It’s hard to know where to start. We’ve only been here a little over a week, and as of tonight I feel like God has already chipped off the majority of my surface and left my raw emotions to soak in the unadulterated truth to what is happening here in Northern Thailand.
The first few days here were met with mostly pointing and ooo-ing, as I put together the images and experiences of a wild, untamed jungle trying to fake its way as a Westernized, second-world nation. There was Bangkok, with its scuttling tuk-tuks, beautiful temples, and street food; and here, Mae Sot, adorned with brightly-painted houses and lush greenery clamoring its way out of make-shift neighborhoods and streets. Everything here is a clash of the familiar and bizarre; nothing is anything I’ve expected or experienced, but most of it is manageable and adaptable to.
But overwhelmingly, above the bustling cities and ridiculously amazing Thai food, there is Life Impact. Lana, Cindy, Larissa, the staff, the missionaries, and the beautiful, innocent children.
These doe-eyed angels who raise the arms up to you, who snuggle up beside you like a parent they’ve been raised by.
These Burmese kids, dirty and covered with lice and sores, who hold onto their younger siblings as they make their way through a sludge-covered trash dump.
And you look at all these little things, you look into their big brown eyes, and you know they’ve seen far worse than you ever will. You know they have stories that can hardly be heard without losing it, much less stood to be told. You look at them, you hold their hands, you carry them in your arms,
And your heart breaks like it’s never been broken.
And the gospel washes over you like a flood, and for what may be the first time in your life, you understand. You understand Jesus and the people he spent his life with, his ministry with. You understand his heart for the poor, the hungry, the sick. And not in a, let’s-volunteer-at-the-soup-kitchen-on-Christmas kind of way, but in a way that makes you want to spend every waking moment showing these children and families Christ’s love and sacrifice for them. Everything you used to think was a big deal suddenly isn’t. The clothes, the accolades, the achievements and goals and statuses and associations are all like a bunch of bad jokes.
Much of the people fleeing to this part of Thailand are Burmese, escaping a genocidal hell-hole in which hundreds of thousands of people have been tortured, murdered, and displaced from their homes. The Karen ethnicity, a group in Southern Burma whom are predominantly Christian, have experienced the brunt of this war, losing thousands of their villages and families to ruthless, unimaginable killings by the Burmese military. The men have their limbs cut off before being shot. The women are raped and equally tortured. And the children—if they aren’t brutally murdered in the same fashion—are kidnapped and forced to become child soldiers or prostitutes. For the past week, I’ve been listening to the stories of the families and children who’ve escaped, while also being able to physically stand at the border of Burma they’re crossing over. I see hordes of Burmese men, women, and children take boats across the river to come live here in Thailand, in refugee camps and trash dumps. I see the girls, with their yellow make-up brushed across their face like army paint, holding skinny children who will most likely start working at a factory or begging on the streets once they get here. And the men, with old jeans and dark, weathered skin who look like they’ve traveled too far, seen too much in their recent life. And here I am: pale, privileged me, thinking how stupid it is that I’m standing here with my pockets full of money, my hair freshly washed, watching all of these families settle in a dump because it’s better than where they came from. Here I am, right in the middle of all this struggle and tragedy and heartache.
It does things to you.
I’ve realized in my short time here that becoming born-again isn’t simply through a request for Jesus to come into your heart. It’s a continual process of losing yourself, of humbling yourself, and of showing the same kind of love Christ came to give. Matthew 20:16 has been on constant repeat in my head; as I watched the kids from the dump sing worship songs the other day, rejoicing and praising a God of redemption, compassion, and glory, the truth of that verse resonated through every bone in my body.
So the last will be first, and the first will be last.
So the last will be first, and the first will be last.
…The last will be first, and the first will be last.
My prayer for us is that we be last in the weeks and years to come, so that He may be lifted higher. May the blessings we’ve been given in our lives may not be in vein, but be spread in hopes to bring God’s kingdom here among us. May we not merely stand on the border of human pain and suffering, but stand with them. May we face rebirth everyday as we allow God to break away our multitude of sorrows and sins, and sculpt us into His vessels of love, compassion, and beauty.
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