here i sit on an air mattress in chiang mai. my life is still as every bit as interesting. packing, repacking, packing again, settling down, settling down elsewhere, travelling to the mountains, to the city, this person’s home, the next person’s home. and yet, i have loved every single minute of all the bustle. i walk across the street, and am greeted by the lady making roti, who somehow knows my name. yelling, “hello sabrina”. we must’ve met somewhere, i suppose. just a simple reminder of how much i love this place. i must learn her name back, though.

eating foods i never thought i’d eat, some things i shouldn’t even mention. eating food i absolutely adore. eating fish and all things spicy, i am alive. this is what i was made for. my heart couldn’t be more content. God is good. something so simple brings a smile to my face. i believe sometimes the best way to build a relationship with someone is just to eat together. a simple act that means so much.

sitting around a campfire, singing songs of worship. in thai, of course. i don’t understand anything that’s going on, and yet i am full of joy. joy is contagious, whatever language you speak. when God really is your everything, people sense that, whether they understand you or not. i am constantly reminded that i serve a God who transcends language and culture and calls us all His children. these are my brothers and sisters. we look a little different and sound a little different, but we love the same God. i am reminded how big and how great God is. every time someone speaks in a language i don’t understand, i know that my God knows.

Why oh Wai?

I think God loves that we’re different.

He, after all, created our differences.

God loves culture.

When we make Him Lord over our lives, we don’t need to lose our cultural distinctiveness. When living cross-culturally, we need to remember one culture is no better than another. God wants our hearts, and is the One who changes our behaviour. He teaches us truth, and He loves what makes us unique because He created that. So why oh why is missions so self-centered? We come with a domineering heart that says these people are backward and must change.

The wai is a beautiful greeting. The problem is when we look at the handshake as a superior greeting and don’t  love the culture we come to as guests.

Missions is about pointing people to Jesus. If you’re coming to offer humanitarian aid, or just for an adventure, though those are good, when you’re not telling others about Jesus and giving Him glory, your efforts are useless - they aren't enough to bring change.  What makes Christianity different is that our God came to us, not by our own goodness,  but out of His unfathomable love for us.  The heart of missions is to speak truth to people, not to change who they are. Your ‘why’ is hurtful when you judge someone’s cultural norms. Your ‘wai’ is meaningless when you aren’t pointing people to the God who loves them.

On the Song

But the song we sing is not of this world. With each note coming from our lips, we bleed, we heave. We pound at the ground, panting in thirst, till we’re bloody, broken, dead.

Our song is not beautiful. We sing about the darkness of night, the darkness of sin, where light is never seen, and demons sway back and forth to the beat. Our voice becomes our only instrument. Songs of deliverance, whales and screams, a song that if you heard, you’d too wish you were dead.
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The idea of the song has been fascinating me lately. People singing a song of shear heartache, yet trying to put up a front, to cover up their pain. Music is such a powerful tool. People use their music to tell us to come a little closer, to look, to listen. Listen to their words, feel their heartache, act out upon injustice. A song is more than just a lovely melody - it’s a plea for help, for restoration. Look a little closer. Listen a little deeper.

Your Song is an Ugly One

In the early 19th century, slave owners would hear their slaves out in the fields singing. These songs were like nothing they ever heard before. They were strange and different, but it sounded like their slaves were happy. Only happy people sing. Slave owners would tell others that they had such happy slaves, because they always did their work with gladness. And yet, if they listened to the words, they would know that these were not happy songs. People sang, not out of happiness, but with the belief that by singing out their pain, some of it could be released. Sometimes people sing, or smile, not because they are overflowing with joy, but because they have so much hurt that they need to hide just to make it through the day. Not every song is a happy one, nor is every smile proof of joy. Sometimes the sweetest masks hide the most evil wretched pains.
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You sing a song I’ve never heard before. A beautiful song. A captivating one. They look at you and think it is well. Happy people sing, and you my friend, look happy. Yet when I look you in the eye, it isn’t you looking back at me. And then I hear the words.

Your song is an ugly one.

Telling a story of pain. Of shackled pain. Of tightly bound burdens. You walk, but you’re in chains. Your song hides as beauty, but as each note is forced out your vocal chords, those chords wrap themselves around your ankles, tightening their grasp, until you know that you’re bound to that song. And that song owns you. Each note is another octave of pain. Your lungs grasp for air, they hurt you. You’re clothed in darkness, and yet all people hear is your lovely melody, masquerading as light. And as you smile, your teeth shield the demons from poking through.

Oh how your song is an ugly one.

Smiling My Way Through the Land of Smiles

so here i sit on a couch in bangkok. sometimes when i’m alone, i laugh and i question as to how i found myself here. in this central hot spot, in this land of smiles, in this country i love so much.

one day i will share my story, but as for now, i will wait until that story is complete.

'tis so sweet to trust in Jesus. those words hold much truth. as i sat in the airport waiting to board my flight to bangkok, all i could do was trust. the only one i had was my Jesus, the only one who has been there all along, through it all, the only one i need. our communion was sweet, but it made me realize i don't need to travel half way across the globe to have that time. He is near, He is here, and He desires to be with us His people. 

the reality is that it’s not about me. as much as i’d like to think that way, it’s never been about me. it always has been, and always will be, about Him receiving all honour and glory.

i live to bring Him praise. as much as i’d like this blog to be about me, everything i do is for His glory. every word i write will bring Him praise. for those who wanted a blog post, all i can say is, this is for Him. i am a servant following after my God.

i will write about what He’s doing if you will keep on listening. 

He has me on an exciting journey, and all i can do is trust, and continue to smile through the land of smiles.

Found this little snipit in my notebook. Thought I’d put it here just to see it written down (Times New Roman more appropriate than my shameful handwriting).

Here we go:

You sip your sugar cane soda, 

while those men over there sweat and bleed and toil to feed

your sweet tooth.

And their song can be heard

without saying a word

to a river of pain

where the women know and drown with the pretty faces, screaming for the generations - their secret disgraces.

In his introduction to “Howl”, William Carlos Williams writes that poets are not blind, rather, they see with the eyes of the angels.  That is what I want to be as a poet.  An observer.  A silent watcher.  I want poetry to anger people, shake people, wake people up.  I want people to feel uncomfortable with the comfortable lives they live and act out upon injustice in order to see change.  I want people to know that there is a God who loves them, despite what they may believe or prescribe to.  Poetry doesn’t have to be obscure or unattainable, but should be real, down to earth, and deep.  People should pursue its meaning, and act upon it.  Poetry can be powerful, and ultimately, should point people to the God of all power and creativity.