What I See

There are no accurate words to describe this. None.

To be the more honest, I wish you could see what I see.

...when we piled in the car yesterday morning, at 5:45, and began a 2 hour drive through virgin jungles, filled with lost, lonely people--refugees, hiding from a bloodthirsty army in a land that isn't their own, who live in horrendous conditions; conditions we would call hell, but conditions that must seem like Heaven after what they came from: and knowing that there are nowhere near enough willing souls to come, to tell, to be, to do, to show, these outcasts the love of Christ--to be the hands, the feet, the eyes, mouth, voice, speech, song and life of Jesus to a race who's been abused, misused and misunderstood...and who have greatly misunderstood the world around them themselves, and been led into realms of darkness greater than we can ever begin to imagine...

...when the sun began to peek above the mountains and the sky glowed with the fire of dawn. Clouds, like so many footprints across the sky, left by an angel who'd lit the morning, edged with purple and crimson and soft peach--and you see the sides of the road come alive with people; faces that you do not recognize; faces you have never seen before, and likely will never see again; but people nonetheless: people that Jesus died for. To see little children, old men, young women, walking down the road, clothes dirty and in tatters, carrying a variety of bundles, heavy burdens...but more heart-rendingly, laboring under the cares of life without the comfort you and I have of the assurance and belief in and of the love of an Almighty Creator God...

...when I stopped in front of a tiny shop in Mae Sot and the owner came running over and pulled machete after machete out for me to look at; and in another shop, when I turned around and unsheathed a machete almost as long as my leg and twice as wicked looking--and I said, "Sharon!"...and Sharon looked at me and her eyes got wide and she gave me quite the look. And when I tried to communicate with shop owners what I wanted, how much a certain item was, how many I wanted; and that without speaking their language. Just shopping in an Asian town, seeing cars roar hither and yon with little or no concern, barely missing parked cars, bicycles, motor bikes, people, children, dogs; watching the faces of those who stare at you as you walk by, because your white skin makes you stick out like...like I don't even know what...

...when a little girl came up to me, hands cupped for money, silently begging; and Brenda said she didn't like giving money to them because often the unfortunate were used by the Mafia to get money for darker reasons than food for a helpless child: and I had to turn away from her, unable to speak to her in a way she could understand and tell her Jesus loves her; unable to help, unable to do anything because of my limitations, her barriers and walls, and the knowledge that any kind of physical help I could've given right then would likely have ended up aiding a cause that does more harm than good in this country: to know as I walked away from her that my hands were perfectly tied...

...when I rode part-way home, sitting in the window, watching the thunderheads piling up above me, seeing flashes of lightning split above my head, wind whipping my hair into a mess worse than the ball of yarn the kittens attacked; and watching the wall of falling water, brownish grey against the black angry clouds, steadily approaching as we raced it home. To watch cars around us pass double on blind corners, the little motor bikes whizzing past with 3-4 occupants, at times; and the fading sunset on the western horizon, staining cloud and sky alike a deeper shade of red, somewhat reminiscent of the blood that seeped into the ground at the foot of a cross so long ago...

...when I took off my shoes and held my skirt up to get to the beach; and the brown mud oozed up between my toes and made me slip a bit, and then the sand covered my feet and I seated myself in the dirt: and chasing butterflies, trying to get close enough for a picture, but as soon as you're ready, like the proverbial dream, hope, desire, you can never seem to attain, they flutter away, lighter than air and twice as beguiling: to nearly give up, and then, "one more time:" and the shutter clicks capturing moments of beauty: and then just to sit and see the mountain peaks in the distance, fading, receding, hazy in the heavy, misty air; the brown river flowing past, unmindful of the seasons, times, changes, heartaches and dangers that surround it on all sides; and the sky, full of puffy clouds, floating on a breeze...

...when I clung to the back of the station wagon on the way home from worship just tonight, and looked up above me and "considered the heavens:" the vast canvass that separates us from higher realms, and the stars, like pinpricks allowing a small glimpse of Heaven's glory beyond through, twinkled down--thousands in number; different each one; all breathed into existence and kept alight every night by the same God that Abraham talked with in the heat of the day; the same God that split the Red Sea in two; the same God who stood in a fiery furnace with three faithful youth; the same God who walked this earth and taught, spoke, lived love among a people who had rejected Him, who hated Him, who would kill Him: this same Being, the Creator and Sustainer of the strange constellations above my upturned face, viewed from a strange land, in a strange situation, made even stranger by the wonder I find all around me.

I wish you could see what I see...