A Farewell (of sorts)

Have you ever read the dedication page in Steinbeck’s East of Eden?

Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, “Why don’t you make something for me?”
I asked you what you wanted, and you said, “A box.”
“What for?”
“To put things in.”
“What kind of things?”
“Whatever you have,” you said.
Well, here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts- the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.

JOHN

Somehow, this is a bit how the last two years have felt for me. A box of any and everything you can imagine, and full of all I had to give, yet I still have some space to give more.

Since I have cried all the tears in the world over the last week, my emotions are a bit tapped. So, I am sitting around with a bit of a numb heart. Which I think is ok for right now. But writing is how I make sense of the world, so at this moment, I will write.

On my way to Bangkok today (I’m having a two day rest period before heading home) I flew a budget Asian airline that shall not be named. Any of you who know me, know I hate flying. Ask my parents about my trip to DC in sixth grade with my grandparents. Was sobbing like a maniac BEFORE WE LEFT THE GATE. Oi. Anyway, the whole (ok, it was only an hour) flight was a bumpy, turbulent mess in my eyes. And then as soon as the captain announced that we were descending to land (thank you, Jesus) we dipped down, and then all of the sudden ascended which felt very high, and very fast. And I freaked out. Honestly was debating asking the kind Australian man next to me to hold my hand just to calm me down a bit (don’t worry, I decided that was too weird of a thing to request of a stranger). We landed and everything was fine and I remembered all over again how much I love being on the ground.

So after checking into my hotel, taking a coma of a nap, and getting all prune-like from a hot bath (hot water, guys!) I sat by the window, turned on worship music and let my mind and soul both wander and be stationary.

Two years ago, I drove my little white sedan out of Phoenix with stars in my eyes and high hopes that I would be making a huge difference, if not change the world. Quickly after I stepped off the plane in Phnom Penh, I was pretty sure I made a huge mistake. But my first friend took me out that night to a restaurant/bar that overlooks the whole city and I remember a small whisper saying to my heart “it is going to be ok.”

These two years looked so much different than I anticipated. Coming over to work in anti-trafficking (which I did, but in a more indirect way) and then having my heart swept away by tiny, scruffy little humans who only wanted to cuddle, draw, occasionally color on the wall, and watch YouTube videos.  Which, if you read HERE it is interesting how full circle my love for street kids has become.

Two years later, my heart is swollen with love and brokenness and failures and victories and love.  I am realizing how little I did, though. I didn’t save the world- ha! Not even close. But I gave what I had, and I believe God used it. Sometimes just showing up is enough, and that I mostly know how to do. More than any time in my life, there are more questions than I have the answers to, and I have learned that is ok and healthy and good.

I have learned that if I just show up with a willing heart, God will do the heavy lifting. I have learned that I actually know nothing, and am finding huge amounts of comfort in that lesson. I have learned that I the locals know way more than I do (which should have been a given, but when I showed up, my opinion of myself and what I knew was very high). I have learned that different cultures are incredibly beautiful, can be frustrating at times, but that love runs free even with all the differences and language barriers. I have always known in my head, but it is now solidified in my heart that no one is beyond redemption. And finally, I take comfort in knowing that God sees all.

While these years weren’t perfect, they were the most beautiful years of my life thus far. With deep love, admiration, and respect for the people I met along the way, it has been my absolute honor to be beside you. And to all those who knew me before I left, thank you for your constant faithfulness. Thank you everyone for journeying with me.

How wonderful a gift that my heart will forever have a home in Cambodia.

Because I am a Sap and Leaving Soon

I am not sure I will ever write the sequel to my last post. Sorry, folks. But I am on the other side of things with that particular struggle and so take heart there.

A week and a half, friends. That’s all the time I have left before moving back home.

More than two years ago, I was kidnapped by two YoungLife girls (Kandace and Clare, I am looking at you) for by birthday and they took me on some adventures. One portion of the night we were on one of the mountains (ok, it’s more like a large hill, but Phoenix tries). There was a moment where I realized I had nine weeks left in a place I called home for ten years. It’s not secret to anyone that I don’t really like Phoenix, and often dreamed (and complained, let’s be honest) about leaving. That moment, however, I stood looking out over my city and felt a full heart. In that moment, I felt the gift of not being allowed to leave until I left with a full heart, not totally hating the desert. ;)

Last night was Thanksgiving and it was my third one in Cambodia. The first Thanksgiving I spent here, I sat around a huge table with people I had known maybe a month eating an enormous amount of semi-familiar food. One memory of that evening was my friend Jared having one plate with ONLY mashed potatoes, and filled to the edges of the plate. Someone after my own heart, I thought. In that moment I realized I would be friends with him. My second Thanksgiving I shared with only two other people, watching Christmas movies and eating turkey sandwiches. Last night, however, I feasted. 13 of us sat around a stainless steel table with dishes made from scratch. There was a roasted turkey, homemade stuffing and sweet potato pie, rolls made using family recipes, pies with homemade crust and berries. BERRIES, GUYS.

Because I am a sap (and oh gosh is it ever increasing these days. May want to try your best to let me simmer a bit otherwise I may cry telling you how much you mean to me) I made everyone hold hands during prayer and say what we were thankful for. The most profound moment of thankfulness came when one of my Khmer friends (it happens to be a holiday week in Cambodia as well, and this friend was unable to go home to spend it with her family) said she was grateful because even though she couldn’t be with her family, she felt like she was with family with all of us. She nailed it. There was not a single person at the table who was with family. Somewhere along the way, we forged our own.

About 12 weeks ago, I sat on the couch of my friend’s apartment with three people trying to console me. Not sure what I was upset about, but kept saying through heavy tears “I can’t make it here another 12 weeks, I NEED to leave now.” Overwhelmed by all that had to be done, frustrated by silly things I can’t change like traffic or whatever it was, I was breaking. At that moment, I couldn’t Cambodia any longer, and to be honest, I really didn’t want to. I longed for carpet and grass and walks without stepping in something gross (and choosing to just not know what exactly it was that I stepped in).  

By no merit of my own, I have indeed survived the last (almost) 12 weeks. And as I sat around that table last night feasting with friends who put their heart into creating the meal in front of me, I started thinking about what I was thankful for (mostly because my turn was coming to speak up). There were almost too many things to count. I looked at the faces in front of me, some I had known my entire time here, and others I had only just met. I thought of the deep roots I have with people here. Friendships where, in the best way, we were forced to weather all that a relationship is. 

While there is much, much more to be thankful for, this is where I will start. God has never let me leave a place without also giving me a full heart. And last night my heart was full, in large part to the people eating a meal with me, and to the people who have already left Cambodia. They have forgiven my failures, loved me well, laughed until our bellies were sore, celebrated victories over drinks, shared in sadness, shared in happiness, but mostly have just been next to me.

The rest of the night was spent laughing and I am very grateful because my heart feels fat from fullness.

Here’s to the friendships well worn in, that time nor distance alter- Brooke Fraser

Timshel (part 1)

I have been trying to write for a while, but there just seem to be no words. Ideas, even thoughts seem to be lacking lately. Perhaps it’s due to a loss of creativity, or maybe it’s because there are too many ideas and thoughts on rotation in my mind that the thought of tackling one is too much, so instead I silence them.

I’m inclined to think it is the latter.

To be honest, I am coming face to face with some pretty serious questions I have for God.  And I’m a bit scared to ask.

While I know people who have seen more sinister things than I have, or have heard stories more tragic than I have heard, I have seen and heard enough. Enough to question where God is at times, or wonder if he is actually good. Questions ‘good Christians’ probably shouldn’t ask, or have at least sorted out already in their faith.  

I’m not sure about you, but for me most things I hear about that go on in the world sit at a bit of a distance. ISIS, earthquakes, floods, etc. While these things are devastating, I am not confronted with the reality. My reality of those events stay on the screen of my computer. But here there have been some realities that have met me at my front door, and a lot of the time I don’t know what to do about it. So, I bury them.

I mean, what do you do when you know children are being raped? When you see (what you assume) is a pedophile putting two children in his car? What do you do when a 10 year old girl is crying because her mom will beat her if she finds out the bracelets she is supposed to sell (for 10 hours a day) have been stolen? Or when you hear of corruption at every corner?

What do you do when you can’t do anything? What do you do when it looks like God isn’t doing anything?

I remember telling God if that street girl didn’t find her bracelets him and I were going to have a huge problem. Haha, I’m sure he was looking at me tenderly with understanding, but also a little bit of ‘come on, Janay, do you still not trust me?’

Truth be told, most days I don’t.

Instead of dealing with the issues I currently have with God, I avoid them. Occasionally, I numb out by watching TV shows, or allow myself to be swallowed up into a musical vortex while daydreaming of other lands than this one.

Processing these things seems like a mountain I am not trained to climb. Have you ever been there?

I suppose coming over to Cambodia, I was under the impression that I had sorted all this stuff out in my mind and heart already. After all, I had been on mission trips, seen injustice, poverty, and immense suffering. Why is this different?

(This is not the end, part two will come soon)

When Street Kids Mop Windows

September 29^th, 2014 was the grand opening of the little store I had been working on for AIM (www.agapewebsite.org). Practically nothing went right during the day. I remember arriving at the store earlier than normal to finish inventory and start staging the appearance of all of our items. Within 10 minutes I was in tears. It had rained heavily the night before, which caused the store to flood. Water had gotten between our wood floors and the tile underneath, causing the floors to bow upwards.  If you stepped in the right spots, you would sink a bit. 

Then one of the staff said she was going to be late due to not feeling well.

The street kids filtered in and out throughout the day. They were invited to the party, boy were they keenly aware of when it was, and certainly could not contain their excitement. Quite honestly, they were driving me crazy. A couple of the girls saw a dead man in the river (we are across the street from the river) and were then panicking in the store about ghosts for a good while.  

Seriously guys, they were driving me crazy (not the part about them being scared of ghosts, miraculously I had patience for them at that time). They were trying to help me clean, but they were MOPPING the WINDOWS. They were causing more of a mess than anything. I cannot tell you how many times I kicked them out of the store that day because I just couldn’t deal. They kept coming back, and my attitude kept getting worse.

I was overwhelmed. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to change before the party, so my outfit consisted of dirty, dusty, sweaty clothes and I was sporting a lop-sided bun and by then all my make-up had melted off. All this build-up for months, and I looked like a disaster. 

Then something caused my heart to pause. One of the street kids shouted for my attention. “Janay, look!” I looked at her, spinning in her torn, dirty, falling-apart black dress. Feet stained with black dirt from walking the riverside without shoes every day.  I felt annoyed, thinking to myself ‘leave me alone, kid, I am on a deadline.’ Then she said this:

“Janay, I wore my best dress for the party tonight!”

Crap. It’s official; I am the worst person in the world.

That moment got me thinking though. These children have all day been eagerly awaiting the start of the party. They were so excited they couldn’t stay away, and wanted to help as much as they could. Giving their all. They even wore their best clothes. The significance of that night was not lost on them. How beautiful it was to them to be invited! Even though they didn’t have much to offer, and what they did offer was far from perfect, they offered all they had.

Oh to be that excited about being invited to be part of something.  I am part of something way bigger than a grand opening party for a retail store, and most of the time my excitement pales in comparison.  And honestly, I don’t always offer all that I have, in fact, most times I don’t.  

More people than I thought came to the party that night. I was still overwhelmed and exhausted. The kids stayed the entire night and much to my dismay were handing out wine to the adults. Perhaps a bit taboo, but they were giving all they had until it was time to go home. 

(Except at the end where they were angry with me for not ordering enough balloons for them to let go into the sky. There were 8 kids. I had 100 balloons. Really, kids?)

Mark 12:41-44

May We Always Be Fighting

As I sit here in a café in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, I am thinking about the documentary I just watched.  The documentary was of the rape and murder of Jyoti Singh in India almost two and a half years ago.  This story made worldwide news and sparked the outcry of the Indian people.  Even though the oppression of women worldwide is in the forefront of my mind often, living where I live and being involved in the anti-trafficking movement, this documentary left me speechless and haunted.

In the documentary, one of the perpetrators is interviewed. He shows absolutely no remorse, and even has the audacity to make the statement that women who have been raped are at fault, more than the men who took their thoughts and put them into action. In addition to that, he says women who are being raped should not fight back, but just allow the rape to happen. Apparently, the logic is that if you just “let it happen,” the assailants may let you live, rather than being forced to kill you.  The defense attorneys said that it is culturally unacceptable for a “respectable woman” to be out at night without her family.  It was 9:30pm.

As a woman, at least for me, I was taught at a young age to be cautious. I think about when I got my first car and my dad had told me to make sure at night I park under or near a lamppost in the parking lot. Somewhere well lit was (is) always safer. Or the fact that in those late nights when I would walk to my car in those parking lots, on occasion I would walk with my key in between my middle and ring finger (like my friend Chris taught me) so that if needed, I could use it as a weapon. In Cambodia ‘good girls’ don’t stay out past 9 according to culture. If there are nights where I am out past that time, I am looking in the side mirrors on my little moto to ensure that no one is following me. Either for theft or for something more sinister.

There are mounds of statistics about the oppression of women. Some are murky and hard to measure, so I will not be quoting any of them here (if you are concerned about this, feel free to dialogue with me!).  I can, however, speak to what I have experienced. While I have never been the victim of overt gender inequality/violence, I know many who have. Please believe me when I say I have known hundreds of girls who have suffered at the hands of sexual trauma. Even one woman or girl facing these issues is too many. Each girl must walk a road that she did not choose. And each instance of oppression is more than was ever intended when God spun the world into motion.

I offer no solutions, but maybe that isn’t the point. To quote Sara Groves’ song ‘The Long Defeat’  “I can’t just fight when I think I’ll win, that’s the end of all belief, and nothing has provoked it more than possible defeat.”

So, stick with me, maybe a (large) portion of fighting against the oppression of women is where we end up.  Yes, the goal is without a doubt to see the abolition of inequality and violence against women, however, part of me wonders if part of it is about the fight as well. Banning together as a unified people, men and women, working towards a common goal together. I know that this will be a battle that is around long after I am gone.  But we fight anyway. Maybe not to see an end in our lifetime, but to get one step closer for the generations ahead.

Women are powerful, and a force to be reckoned with. 

With that said, would you please raise your glass for a toast:

To all of the women and girls who may stumble across this post, you are seen.  You are brave warriors worthy of dignity and respect. To the men who fight for the equality and respect of women, we see you and thank you. To all of those who are survivors of violence, we will walk beside you and fight for you. Thank you for marching on.

Cheers to you. May we always be fighting.