King

Today marks the finale of a year of mourning in Thailand. King Rama IX will be cremated in a ceremony this evening. I do not in the least understand all the events and proceedings, but I do know it is solemn and unique occasion. Even all the 7-11's (which are many) and chain supermarket Tesco Lotus stores are closed. Less traffic than usual zooms by on the road in front of our house. English Class and Kids' Club are cancelled this weak. Most people I do spy out the window wear solid black.

Our part in these events are small and peripheral. Last year on October 13, we were riding in a van with church members to participate in a weekend youth retreat. We chatted and kept the children entertained. Then Pastor Winnet (the head pastor) received a call on his phone. As he hung up, he quietly announced that the king had passed. Even though it hadn't been unexpected, we were all a bit stunned. When a man is nearly 89 years old and has served his country for more than 70 years, his passing is a shock.

Everything seemed normal as we arrived at the army owned retreat center on the sea. We began to wonder if Pastor's contact was mistaken. The official public announcement didn't broadcast on television until we were eating our very late supper. Then we all watched as the television showed black and white footage of King Rama IX's life. Philip and I were glad to be in the company of Thais with whom we were comfortable and could ask questions. In those first days, there were many unknowns.We took our cue for how to behave from those around us. We had not packed black clothing, but tried not to wear our most flamboyant shirts and skirts. My outfit options were particularly limited since I was almost 8 months pregnant. The wild outdoor games planned for the youth were switched for calmer activities. Mainly, life went on as usual just a bit subdued.

We chose to participate in the year of mourning recommended by the government by wearing predominately black. Philip felt that it wouldn't be remiss to be considerate to the point of even dressing the children in black. Over a year later, we are still dressed in black, at least when we go out in public. The only time Calla has worn bright colors was during the four weeks we spent in the United States last winter. I don't share this to show how "wonderful" we are for doing this or how much of a "hardship" it has been, but just as a major part of our lives here in Thailand.

Tomorrow will venture outside wearing pinks, blues, purples, flowery skirts, and vivid shirts. It will feel a bit strange. But we are also ready to embrace all the colors of the rainbow back into our wardrobe. For tonight, Philip will be with church members joining hundreds of thousands from all over Thailand to bid farewell to King Rama IX.

Last year, three year old Simeon was a bit confused between King Jesus and King Rama IX; he knew both died but  had trouble remembering which rose again to live forever. After much repetition and encouragement, he now knows that Jesus is the King of the world who reigns forever. We are blessed to know this King and pray that Thailand will come to know Him as well.

Of Plants and Prayers

Just the day after I wrote about my laundry balcony and lovely plants last week, I discovered that my two little trees are infested with mealybugs. These are little white, fuzzy creatures which suck their sustenance from the plant, destroying their host. Ants feast on a nectar-like substance that mealybugs excrete, so I was able to follow trails of thousands of ants around the plants, tracking down hundreds of bugs and squashing them. In my zeal for ridding my plants of these pests, I probably spent nearly thirty minutes searching them out. I finally had to return downstairs when I heard Calla screaming, Simeon fussing, and Meriel shouting. I don't normally take that long just to start a load of laundry and chaos was breaking loose.

Later in the day, I went back up to hang laundry. I discovered still more of the creatures of the blight.  One of the trees looked especially droopy and had a few yellowing leaves. I berated myself for not noticing earlier, but the bugs like to hide in places where to two branches cross or under leaves, so are difficult to spot. We always have thousands of ants around our house, so their presence didn't seem unusual. In the limited time I could spend on the balcony before running back downstairs to corral, calm, and teach children, I killed all the bugs I could find. While I hung laundry, I found myself praying that God help my plants to survive.

I know that God cares about me and all life on earth, so I don't think praying for my plants is wrong. However, the story of Jonah did come to mind and convicted me about my priorities. If you don't remember the less celebrated ending of Jonah, I'll give a quick synopsis. After Jonah warn the Ninevites about God's impending wrath, he sits outside the city to see what happens. A plant grows up and provides shade for Jonah. While Jonah rests in the shade, the people of the city repent and God forgives and spares them. At this point, Jonah becomes upset with God; he wanted the people to get what they deserved. (How easily we forget to be thankful that we don't get what we deserve....) Then God allows a worm to come and destroy Jonah's plant. When Jonah complains, God explains to Jonah that his love for people, including those of Ninevah, is greater than Jonah's love for the plant which he did nothing to help create or grow, so why shouldn't He have pity on His creation?

I concluded that I could indeed continue to pray for my plants, but I should first be more diligent in praying for the people whom God loves and asking Him to give me His heart for the lost. I do regularly pray for the ministries here - Kids' Club and English Class. But I don't routinely pray for the neighborhood and the future of this church. In this season, God is teaching me to pray faithfully for that which He lays on my heart. So I am using my afflicted plants to remind me to bring to the Father all the lost walking, riding mo-peds, and living in my neighborhood each day.

In January, Tawipon Church (where we live) will begin holding regular Sunday morning church services. Ajan (Pastor) V, will be leading with Philip also sharing some. I commit to praying diligently for my neighbors; for Ajan V, his family, and other involved in the ministry; and for the upcoming infant church. God used the jeopardy of my plants to get my attention and remind me of something I should already have been doing. I hope that my trees don't have to die, but if they do, may many new lives be born through the resulting prayers.

Why I (Still) Hang the Laundry

This week I've been thinking about my laundry time. I've delegated many household chores to my growing children. They wash the dishes, sweep the floor, pick up toys, and fold laundry. So why do I still hang the clothes? About two years ago I wrote about hanging laundry (Thoughts on Hanging Out the Wash), and most of those thoughts are still relevant. I actually do, in a way, like hanging laundry.

As the children have gotten older, they don't always follow me upstairs, so I can sometimes snatch a few moments for myself. Despite hundreds of neighbors living within fifty feet, I consider myself in solitude. I've always felt closer to God outdoors, in nature. My small balcony garden has grown, and now I have twelve potted plants. Chances are one of them will have a blooming flower; I might get to spy a butterfly feeding or a spider spinning. Just seeing the green is refreshing.

My laundry hanging time is my prayer time. I'm often thrown into the day by a child dragging me from sleep. I change diapers, start a load of laundry, prepare breakfast. As I stumble out of bed, I call out, "Good morning, God. Help!" Not until about two (or more) hours later do I have a chance to breathe. I dash up the stairs and begin hanging. I thank God for my green, for my family, for His will. If you're a family member, I pray for you here; if I pray for you daily, it happens here; if I've told you you're on my "laundry hanging" prayer list, this is when I do so; if God brings you to my mind, I cover you. I pray hanging up and taking down. I do at least one load of laundry every day except Sunday. These laundry prayers keep us going.

Many times a child or two will follow me upstairs: to water the plants, to ask questions, to play with the sprayer in the bathroom (Simeon!), to push the buttons on the washing machine (Simeon, again!). But I still pray. Mommas are pretty good at multi-tasking. If I'm having a hard day, my prayers are more serious and concentrated. If the day is going well (or it's a rainy day, which I love - maybe another post in the making), I sing. Remember those hundreds of neighbors? They've gotten used to it, but they used to look out their apartment windows and wonder, "Who is that crazy white lady?!"

My favorite time of day? Maybe when all the kids are in bed and I'm just now getting around to bringing in the laundry. This happens fairly often. Even if it rains, I just roll laundry rack indoors and grab the clothes on hangers, so I still have to take them down later. On the balcony, it's finally cooling down a bit; maybe there's a breeze that doesn't make it into the house. I might see some stars or the moon peeking out behind cloud skittering across the sky. A bat chasing mosquitoes dips and whirls. I breathe deeply; I relax; I take down clothes and pray.

Last night, I felt worn out. I just sat on the rickety plastic stool on which I usually set my basket. My prayers didn't have words. Finally, I mustered enough energy for the final push of the day. Before I stepped in the house, I looked up at the cloudy sky. A lone white crane winged his way home across the sky; peace entered my heart. Thank you, God, for the gift.

Now how could I delegate all that to my children?

First Steps

Let me invite you to a scene of delight: last Thursday evening...

I am reading Hollis's bedtime story, Jungle Drums by Graeme Base, about a little warthog who learns to be happy with who he is. Calla is standing, leaning against the couch. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her stepping forward; she takes one steady step, then a second, before toppling forward to her knees. Her first steps! I interrupt the story to clap and cheer for her. The kids are wildly excited - hopping about, laughing and cheering. I finish the story with a wide smile on my face.

A bit later, Philip is eating a late supper after English class. The younger kids are supposed to be completing the final steps in preparing for bed. Calla is trying to climb up onto the couch. I kneel on the floor a few steps away. "Come here, Calla! Walk to Mommy!" And she does.

All thoughts of bedtime are put on hold as Calla becomes a star. The kids take turns. One of them helps Calla stand steady against the couch, while another kneels a few steps away. "Come here, Calla! Walk to me!" And she does. Sometimes two steps, sometimes four or five. A few times, she successfully toddles the distances and walks confidently into outstretched arms. More often, she ends up falling headlong the last bit.

Every effort is met with cheering and clapping. Calla delightedly claps for herself. Simeon crows about the "wonderful baby walking show." Philip beams from the dining room table. I gladly take my turn as the receiver of the this talented baby. A baby taking her first steps is a small miracle. This night will become a precious jewel of a memory for our family.