The Jogger

The other day on my way home from work, a man caught my eye.  There were several reasons he stood out:
1. He was jogging.  That's not a particularly popular pastime here.  If you want exercise (which not everyone does), you could play badminton in front of your house or do aerobics in the park.  But no, he was jogging, and not halfheartedly either.
2. It was around 5 PM, while it was still hot.  It takes a special person to exercise while the sun is up, especially during April, the hottest month.  My rule is before 8 AM or after 6 PM, when the sun sets.
3. It was rush hour on a busy road.  It has no sidewalks, and people don't even really walk along it, let alone jog.  There's just not much room.
4. He had a prosthetic leg!

My first thought was "must be a land mine victim," because they are many in Cambodia, starting back in the Khmer Rouge era of the 1970's.  But you won't find them out jogging, nor are they wearing shorts that reveal the prosthesis.  I usually see them outside the Center for the Disabled or maybe selling souvenirs near a tourist site.  Even scars are looked down on here as marring a person's worth, and there are no anti-discrimination laws.  To my knowledge I've never seen an amputee employed by a Khmer business.  I'm guessing the majority of victims never make it to Phnom Penh, but stay at home in the provinces, where most of the still-unexploded land mines are.  Families tend to keep their imperfect members out of sight.

The next thing I noticed was his apparent wealth.  Jogging is definitely an activity for the middle- to upper-class, and his clothing looked pretty nice.  How did this land mine victim become wealthy enough to make jogging a habit?  How did he become strong enough to jog with ease?  How did he become confident enough to display his prosthetic leg with pride? 

Around me, I could see younger guys turning and staring at him.  And well they should!   You keep feasting your eyes, boys.  You take in the significance of this man.  You appreciate the statement he's making.  Go ahead and applaud, while you're at it.

I was getting pretty excited by now.  What a testament to perseverance!  What a symbol of the tenacity of survivors!  He reminds me of my older Khmer friends at school.  Thearey, who before age ten trudged through the jungle to safety in a Thai refugee camp and a new life in Minnesota.  Thavy, whose gentle, timid personality belies the courage to tackle snakes, heights, dire poverty, and floods up to her neck.  Chantorn, who lost her husband and all but one child, then learned English and became a "mom" figure to so many in Asian Hope.  The Khmer Rouge, the subsequent civil war, and other hardships left them, like Cambodia as a whole, battered and bruised but not beaten.

Amazed and inspired by him and his compatriots, I came home and told my roommates his story.

"Jogging on that road?  Isn't that pretty dangerous?"

And the thought crossed my mind - what if THAT'S how he lost his leg?

Malaysia

I've been feeling the need to escape Phnom Penh for a while.  I contemplated leaving the country at Christmas, but ended up staying in town.  While that offered me some much-needed rest, it meant that I've been in Cambodia, surrounded by Logos people, constantly since early last July.  (They recommend that we leave the country several times a year, and I'm starting to understand why.)  Cambodia was getting to me: the exhausting heat, the dangerous drivers (babies perched atop laps while they swerve around trucks), the gulf between rich and poor, the catcalls as I go by.  Every airplane that passed overhead made me dream of America.

That's why I was counting on my trip to Malaysia to boost my spirits, and it was every bit as great as I'd hoped.  I finally got to visit a good friend who studied at Penn State but has returned to her hometown near Kuala Lumpur.  At PSU, she told everyone to call her "Ku," but since that's part of her family's name, I switched on this trip to "Ezreen," her given name.  She and her family hosted me during our 5-day weekend for International Women's Day a few weeks ago.  The trip left me refreshed and ready to press on.

My first night there, floods rushed through houses on her street and inundated her grandma's house miles away, to the point that her refrigerator floated!  We stayed dry, thankfully.

 It was fascinating for me to see a Southeast Asian country that felt so different from Cambodia, though the flight to KL was less than 2 hours.  Thailand and even Vietnam are more developed than Cambodia, but there are still some similarities in transportation, food, landscape, etc.  Buddhism is predominant in all three, and their cultural heritages have influenced one another.  Malaysia, on the other hand, is a melting pot of Malays, Chinese, and Indians, with Islam, Zen Buddhism, and Hinduism all prevalent.  I saw next to no motos on the smooth modern highways, and the rolling hills were blanketed with lush trees.  Some of the architecture looked very European - I felt at times as though I were in Germany.  It even got considerably cooler in the evenings and mornings than Phnom Penh.  While her house had some typical SE Asian features like the "wet bathroom" (where the shower goes directly onto the floor), it also had cozy carpeted floors - something I hadn't seen since leaving the US.  That and the lack of tile on the walls made it much cozier and less echoey than most Cambodian homes.

Left to right: Syafia, Uncle, Auntie, Edhura

Ezreen's family was amazing!  They all spoke excellent English, except her 2-year-old niece Syafia, who is officially as cute as a button.  (We still became great friends, though...she shared her Barbie butterfly toy and I helped her put together puzzles of fruit.)  Her vivacious and goofy older sister Edhura, Syafia's mom, studied at a German university, so I even got to practice a bit of rusty German with her.  Nadhira, a soft-spoken younger sister, took some great photos when she came with us on a day trip.  Ezreen's boyfriend/fiance Faissal tirelessly chauffeured us all over Kuala Lumpur and Malacca ("Melaka" in Malay), mostly preferring to listen, but offering some great insights into my questions about Malaysian culture.  As for Ezreen's mom?  "Auntie's" full-time job was to tempt me with Malaysian culinary delights.  I think she gave me 5 different homemade foods my first afternoon - rice puffs, beef and vegetables, dried fruit, pasta - and then we went out to dinner.  I was never in danger of going hungry there!

Ezreen eating tasty satay - like barbecue with peanut sauce - at a local restaurant.

I knew Ezreen was fun and outgoing, but in KL I got to see more of her artsy side.  She's started a vintage clothing business with Faissal, and often sported her wares with funky belts and colorful shoes.  It's quite a switch from her previous plans: she majored in biotechnology.  We didn't have time for me to shop while I was in town, but I'm hoping to order a dress or two soon from her website.  Apparently most are from Japan, with a few from the UK.  They're so fun!

Ezreen (R) with her younger sister Nadhira, touring a Portuguese fortress in Melaka. 

It was my first time in a Muslim home, and it brought up a lot of questions for me.  Ezreen stayed at my house for a week one Christmas vacation, so we'd talked a bit before about daily life as a Christian or Muslim.  But there were lots of things I hadn't realized.  For example, I knew that females in her family would wear the hijab (head scarf) around non-related males, but her mom was conservative enough to wear it in the house around me, since I'm a non-Muslim female.  The call to prayer interrupts pop music five times a day on the radio, reminding them to complete each prayer within the next few hours.  When we were on our way home from Malacca (a 2-hour drive), they pulled over at a rest stop specifically to pray...there was a big prayer room for that purpose.  They told me Malacca was famous for its pineapple tarts, but since we could only find them from Chinese vendors and not from Muslims, they didn't want to eat any.  "We can't be sure it's halal - it could have been cooked in the same pan as pork."  In a non-Muslim country, they wouldn't be so picky, but since there were plenty of halal vendors selling other goodies, they didn't want to take the risk.

When we were walking around downtown KL, we saw an old Indian mosque famous for its architecture.  We wandered around it for a bit, and as we were leaving, the employee handed me a stack of pamphlets on Islam with a Quran translated in English.  One document showed a timeline of key figures in Islam (many of whom overlap with Judaism and Christianity, like Abraham).  I knew they considered Jesus a human prophet, but was surprised to see him called "the Messiah."  I started asking questions and found out that they believe Judas died on the cross in Jesus' place, while Jesus was taken to heaven, where he waits for the world to end so he can return and give true Muslims an extra boost toward salvation.  For Muslims, you can never be sure if you will go to heaven.  They say Allah is forgiving, but they're never sure which sins he will forgive and which will remain on your record.  Your only hope is to avoid sin, do good works, and pray that he'll be lenient. 

Us at the mosque - you're required to cover up before you can tour it.

I've been thinking a lot since then about how different Christianity is.  How preposterous it is that God would guarantee salvation to all who put their trust in him.  How unthinkable that He would enter our struggles, our suffering, our chaos, so that He could fully sympathize with our weaknesses.  How backward it is that He, the Holy One who cannot stand sin, would love us when we were drenched in it, would give Himself to purify us from it, would free us from it and its terrible consequences by conquering it.  Ezreen and her friends and family work so hard.  They're so devout and dedicated.  But they have no confidence that it will accomplish anything, because they understand that their sins make them unworthy of God.  It's really sad to me, since I am convinced that their good deeds are worthless, but that God's work has already been completed on their behalf.  I'm glad they asked me to explain how differently Christians see Jesus.  But I can see why it would be hard to believe from their perspective!  Hoping we get to continue the conversation next time we're together.

Countryside in the city

I've started biking to school this semester.  It's only a few miles from my house.  But before, I was always nervous about the sweat, the potholes, the danger of being the little guy cringing at every speeding Lexus and towering truck.  Logos is on the edge of Phnom Penh, and the road it's on connects to a highway out to the province.  So the route to school is busy, particularly at rush hour.  Bikes get shoved to the edge of the road, where it floods, where it's not quite paved, where motos that just turned left are driving on the wrong side straight toward you.  It didn't seem worth it when I already had a moto (AKA scooter).

Several friends had bikes, though, and said it wasn't as bad as it seemed.  I wanted the exercise and the freedom to travel alone when Sarah (housemate and moto co-owner) needed the moto to go elsewhere.  And I have no desire to augment Phnom Penh's pollution.  So I finally bought a bike over Christmas break, with the caveat that I'd still use the moto several days a week if biking took too much mental effort. 

Little did I know they were cementing the back roads!  These roads were barely passable several months back.  Their gigantic potholes every dozen yards, bricks and fist-sized stones jutting out left and right, and broken glass have now been transformed into a smooth, silent ride. 

Now, I can go 3/4 of the way on nearly deserted roads, with only a couple minutes of more chaotic traffic.  Rather than a stress factor, riding my bike to and from school has become a sanctuary of peace and beauty.  Traffic is rare, and almost none of it is cars.  So I can observe locals, soak in nature, and fantasize that I'm hours away from Phnom Penh.  Taking the moto isn't even tempting, at least for now while hot season holds off.  Here are some of the treats I look out for each day.

 

The little boy is in front of my house; the girl is across the street.  A bunch of kids live in the house across from me, and often play in the street or on the sidewalk.  One day, I arrived at my gate to find these two chatting away on their "phones."  How cute are they?

Bible camp or labor camp?

“On the first day, I really wanted to cry and go back home…”

We took the grade 11s and 12s to a new camp this year.  Our 9s and 10s returned to a leadership development/ropes course camp where Logos has gone for years.  But since we’ve outgrown their facilities, we branched out this year.  It seemed perfect: run by a UK organization, it’s eco-friendly, affordable for our budget, and lets students participate short-term in long-term community development projects.  We booked it and told students about its great reputation with school teams from all over the world. 

Students washed their hands with water from a traditional large basin (left).  All the buildings were either sod or thatch.

Our expectations were met, but our students’ were not.  It took a few days for the truth to come out that when they heard “UK” and “international,” they interpreted it as “luxurious,” which the old camp was not.  The rumors spread like wildfire before arriving: Brick buildings!  Fans!  Running water!  Instead, they were greeted with a compost toilet, painful red ants all over the cabins, no fans, and no trees for shade…the other camp's forest location made it cool.  They knew we’d be working every day, but they hoped for lots of free time in which to hang out, and many were unprepared for the tough manual labor Tuesday through Thursday.

 

 Local students, rapt as their school's shutters are repainted

On Tuesday, it was depressingly difficult to see progress.  My group sanded a school’s wall for three hours, using 3” by 2” squares of sandpaper already worn ragged.  After lunch, everyone moved dirt for a future community center at the Buddhist pagoda near camp.  Students couldn’t understand: as a Christian school, why were we streaming sweat and forming blisters on behalf of Buddhism?  We had some good talks about which would reveal Christ more powerfully: to proclaim our beliefs to the camp directors and abstain from helping, or to do the work cheerfully, knowing the center would benefit the whole community.  (To my knowledge, the village is 100% Buddhist.)  We developed an assembly line, all 50 of us working for two hours in heat and full sun to carry dirt about 1/3 mile from a mound to a giant hole that needed to be filled.  The hole seemed no smaller when we left.  

The next two days also involved plenty of hard work – mixing concrete, tilling soil for gardens, carrying water – and many had never experienced work of that intensity.  We were sweaty and smelly by 8:30 AM, and stayed that way until 4:30 or 5 after returning.  For middle- to upper-class Asian kids, academic excellence is essential, but chores are not: they’re left for moms or house helpers.  Some students didn’t know how to hold a broom until they got a work detention at Logos, let alone a hoe or a pickaxe.  But besides the physical labor, our students also have a deep aversion to sweat, dirt, and sun.  They’re a necessary evil for many Cambodians, but I don’t think any social class embraces them.   Food vendors trudge the streets all day, but they wear long sleeves and hats, and pause often in the shade.  Laborers prefer to be crammed into a truck bed with 40 others rather than to walk to their job site.  Showering is likewise a high priority for most.  So it wasn’t 100% “rich kid” prissiness, but they sure were awfully excited about showering every evening, even from a bucket. 

 This guy pulled out his "Little Bo Peep" hat while gardening - better than to risk tanning

“I really tried hard to see God’s work being done at the work site as the teachers told me, but I still struggled to find it…" My first real sign of hope came Tuesday evening, during devotions.  My small group and others were really open and thoughtful during our discussion.  Yes, our students were disappointed with the facilities and less than excited about the side effects of hard work.  But on the other hand, they were soaking up our theme that service reveals God to us in unique and transformative ways.  As we talked about the widow who bakes her last bit of bread for Elijah, the boy who shares his loaves and fish with the crowd, Abraham surrendering Isaac, and a Cambodian general who stayed in Khmer Rouge Cambodia to advance the Gospel, they saw more and more purpose to their seemingly fruitless tasks.  

 "Pajama mamas," glad to be clean again...I couldn't believe one girl packed both these pairs for our 4 nights there.

It also helped to see Cambodians working hard all around us.  Much of our work was at an elementary school, where the school provides breakfast.  Even the youngest ones had chores watering their vegetable gardens and washing dishes with water from the nearly dried-up pond.  We learned from them how to use a stick to lower a bucket 20 feet down to the water’s edge, then bring it up full.  One of our tasks was to expand the gardens so they don’t need to buy any vegetables, and it was gratifying to see the progress we’d made and imagine the kids harvesting them in a few months.  At the pagoda were several orphan kids, whom the monks have been raising.  Both they and the monks were busy with physical labor alongside us: moving dirt with us or wrestling a giant vat of pond water onto a truck for showering, cooking, and drinking.  In the province, and often in Phnom Penh, work happens the hard way and the old-fashioned way.  One student wrote, “As a Cambodian…I was able to reflect on how this is actually what my family used to grow up in.  The more my friends complained about it, the more I was thankful.  I was able to experience some of the hard work that the local people had to do.”  

Making coconut milk by hand for yummy banana dessert

Maybe that’s why many Cambodian parents – even rich non-Christian families- seemed to appreciate the purpose more than many Korean families, even missionaries.  One girl, who in 9^th grade was forbidden to attend the other camp because her parents were so protective, said her family was glad to hear about the work she did this year.  (Even if they also were horrified that she’d gotten one tiny pimple.)  On the other hand, Korean parents responded, “You look like an Indian!”  “Sounds like the military.”  “Maybe next year you can break your leg right before.”  I’m hoping others affirmed their children’s work more, but I didn’t hear of any that did.  It makes me more grateful for all the students who, despite their culture’s disdain, embraced the hard work as they saw God’s presence saturate it.

Here’s some feedback from students: 

“On the first day, I really wanted to cry and go back home.  However, [on Wednesday] I realized nobody wanted to work, but they did not complain.  From then on, I tried to work eagerly.  I started to like working really hard.” 

“The work led to good conversations and it made me really question why I was doing this and what my heart was behind this.  It wasn’t only for school or because we were getting to benefit from it, or even to get a ‘thanks.’  This week was all for God’s glory.  God used my hands to serve him this week.”  

“God doesn’t always put you in places you want or like to serve.  It is actually up to God…Just because you are in a bad place doesn’t mean that we should be all grumpy and complaining about it.  If you change your perspective on things, everything won’t turn out that negative.” 

“Camp made me think about those people who dig dirt for a living, and how easy my life is.  I have things easy, but yet I still complained.  I should try to be more considerate and grateful for what I have.” 

"I would like someone to appreciate my work and honor/respect me for doing that.  But as we could see in the Bible, there was no verse or chapter that said anything about rewarding the kid [who shared his fish and bread].  I thought he could be one of the heroes that day with Jesus for providing his food for all those people, but he didn’t do that.  He just stayed quiet and let Jesus get the fame and honor.  This boy really inspired me.” 

“I can’t just shovel dirt for a week and that takes care of all my service.  Service needs to be a lifestyle.  Wherever I go as a Christian I want to leave and people say, “She was a servant.”  Camp was good because it really pushed my focus outward while still making me think about all the parts of me that God is working on.”

How to slow time

Last spring, my friend Sheryl mentioned a book, One Thousand Gifts, and its challenge to write down a thousand specific things you’re thankful for.  I took up the challenge without even seeing the book, and since then, my roommates Megan and Angela have read it and extended the challenge to their homerooms.  I love adding to my list – someone described it as a perpetual treasure hunt for God’s blessings.  Yesterday, having listed 535 items and counting, I finally opened the book.  Its author, Ann Voskamp, poetically chronicles her journey from loss and fear to gratitude, weaving in the Bible and Christian classics.  The chapter on time particularly challenged me; I'm certainly what she calls an "amateur."  Read on for excerpts:

“They say time is money, but that’s not true.  Time is life.  And if I want the fullest life, I need to find fullest time.  I wipe a water spot off the tap; there is a reflection of me.  Oh yes, I know you, the busyness of your life leaving little room for the source of your life.  I’m the face grieving.

God gives us time.  And who has time for God?

Which makes no sense.

In Christ, don’t we have everlasting existence?  Don’t Christians have all the time in eternity, life everlasting?  If Christians run out of time – wouldn’t we lose our very own existence?  If anyone should have time, isn’t it the Christ-followers?

[I think back to an interview with an elderly pastor.]   What was the pastor’s most profound regret in life?  I hear the answer of the pastor ring. 

'Being in a hurry.  Getting to the next thing without fully entering the thing in front of me.  I cannot think of a single advantage I’ve ever gained from being in a hurry.  But a thousand broken and missed things, tens of thousands, lie in the wake of all the rushing...Through all that haste I thought I was making up time.  It turns out I was throwing it away."

In our rushing, bulls in china shops, we break our own lives.

Haste makes waste.

And I hear this too, words of another woman seeking: 'On every level of life, from housework to heights of prayer, in all judgment and efforts to get things done, hurry and impatience are sure marks of the amateur.' [Evelyn Underhill]

I scrub the bowl hard, try to scrape away the regret of a life lived amateur.

Because that is the way I have lived.  The time, always the time, I’m an amateur trying to beat time.  In a world addicted to speed, I blur the moments into one unholy smear.  I have done it.  I do it still.

I speak it to God: I don’t really want more time; I just want enough time.  Time to breathe deep and time to see real and time to laugh long, time to give You glory and rest deep and sing joy and just enough time in a day not to feel hounded, pressed, driven, or wild to get it all done – yesterday.

I just want time to do my one life well.

A soap bubble, skin of light and water and space suspended in sphere.  Who has time for that?

Hadn’t I?  Only because I was looking.  Because that list of one thousand gifts has me always on the hunt for one more...and one more – to behold one more moment pregnant with wonder.

The wonder right in the middle of the sink.  Looking for it like this.  I lay the palm under water and I raise my hand with the membrane of a life span of moments.  In the light, the sheerness of bubble shimmers.  Bands of garnet, cobalt, flowing luminous. 

362. Suds...all color in sun.

That’s my answer to time.

Time is a relentless river.  It rages on, a respecter of no one.  And this, this is the only way to slow time.  When I fully enter time’s swift current, enter into the current moment with the weight of all my attention, I slow the torrent with the weight of me all here.  I only live the fullest life when I live fully in the moment.  And when I’m always looking for the next glimpse of glory, I slow and enter.  And time slows.

But there’s more.   I awake to I AM here.  When I’m present, I meet I AM, the very presence of a present God.  In his embrace, time loses all sense of speed and stress and space and stands so still and holy. 

Here is the only place I can love him."

-Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

A tale of two haircuts

I’ve only been to one hair salon since arriving in Cambodia: Mee In, around the corner from my house.  It’s run by a Korean woman whose little boy, Dong Min, attends Logos, so Logos teachers get a nice discount.  She speaks a bit of English, like all the Khmer girls who work for her, and a bit of Khmer.  Dong Min, currently in Sarah’s first grade class, is always in the salon running around or playing video games.  He’s known as a handful at school, though he behaves pretty well for Sarah.

 

Sarah went there a few weeks ago for the second time.  The first time, two years ago, they’d given her bangs against her will, and it took a while for the bangs to grow out and for her to overcome her aversion to returning.  But return she finally did.  She walked in to find Dong Min, with his back to her, screaming at the top of his lungs.  Everyone in the salon – mom, employees, customers – was trying to ignore him, except for one employee making a faint attempt to cheer him up. 

Sarah walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.  “Whatcha doin’, Dong Min?”  He whirled around sheepishly, eyes wide.  Busted! 

“I’m hungry.”

“Oh, really?  Do you think you’re going to eat soon?”

“Yeah, my dad ordered pizza, but it’s not here yet.” 

Sarah encouraged him to find better ways to distract himself than screaming, then took a seat for her haircut.   Dong Min’s mom is the only one that cuts hair, but several Khmer girls wash and blow it dry.  They go all out blow-drying it, at no extra charge: two girls work simultaneously for ten minutes so it looks amazing.  As they were blow-drying Sarah’s hair, a young Korean guy stood up from the chair where he’d been sitting the whole time.  “Let me do it,” he told the girls in English.

“No, only two at a time.  That’s the rule.”

“No!  Let me do it!”  He pestered them until they let him help.  Was he a visiting nephew?  A trainee?  A bored customer?  Sarah voted for “visiting nephew,” but had no way of knowing.  She went on to get an acceptable haircut: no bangs this time, thankfully.

Today was my turn for a haircut.  Last June it ended up shorter than I wanted, but it's finally long enough for a bun or a braid.  Today I was hoping for just a small trim, and for them to redo the layers, which had grown out.  The same guy was sitting there, but came and stood behind me watching them blow-dry my hair before it was cut.  Would he ask?  Nope.  He just kind of slouched around, observing everything with an emotionless expression.

As they finished, a crowd of girls gathered around me and brought me a Korean book of hairstyles.  “Which one you want?”  I flipped hesitantly to the “long” section, aware that East Asian hairstyles favor extreme layering, with hardly any hair left the longest length.  Usually, instead of a photo, I just show them the length I want and the shortest the layers can be.  Finally I pointed to one, but stipulated, “Please don’t make the layers so short.  Please have some hair this long...” (pointing to my hair) “and some that long" (pointing again).  They showed the photo to the Korean guy, who was listening intently with a skeptical look.  Dong Min’s mom consulted briefly with the Korean guy.  He laughed nervously and kept glancing at my hair, then away.  He seemed at the center of the perhaps eight people surrounding me.

Wait!  Was HE the one cutting my hair today?  Shouldn’t they ask me first?  Will I get a discount for this?  Will I need another haircut afterward?  His body language clearly indicated that he had no idea what he was doing.  I tried to maintain a neutral expression.  Koreans are perfectionists, and she's got her business at stake: surely she wouldn’t let someone cut my hair without thorough training.

Finally Dong Min’s mom picked up the scissors, and my whole body relaxed.  I wonder if that was the original plan...  My relief lasted only a minute, though: after cutting straight across the longest length I’d indicated, she began to cut the top half of my hair the shortest length, also straight across.  This wasn’t normal layering!  This was 50/50 for each length, and it looked horrible!  I *am* going to need another haircut after all!  How short will they have to make it?  I spoke up anxiously: “Please also cut some hair in between.  Please do not only cut it short or long.”  This would never happen if we were fluent in the same language... 

“Layers?”  “Yes, layers, please.”  She gave me a look that said “Duh!” and told me, “You say straight!”  I don’t remember mentioning the word “straight,” but if I did, I probably thought she meant “not curly like the model in the photo.”  I guess that explains all the dirty looks from that guy.   

She got right to work adding layers, and to my great relief, my hair started to look normal again.  No buns or braids for a while – it’s nearly as short as last time.  But in spite of everything, I think I actually like this haircut.  

Foil thy foes with joy

Some Korean moms invited us Logos teachers to a concert by a Cambodian children's choir.  It's run by a Korean NGO that works with low-income children and families.  "You won't believe how good they are!  If you love music, it will bring hope to you for Cambodia!"  they promised us.  Four of us gladly accepted tickets, but tried not to get our hopes up too much.  They'll be super-cute, and we'll enjoy it no matter what...

No, they were seriously amazing.  I haven't heard a choir that good in years. 

They sang in English, Korean, Khmer, and even Middle English: Benjamin Britten's "Ceremony of Carols."  Its text is taken from 16 Middle English poems on Christmas, and I found the words powerful and fresh.  

I used to think the hundreds of Christmas songs I knew had expressed the wonders of Christ's birth pretty thoroughly.  Do we really need MORE Christmas songs?  But I'm realizing that's idiotic.  If the almighty God really did become a baby, the implications are endless.  I wonder what other gems we've forgotten over the centuries.

Here's the text of one song, "This Little Babe."  It's the second half of the poem "New Heaven, New War" by Robert Southwell.  I love the paradoxical imagery.

    (Side note: my dear friend Suzanne sent me a link to this free Christmas album by Andrew Peterson.  I love him for his creative, thought-provoking, and sometimes playful lyrics.  The album, called "Behold the Lamb of God: the TRUE tall tale of the coming of Christ," may contain the only song ever composed about the genealogy of Jesus...it's called "Matthew's Begats."  Even if you're sick of Christmas songs, these are mostly originals, and go far beyond the story of Jesus' birth.) 

        This little babe, so few days old,

        Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;

        All hell doth at his presence quake.

        Though he himself for cold do shake,

        For in this weak unarmèd wise

        The gates of hell he will surprise.

        With tears he fights and wins the field;

    His naked breast stands for a shield;

        His battering shot are babish cries,

        His arrows looks of weeping eyes,

        His martial ensigns cold and need,

        And feeble flesh his warrior’s steed.

        His camp is pitchèd in a stall,

        His bulwark but a broken wall,

        The crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes,

        Of shepherds he his muster makes;

        And thus, as sure his foe to wound,

        The angels’ trumps alarum sound.

        My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;

        Stick to the tents that he hath pight;

        Within his crib is surest ward,

        This little babe will be thy guard.

        If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,

        Then flit not from this heavenly boy.