFyahnQz1iNSDHH1FpsZSwPyXBEkGOZu7MZ0fO166zbqWzP2bvRLO6RXgX4rw_UY_lKMk-5AKDWTZmw/s2048/Mamaw+clothesline+painting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_7FzpLhHepFg95lN3TQvvsnyO7zxOcvUU5_706ipWKs-zMa7UMoiIkpoDQdvKFyahnQz1iNSDHH1FpsZSwPyXBEkGOZu7MZ0fO166zbqWzP2bvRLO6RXgX4rw_UY_lKMk-5AKDWTZmw/s320/Mamaw+clothesline+painting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div>Chelseahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12815683767862635524noreply@blogger.com2