Tag Archives: love

Voiceless

Words burn within me

To tell all the others

The beauty I saw today.

The mountain’s high crest

The forest’s red haze

The foam of the river’s spray

 

A piercing of light

A wind tossed swallow

The mist of a mountain’s shroud

The boldness of color

The caress of a breeze

The wisps of a wind scattered cloud

 

But the deepest things

That are caught in my soul

In muted aching cry

Are the flash of a smile

The gleam of teeth

The light in a villager’s eye

 

A faint shy smile

A word exchanged

And laughter quick and keen

These are the treasures

That I long to share

From all that today I have seen.

 

Originally written in February of 2017, this poem came to mind after my day today.

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The Image of You

 

The following poem was previously

published for the first time in Vibrant Girl Volume 3 Issue 1

 

I have wandered among windswept hills

Almost to where the sky touched me

I have danced in prairies, gold and green

Where wheat waves run like amber sea

I have roamed the lonesome mountain ridges

I have watched a hundred morns unfold

And flung my soul in breathless praise

At sight of sunset’s tawny gold

 

But not only beauty draws my heart

To sing about your glory–

Dark eyes aglow in unfeigned joy,

The trembling words of soul-saved story,

Healing tears in a Godspun moment

Quiet knowing, laughter light

A dream of joy, a hunger shared,

Breaking of walls, giving of sight

 

Oh, yes, I have praised you in the windswept hills

Under a sky of brilliant blue

Yet my heart sings too in a soul -filled life

In a smile, a tear, an image of You 

Hunger 2

I am missing something tonight

Something as deep as the sea

But ask me what I miss and I

Cannot say what it may be

 

It’s a fitfulness inside of me

That even songs could not heal

And my ramble out beneath the stars

This unknown ache could not steal

 

Maybe this girl inside of me

Knows, yet she will not show

But seriously, if I must cry

Tell me why! Let me know!

Still a Child

Little baby girl, in the dark night

Deep dark night without any light

Fear of the blackness creeps on the wall

Fear of the night closes in like a shawl

 

The boundless outside, beyond her small world

Presses deep  on her as she lies curled

Helpless she stares, pulled taut at Fear’s touch

The shadows on the wall are too much, too much.

 

She cries and the sound is harsh in the night

She whimpers in the darkness, longing for sight

Then, coming through the darkness is her mother at last

Warm, pulsing presence, understanding what has passed

 

Gulping down sobs, she rests with a sigh

Listening, oh listening, to the sweet lullaby

 

“O Jesus liebt mich

O Jesus liebt mich

O Jesus liebt mich

Die Bibel sagt mir so” *

 

Little baby girl grows up over years

Still scared of the shadows, fighting her fears

Scared of the darkness, the anguish it bears

Hard down upon her and the pain that she shares

 

She cries and the sound is harsh in the night

She whimpers in the darkness, longing for sight

Then coming through the night is her Jesus at last

Warm, pulsing presence, understanding what has passed

 

Gulping down sobs, she rests with a sigh

Listening, oh listening, to the sweet lullaby

 

“O Jesus liebt mich

O Jesus liebt mich

O Jesus liebt mich

Die Bibel sagt mir so.”

 

*”Yes, Jesus loves me

Yes, Jesus loves me

Yes, Jesus loves me

The Bible tells me so.”

 

-October 2012

 

Of Ambivalence, Hope and Hatpins

Two words have been on my mind lately.

Hope and ambivalence.

According to dictionary.com, the definition of ambivalence is this:

1.uncertainty or fluctuation, especially when caused by inability to make a choice or by a   simultaneous desire to say or do two opposite or conflicting things.

When I read the definition, I thought to myself, “It feels so good that at least the dictionary understands the story of my life.”

There are times when I know exactly what I want. If I would sit down and count them, I could probably count them on one hand.

Whether it’s ordering off a menu, or deciding on a career, I feel like Philippa Gordon in Anne of the Island, who was struck with such indecisiveness that when faced with the decision of which hat to wear, she would put them on the bed, close her eyes and jab them with a hatpin.

Sometimes I do it too. I can’t decide what to wear so I go “eenie meenie minie moe.” And sometimes I have to do it several times before I get to the point where I can be happy with the results. I know, it’s weird.

But what do ambivalence and hatpins have to do with hope?

Because hope is such a strange thing. It’s what keeps us alive, yet it’s also what keeps us in pain. It’s such an enigma, oxymoron, puzzle, whatever you want to call it. We love it, we call it, we lure it, but when we have it, it hurts. So we shelve it, we box it, we draw boundaries around it, we sit on it, we smother it, we numb its beauty with the narcotic of fantasy. And yet, we live on it. We can’t live without it. An old, old book says, “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” Yet, wouldn’t it be better not to hope at all, rather than to hope and have it deferred? A Thai friend of mine has this saying on his Line (a popular messaging app in Asia)profile picture. “Mai wang, mai pit wang.” Meaning, “If you don’t hope, you won’t be disappointed.”

I know that’s a lie. But the ambivalence inside of me rages. If I hope, I will be disappointed. If I don’t hope, I will die. Hope is what keeps me alive, yet sometimes that life feels like death.

To hope or not to hope?

This ambivalence is what keeps us standing on the edge of the river, dipping only a toe into the water when we could jump in. It keeps us wavering at the counter of McDonalds, keeps us paralyzed and unable to make long term commitments because of all the “what if’s”, and it keeps us jabbing hatpins at hats on the bed.

I wish I had some kind of profound way to end this post. Some deep, wise thought that seals it up and leaves a good, satisfying taste in my mouth and lets me finally go to bed, feeling like I’ve got it figured out and that I’ve left a wise impression on my readers.  But that’s not what hope is like. This elusive, ethereal, yet powerful thing. It’s an emotion, yet not an emotion.

Perhaps, perhaps there’s something that lies in the choice. The act of choosing. Not the jabbing of the hatpin, but the deliberate choice to hope. And maybe it has something to do with faith.

Perhaps. I really don’t know.

What do you say?

The Mountain Calls

The mountain calls from its forested walls

Cloudy and grim and gray

The feet that trace the trail o’er its face

Do not know what it wants to say

For the mountain speaks from its forested peaks

To those who listen, and hear

The tales it knows and the secrets it blows

Through the whisper of wind in the ear

And for those who listen the mountain will spin

Tales of a pristine green

Where rivers run clear and the stars are near

And the air is crisp and keen

 __________________________________________

 

But no one cares for the stories it shares

So it looms a lonely soul

The world spins past and its echoes blast

In a search that is never full

Like a sentry it stands in eastern lands

Above the city hum

Like one watching and waiting, in light that is fading

For a friend that never comes

Because for those who listen the mountain will spin

Tales of a pristine green

Where rivers run clear and the stars are near

And the air is crisp and keen

___________________________________

Tomorrow, my friend. I will come tomorrow.

I’m Alive

Today is rich.

Green is the color of life and today is full of it.

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Photo- July 2015, Chiang Dao, Thailand. Photo credit, Lori Hershberger

 

This Saturday morning I ride my motorbike up Doi Kham mountain, through some of the greenest foliage I have ever seen in my life to one of my favorite spots in Chiang Mai, Doi Kham Horseback Riding.

We ride through the thick green landscape, rich, rich, rich in all its greenness where two months ago it was a dry dusty brown. The green feeds my soul, my dry dusty soul.

Afterwards we sip coffee in a little cafe surrounded by rice fields in a small valley. Mountains rise on the side and light glints off the top of a temple spire built on the tip of the mountain. My coffee is perfect, not too strong with lots of milk. The sky has cleared from its early morning storminess, and color like I have not seen in a long time splashes the world with its life-giving vibrance. I savor the gift of friendship, the gift of coffee, the gift of being able to speak a language that 2 years ago was foreign, the gift of resting my mind from the daily challenges of work.

The day passes and the gifts keep coming. Sunflowers- yellow, brown and green- from a friend, cookies, summer sounds,  tall, tall thunderheads towering in a brilliantly blue sky. Green grass in the shadow of palm trees with light shafting and glinting and dancing. I long for a camera since words cannot do justice. It seems like every waking moment is full of color. Why? Was it not there before? Or has God simply allowed my soul to see again? All through these sights and all through the day, two words keep on running through my mind.

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Photo– July 2015, Chiang Dao, Thailand. Photo credit– Lori Hershberger

I’m alive.

Later rain torrents down from the thunderheads that now pour out their fury on the world. I am on my bike heading to the airport to meet a friend when it comes, and it is the worst rain I have ever driven in on a motorbike. But it brings a glory of its own— the challenge of driving in the rain with wind lashing and water coming up to mid tire at times. I feel at one with the rain at times like this. It seems to embody the human spirit— a lashing out at the sadness and evil of the world.

But the one most precious gift of the day keeps on coming back to me as I drive home late at night from a friend’s house. It is words that I keep on puzzling on, over and over again. This morning as we sat on the balcony of the cafe after our ride, drinking coffee, my Thai Buddhist  friend says of his 14 year old son, “Chawin ok gab Pra Jao laao.” Literally translated  he says, “Chawin is ok with God.”

I keep on mulling over these words, wishing I knew exactly what he meant. Chawin goes to a Christian school, and as I look back at memories of conversations about religion when he was present, I remember the look of understanding and empathy in his bright eyes as we talked about Jesus and Christianity. But does he mean that he believes in God? Does he mean that he has found peace with God?

I wish I knew. I wish I had asked.

But for now I am grateful at least this. Chawin is ok with God, whatever it  means. And perhaps one day his father will be too.

Thank you, Jesus.

 

 

40 Ways You Know You Work at Wisdom Tree Home

40 Ways You Know You Teach at Wisdom Tree Home

 

  1. “The Wheels on the Bus” is your default shower song.
  2. You find yourself patting the toilet and saying “Good job” when it finally flushes.
  3. At the stoplight you find yourself singing, “The light is red, the light is red, the light is red, red, red.”
  4. You say the Thai word for a bowel movement when speaking English instead of the English word since it sounds less impolite to say it in Thai. “She went to kii!”
  5. You refrain from even glancing toward the window when someone arrives during class since you know soon the entire class will be headed for the window.
  6. You swallow every bit of that snack in your mouth before you leave the kitchen and join the children.
  7. You spray off little bottoms instead of wiping them with baby wipes. Or toilet paper.
  8. You pull toilet paper rolls out of the trash because you know you can always find a way to use them.
  9. You CANNOT get rid of the song “Humpty Dumpty” running through your head at the ridiculous hour of 1 in the morning.
  10. You are able to do the Hamster Dance perfectly. Well, almost perfectly.
  11. You start telling children to get in under the shade and NOT play out in the sun!
  12. When the temperature drops to 70, everybody comes down with colds.
  13. You feed hippos and lions in the crawl space of the building.
  14. You say “good job” or “geng mak!” about 50 times a day.
  15. You say “no” or “mai ou” about the same amount of times in a day.
  16. You say “sit down” and “be quiet” 100 times in a day.
  17. You sneak in ice coffee drinks and sip them on watch at nap time.
  18. You find yourself saying things you vowed to never say to your children, “Think of all the hungry little children in this world who would love to eat this food.” Aaaarrrggghhh!
  19. You are always hungry, for some inexplicable reason.
  20. You eat rice for every noon meal and so does everybody else.
  21. You come home from work with numbers stuck onto your dress with tape.
  22. You find stickers stuck in the oddest places, like on your back.
  23. When talking to American children, you need to bite your tongue in order not to speak Thai to them.
  24. You find yourself watching children at the local market, sure you’ll see someone you recognize.
  25. You become indignant and outraged when you’re at a restaurant and you see a 3 year old child sitting on a booth playing with a smart phone while the parents spoon feed it dinner.
  26. You become immune to  being grossed out by anything.
  27. You wonder what kind of supernatural being you will have been transformed into by the time you finish your term of 2 years of volunteering.
  28. You watch Matt at Dream English and Blippi  videos for entertainment in the evening because they are soooooo cheeeeesy.
  29. You go to the zoo with your students and you feel like you brought the zoo instead.
  30. You say “It is soooooo hot today” on the average of 4 times a day.
  31. You send 37 kids home in the evening and go home and collapse.
  32. You like going to church and simply sitting there and watching kids and being glad that you don’t have to be in charge.
  33. You like the feel of sloppy kisses and pudgy, dirty hands.
  34. You wolf down your food at lunch while overseeing 13 other little mouths.
  35. Your Thai co-workers call you a fairy godmother since they don’t think you’re bossy enough, but you feel more like a wicked stepmother.
  36. You get told by the sassy little cherub beside you, “Eat your food!” when you happen to be chatting with some of the older children during lunch time.
  37. You vow that your children will not know what a smart phone looks like until they are at least 10 years old.
  38. You also vow that if you ever have children of your own, you will not let them be an only child.
  39. You wonder if YOU were like this when you were a child!
  40. And when you don’t see your kiddoes for 4 days in a row, you start missing the impish little pipsqueaks.

 

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Why Sightseeing Is Not Enough

The following are some ramblings from tonight. I seem unable to fully put into words what I really want to say, like usual. But I decided to go ahead and publish itself in its imcompleteness. Perhaps others will have another perspective. Also, this is not saying that foreign long term missions are the only way to go. What I’m trying to say is don’t be somewhere where you can’t be all there, and where you can’t stay and plug in your heart.

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Doi Tao, Chiang Mai. (photo credit JJ Burkholder)

I love traveling. Few things thrill me like standing in the huge Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok and watching the swarms of people, all of them going places. I love the feel of the airport, the delightful mix of ethnicities- from the turbaned Arab of the UAE, to the excited, jabbering Chinese tourists, to the veiled Islamic Iranian women, to the purposeful, striding Americans to the gentle Thai bathroom cleaners.  The call of the unknown beckons. There’s the excitement of running to catch your plane, the interesting conversations with your seatmates like the man from Uzbekistan who is searching for truth or the Indian woman on her way home for the birth of her child. And sometimes you sit beside people who plug up their ears with earbuds as soon as they take a glance at you. Those are the times you look out your window and gaze in awe at the clouds below, glinting the rays of the afternoon sun, or at the sight of the gigantic blue earth so far, far away and so beautiful that you would never guess the sorrow and the pain that is rooted deeper than the roots of any tree.

Neither do I need to fly to get into the feeling of being a tourist. Chiang Mai has more tourists than a street dog has fleas. You can’t go into the inner city without stepping on them. They come from all over- Belgium, Germany, France, China, USA, Canada, Russia, and more. They walk the city with their hiking backpacks and long blonde hair and funny accents when they try to greet a native in Thai. And they’re always going somewhere. To the elephant camp. To the pottery shop. To the Hmong village. To the longneck Karen village. To Tiger Kingdom.

We are constantly on the go. We fill our passport with visa stamps and are a wee bit proud when we need to add extra visa pages in order to have enough to scratch the travel bug on our itching feet. (excuse my mixing metaphors). We go home with colorful stories of the people we met, or the food we ate, or the amazing pictures we took of the Akha child in her gorgeous tribal headdress, or the brilliant eyes of the Indian slum girl. We can even add in some stories that pull on heart strings and make others want to go view the same.  And we’re always talking about the next place we’ll be going to. We want to do all these things, as many as possible, before we die, like we won’t have any room for adventure after we die.

I’m not saying it’s bad. The travel bug hits me hard and plenty. Words like “wonderlust” and “beyond the horizon” used to resonate with me.

But now they sound so empty.

Empty.

People say travelers have rich experiences. And they do. But when we go and see and do and go home, we are denying ourselves some of the richest experiences of our lives. And that only comes when we go and see and do and stay.

We forget that the real treasure in everything we experience lies in the heart of God.

No matter how unique, or cool or amazing all those amazing sights are.

And one of the ways to knowing the heart of God as deeply as possible is to know and understand the human heart.

We forget that immersing into a new language and a new culture is one of the most beautiful experiences a human can have, as well as the most painful. Because if you learn to understand  someone’s culture and their language, you begin to understand their heart.

Suddenly they are no longer just a picture, or a story, or even a random person you met on the streets of Vietnam.

They become a part of your heart. From being just a picture of an Akha girl with a stunning headdress, she becomes a friend, a student, or a daughter.The Indian girl with the deep black eyes becomes real too- not simply a photograph or a story, a memoir from your travels.

Instead of traveling and  viewing  magnificent or notorious sights, and grinning to ourselves as we cross it off our bucket list, while planning our next trip, we actually experience what we see. By living in it. By becoming a part of it. By making this people and this land ours.

When that happens, sometimes some of the glossiness gets wiped off the pictures. When we actually get our hands dirty and realize the extent of the pain this world has to offer, we would rather move on, skimming from country to country, not carrying these people in our hearts anymore.

Two weeks ago, I took a short trip to a hill tribe village way back in the mountains. We spent a night and a day there, traveling roads that curved and climbed impossibly, playing with the children, watching in the New Year on the lookout. We slept outside under stars that were deeper and brighter and closer than any I’ve ever seen, punched out of a sky of velvet. We ate rice and spice like nothing else I’ve had. I even got a bite of rat.

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Karen children at Doi Tao, Chiang Mai (photo credit: JJ Burkholder)

 

But it wasn’t enough.We had a less than 24 hours actually staying in the village. I needed to talk with the most of the  villagers through the help of the children translating from my Thai to the Karen language. I had no idea what these people’s lives were like in the last 10 years before we met. I didn’t know their struggles, or their hopes, or their passions.  Sure, I got an experience, something to write home about and something to shock my mom with (the rat part.) But it wasn’t much more than a passing experience.

It all seems so useless if you don’t stop and stay and become.

 

 

 

Good-bye

Awake and alert with pain. The pain of losing, although it did not come as a surprise, the dull pain of restlessness, the ache of unfulfilled dreams, the pain of wanting and waiting, and the pain of tears at night when memories of love crowd in. I am no mother, and perhaps never will be, and neither am I one of those people who pine for children of their own. But there is something inexplicably aching in the pain of having a child you love taken out of your hands.

God, why? And why twice in one year?

I was quite brave when I was told that the Little Girl Who Lives With Us would not be coming any more. But at 11:30 at night, sleepless in bed, I do not feel so brave anymore and hot tears flood. Instead I remember those times, singing at the top of our lungs on a motorbike, playing hide and seek at the park, shopping for presents for father’s day, faltering through the beginning stages of reading, baking chocolate chip cookies, watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and eating hordes of chocolate as we watched, praying together at night, stumbling through my Thai Bible stories, trying to read fluently enough to keep her attention.
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And watching her sleep from my view on my bed- lustrous
black eyes closed in slumber, hair atumble, arms akimbo. Those were the times when I asked God for forgiveness for my sharp impatient words to her in the heat of the moment, or for being frustrated at my inability to spend a moment by myself.

Judy Unruh writes a poem called Foster Baby Bye. While my little girl was not a baby anymore, the poem rings within my heart.

I did not cry when they came for him,
my goodbye was suitably gay;
as if it were not a jagged-edged piece of my heart
that was torn
that was torn
torn away.IMG_5410