Leaving the Future Behind

Laying on my mat on the beach in the bright silver moonlight, with another girl's legs thrown over me, gazing up at the shadowy forms of looming mountains. The leaden river, mirroring the silhouettes of the mountains, silently slides past just a few feet away from where we lie. Orion slowly rises above the black peaks, and takes its place amidst the dome of tiny twinkling lights above. A nearby, yet invisible campfire snaps and the faint, earthy smell of a cattle yard swirls past on a tiny breeze. The moment is Peace. I close my eyes...who would pay only a thousand dollars for this?

I open my eyes. I'm on the beach far downstream, watching students board long boats to be ferried across the river into Burma. The sunlight saturates the rich green of the water and lights up the depths under the bright red and yellow boats. The students take their seats and look up to those watching on the Thai sand. The engines start with a roar, and K'Mwee Paw lifts her hand high with a wave, "Goodbye, Teacha!"
I bravely wave back, and then turn away, unable to hide my tears. Moo Koh Paw's bright red jacket burns in my memory as she excitedly huddles in the front of a boat, eager to reach the other side. I shut my eyes against the scene. Why does it hurt so much?

I open my eyes, and I'm sitting cross-legged on the smooth wooden floor of the chapel as song service begins. It's Sabbath, and they start singing the hymn that talks about being made whiter than snow. In Karen, "snow" is said "moo koh paw", just like the girl's name. Tears fill my eyes as I listen to the words of the song, remembering the friendships I must soon leave. I quietly leave the chapel, and run down the steps, the tears blurring the world into bright shades of green and grey and brown. I duck past Thara Sumeho, hurry down the walkway past the poinsettia plant, and step into my third-grade classroom. The normally chaotic room sits in silent reverie, enjoying a rare peaceful moment. I sit on Saw Day Wah's desk and lean my head against the windowsill, struggling to cope with the overwhelming emotion in my heart. I never cry about people; why is this affecting me so much? Did I actually get attached to my students?

I blink back the tears and struggle to focus on the chalkboard. A simple message is written in neat, white letters.

Please [forgive] me, my friend.
I am sorry.
I hope see you again.
I never forget you.
I miss you always...
Because, you are my best friend.
(a couple of lines are shyly erased)
Don't forget me.

It was such a short time, and I made so many mistakes, but I will remember each of my students. They made an impact on me, and taught me so much. I want to stay with them and keep learning to teach, learning to care, learning to live. They have done so much for me.
What about me? What have I done here? Did I accomplish what I came to do? Did I teach any of my students anything, or will they just remember that a tall, pretty, curly-haired American girl came to their school? Did I share Jesus with anyone? Did I uplift anybody?
Was my influence a blessing? Or did my mistakes counteract any good I could have done? What will happen to my kids when I'm gone? Will they know that they are personally cared for?

Moo Koh Paw is sitting across the steps from me and Hannah on the Steck's front porch as we wait for the mission teams to pack the trucks. She looks me in the eyes and shakes her head, "Teacha...why? Why do you go?"
I can't hold her gaze. I look down, and reply sadly, "I don't know, Moo Koh Paw." We both know I don't want to go, and don't see a good reason for it. I can't answer her. I just have to go.

I have lived my last weeks to the fullest. I slept in the dorm with Naw Nu Nu, I went in the river twice (though I really don't like swimming with other people), I explored a waterfall and some mountains, learned to drive a dirtbike, substitute taught two grades on top of my normal classes for a couple of days, played games with the kids, went with Hannah Steck to the boys' dorm on her medical rounds, and filled my time with activity. I wanted to make up for the time I lost hermiting in my hut the first month or so.

I learned a priceless lesson; joy comes from realizing that Jesus really does love me, and wants me to be happy. Jesus doesn't want me to go around mourning over my shortcomings or criticizing others. Jesus doesn't want me to save a little bit of myself for when I run out of energy and need to keep going. He wants me to really live, to treasure the simple, every day moments that make each day irreplaceable. He wants me to be thankful for everything; especially the stretching times.

Life is not about furthering my own goals. It's about knowing God and helping others.

I open my eyes, and blink. I'm in the Incheon airport, and just woke up in a lounge chair. I'm curled up against the cold, my Bible laying beside me. I hadn't slept much on the plane, though the flight from Bangkok was from 12:00 am to 6:00 am. The day had been too full to fall asleep after. There was too much to think about. Too much turbulence to thank God for, and learn to enjoy.
I had left Sunshine Orchards without saying goodbye to any of the students, somehow managing to keep my composure as we drove through Mae Salid, and out of the mountains to Mae Sot. We had spent the night there, and I had stayed up past midnight, signing pictures for all of my English students. The next day we wandered around town shopping, I in a haze of pain, the others somewhat subdued, until they left me at the airport in Mae Sot.

The whole trip across the world, I always felt like I was with someone I knew. It was a feeling I've never had before. I had told God that I wasn't going to worry about how the trip home would go. I wasn't going to fear being alone, because I trusted that He would take care of me. Coming back alone was a big step for me (it meant facing a lot of former fears), but God had been preparing me step by step, and when it was over, I hardly noticed I had been alone. I kept feeling like I was surrounded by familiar people. I guess my prayer that I would walk in the presence of Jesus was answered in a tangible way those days.
 I woke up to the same morning, twice. The first time it was over Incheon, South Korea; the second time it was over Los Angeles, California. Both times, the glories of the new (and used) day distracted me from the sometimes intense turbulence we were experiencing. I don't know how many times the screen in front of me showed "Passenger Announcement" and I heard, "Ladies and Genterman, we are experiencing some turburance. Please stay in your seats with your seatbert securery fasend untir the captain has turned off the seatbert sign."
(Korean accent)
Each time I thanked God for the opportunity to overcome fear. He really helped me to start to enjoy turbulence. Eventually, I started thinking to myself, "Man, this is boring. I hope it gets worse." Then, when it did get worse I would mentally compare it to the ride to Beota (only the Stecks, Hannah, Haley, and the Meyers will understand), and I knew it wasn't really that bad yet.

Now I'm back in Arkansas. The Karen people's names sound kind of funny, and it's hard to believe I actually lived with them for over three months. I look down at my shoes in church, and try to comprehend the deep Biblical sermon. It's strange to wear shoes inside, and to hear a message in my own language, without a translator, I can hardly follow the line of thought, it's moving so fast, I have to really think about what I'm hearing and question if I understand the words right. I have to ask people to repeat themselves, and I wonder if I'll ever be able to communicate fluently in my own language again.

I've been incredibly welcomed back, but I feel so strange. Am I the same person that was just living in Thailand, teaching English? Or was that really me, and now some strange, surrogate person has taken over, covering up for the lostness I feel? I look down at my hands. Are those the same hands that were just writing new English words on a chalkboard, clasping a student's hand, or smoothing out a wrinkled sarong?
Who am I, now? Can anyone in this cold, grey world understand my experience?
I want to go back, but I already feel the strong pull of obligations, easy living, and friends. It's sucking me back into fearful, depressed, hopeless cycle of selfishness and I feel too disoriented to fight back. My conversations with people are bright, intelligent, and composed, but my prayers are halting, distracted, and confused. I close my eyes, and all I can do is remember. I am slowly forgetting how to be happy again, forgetting to how care, forgetting how to live a free life. My head is fuzzy, my thinking slow and inefficient.

Did I really learn anything in Thailand? Did my experience there really change my life, or was it a location-sensitive transformation?

I guess my time in the mission field was a break, a vacation from the harsh realities of living in a modern, civilized society where everything is easy and convenient.
I pray that I will stay faithful when the going gets easy (complicatedly so). The hardest time to stay close to God is when you feel like you can do everything by yourself.

I think only people who have been to the mission field for any length of time will really understand what I'm saying here. Sorry for the rest of you who don't understand why I wouldn't be happy to be in my comfortable, climate-controlled house, with all my stuff, doing whatever I please. It's just not what you think it is. There's so much more to life than this.

I pray that you all can experience the fullness of joy experienced by leaving your comfort zone and stepping into God's presence.