There are different kinds of people in the world.
There are Coke people. These are cool people, up on all the latest fashion, beloved by friends and enemies alike, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. These are people you want to marry your daughter, be your boss, and watch on "Jeopardy." These are happy people.
There are Pepsi people. These are insecure people, people who prefer imitation leather instead of the real thing, and are constantly challenging Coke people to a taste test. These are people you want to cut off on the freeway, live next door to your evil boss, and see tackled on "COPS". These are unhappy people.
Then there are Dr. Pepper people. These are weird people, people who talk to themselves in the grocery store, believe Kennedy was killed by aliens from Area 54, and talk about Dublin, Texas as if it were the birthplace of the leprechauns. These are people you want to sit next to your boss on a long flight, see pulled over on the freeway, and watch on "Survivor." These are crazy people.
The thing about Dr. Pepper is that you can only get it in about .00031% of the developed world. In other words, most of the time, the Dr. is not in the house.
Which brings us to Cambodia. (Doesn't everything these days?) The Dr. isn't in the house here, either. Imagine you made a list of the healthcare available to you? What would you include on it, right off the top of your head?
Would you include the ability to brush and clean your teeth? In our trips to the brick factories this week, we're taking each family a bag of rice (from 121), and a hygiene and medical bag (from our fellow servants Bridgeway). Before we hand out anything, we demonstrate how to use everything in the medical/hygiene bags.
We first demonstrate brushing your teeth, using some kids in the audience as guinea pigs, challenging them to see who can brush the longest. Yesterday, two girls lasted about five seconds before they had to spit out the toothpaste, not because it wasn't Crest, but because they had never tasted it before. They were 15 (ish, it's hard to tell here).
Would you include having soap and water? Our second demonstration is how and when to wash your hands and why. For this we pull in some of the men in the crowd. On Tuesday, the men dipped their finger tips in the bowl; immersing their hands and using soap was a foreign concept to them.
Would you include (isopropyl) alcohol and band-aids? Again, we demonstrate how and when to use these, and again, it is a foreign concept. (So much so that our partners repeat the demonstration every time they take in the kits.)
This is not ignorance. It is abject poverty. It is poverty as foreign to us in the U.S. as the toothbrush is to them. It is poverty generated by spending half of their meager income on their lean-to houses owned by the brick factory owner, and not earning anything when no bricks are made during the entire rainy season. It is poverty that makes even the barest of essentials (to us) completely unknown to them.
What can you do with this information? Pray. Ask the Lord how you personally can be a part of fighting all kinds of injustice, including abject poverty. Ask Him how you can be generous. He told us that of whom much is given, much is expected. Compared to these, we have been given the moon, so expectations from the Lord are sky high. Are we, are you, living up to those expectations?
And when you have the answer (and you will have the answer, He's just waiting on you to ask the question), be doers of the word, not hearers only.
Oh, and have a Coke. It will make you happy. And maybe sing in perfect harmony.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
What an awful church!
I went to an awful church today.
They didn't have Starbucks coffee. They didn't have any coffee. Good grief, they didn't have any snacks at all. It's like they didn't even care to satisfy our morning cravings.
They didn't have a sign on their building; it didn't seem to be important that people know where they are. Come to think of it, they really didn't even have a building, just a room in what looked like a strip center. No decorations, no cross, no baptistry, nothing.
And no chairs, so we had to sit on the floor. On the floor! Are you kidding me? Did they think we were fourth-graders? Not only were we on the floor, but we were actually touching each other, we were so close. Have these people never heard of personal space?
They didn't have a band. They didn't have drums. They didn't have bass. They didn't have any brass instruments. They had a single guitar (played by a women, mind you, don't get me started). I've heard better music around a campfire on the beach. And get this — they didn't have any screens! They had an overhead (hey, the 70's called and they want their projector back!) pointing to a sheet. A sheet! Like from a bed!
And children? Not only did they not have a children's program — no kids church, no dramas, no bible stories — one of the member's child was distracting during the entire service, making noises, walking around amongst the people (on the floor; did I mention we were on the floor?). It was absolutely unacceptable.
And the pastor? Where to begin: he didn't wear shoes, much less a coat and tie; he clearly had never been to seminary, much less graduated; he didn't speak our language and made no efforts to accommodate our particular needs (sure, some of the congregation jumped in to translate, but really, would it hurt him to learn another language?). What kind of a leader can you be if you can't even be bothered to put on shoes in the morning?
And when he was finished with his sermon, he just opened up the floor to anyone and everyone to give their testimony. Honestly, as if we care about some stranger's "religious experience" — they sounded like a bunch of holy rollers, and from what I heard, the pastor's lack of religious training clearly showed in his congregation's testimonies. Talk about simple — all they had to say was how someone had shared Jesus with them and their life had been changed. Nothing about their quiet times, nothing about any insights they'd gotten from BSF, nothing about anything that would be of practical use.
One room, barely 25 people crammed together sitting on the floor, singing to words projected onto a sheet, listening to an untrained pastor preach a sermon, and unsophisticated people drone on about how Jesus had changed their lives. What an awful church!
I wonder if we can go back next week?
They didn't have Starbucks coffee. They didn't have any coffee. Good grief, they didn't have any snacks at all. It's like they didn't even care to satisfy our morning cravings.
They didn't have a sign on their building; it didn't seem to be important that people know where they are. Come to think of it, they really didn't even have a building, just a room in what looked like a strip center. No decorations, no cross, no baptistry, nothing.
And no chairs, so we had to sit on the floor. On the floor! Are you kidding me? Did they think we were fourth-graders? Not only were we on the floor, but we were actually touching each other, we were so close. Have these people never heard of personal space?
They didn't have a band. They didn't have drums. They didn't have bass. They didn't have any brass instruments. They had a single guitar (played by a women, mind you, don't get me started). I've heard better music around a campfire on the beach. And get this — they didn't have any screens! They had an overhead (hey, the 70's called and they want their projector back!) pointing to a sheet. A sheet! Like from a bed!
And children? Not only did they not have a children's program — no kids church, no dramas, no bible stories — one of the member's child was distracting during the entire service, making noises, walking around amongst the people (on the floor; did I mention we were on the floor?). It was absolutely unacceptable.
And the pastor? Where to begin: he didn't wear shoes, much less a coat and tie; he clearly had never been to seminary, much less graduated; he didn't speak our language and made no efforts to accommodate our particular needs (sure, some of the congregation jumped in to translate, but really, would it hurt him to learn another language?). What kind of a leader can you be if you can't even be bothered to put on shoes in the morning?
And when he was finished with his sermon, he just opened up the floor to anyone and everyone to give their testimony. Honestly, as if we care about some stranger's "religious experience" — they sounded like a bunch of holy rollers, and from what I heard, the pastor's lack of religious training clearly showed in his congregation's testimonies. Talk about simple — all they had to say was how someone had shared Jesus with them and their life had been changed. Nothing about their quiet times, nothing about any insights they'd gotten from BSF, nothing about anything that would be of practical use.
One room, barely 25 people crammed together sitting on the floor, singing to words projected onto a sheet, listening to an untrained pastor preach a sermon, and unsophisticated people drone on about how Jesus had changed their lives. What an awful church!
I wonder if we can go back next week?
Saturday, October 15, 2011
A Perfect Day
What is a perfect day? It is different things for different people, I suspect.
For some, it's playing a round at Augusta. With Tiger. (If I played golf, it would be Jack for me, which tells you I'm not as young as I look.)
For others, it would be watching Josh Hamilton hit a walk-off grand slam in the seventh game of the World Series at the Ballpark in Arlington. (They have to get past the Tigers, first.)
For still others, it would be… well, maybe something like yesterday.
The day began early — we were all awake by five, although some didn't actually make it out of bed for another hour-and-a-half. (No, it wasn't me, I was up at 5:15a. And, yes, I realize the irony of that being mentioned in the same sentence as "perfect day" when I am involved.) Showers, breakfasts, and a morning devotional later, we were on the way to our mission partner's restoration house for girls rescued from sex trafficking.
The party began with the girls performing a program for us. There was group singing, individual singing, a group dance by some of the younger girls, a traditional cocoanut dance (with some of the girls decked out as guys, which was great fun), and another traditional dance. They were all spectacularly good (not that we're biased). Jennifer leaned over during this time and said, "Would anyone mind if we take them home with us?"
We ate lunch and had humongous portions of a humongous cake, at which time we were warned that it was a tradition to rub icing on the visitor's faces. "Really? How exactly did that become a tradition?" "I don't really know," says the guy who started the restoration center, not sounding at all convincing. Sure enough, we were soon wearing at least as much icing as we'd eaten.
Next was crafts. Erica, Jen, and Katherine showed the girls how to make bracelets with strips of cloth, but the girls were way ahead of them, and were soon making headbands, anklets, and all in all doing a better job in ten minutes than we did in all of our of practicing leading up to the trip. But we're perfectly fine with that. Mostly.
While the girls were running artistic circles around everyone, Mike and I were blowing up water balloons. A lot of water balloons. (At one point, one of the Khmer staff that was helping us looked at the stack we already had and said, "How many do you need?" with that tone of voice that said, "Crazy Americans, you already have plenty!") When you play water balloon volleyball (four girls on a towel, throw it to another towel held by four girls), you need roughly six water balloons per towel per minute. We had eight towels. The math is left as an exercise for the reader.
The actual "volleyball" portion of water balloon volleyball only lasted, I don't know, maybe 45 seconds, and then it was just a water balloon fight. With fifty girls, another twenty or so staff, and us. It was hardly any fun at all. I hope we don't have to do that again. At least, not until today. Today would be a good day to do that again.
After that we lined the girls up into five lines and did a series of sack races. They had a blast, or at least appeared to, but as much fun as they had racing, I think they enjoyed the last race most of all — five of the staff lined up in the sacks and took off. The girls went nuts, yelling and laughing and screaming for their favorite to win. Yes, today, today would be a good day to do that again. Seriously, can we do that again today?
Was it a perfect day? Well, I've married the woman of my (and may others) dreams, I've heard a judge say, "Ashley, you are now officially a Rice," and I've been in the hospital room when they brought in the WCG (World's Cutest Grandbaby). So, no, I don't think it was a perfect day.
But it's in the Top Five.
For some, it's playing a round at Augusta. With Tiger. (If I played golf, it would be Jack for me, which tells you I'm not as young as I look.)
For others, it would be watching Josh Hamilton hit a walk-off grand slam in the seventh game of the World Series at the Ballpark in Arlington. (They have to get past the Tigers, first.)
For still others, it would be… well, maybe something like yesterday.
The day began early — we were all awake by five, although some didn't actually make it out of bed for another hour-and-a-half. (No, it wasn't me, I was up at 5:15a. And, yes, I realize the irony of that being mentioned in the same sentence as "perfect day" when I am involved.) Showers, breakfasts, and a morning devotional later, we were on the way to our mission partner's restoration house for girls rescued from sex trafficking.
The party began with the girls performing a program for us. There was group singing, individual singing, a group dance by some of the younger girls, a traditional cocoanut dance (with some of the girls decked out as guys, which was great fun), and another traditional dance. They were all spectacularly good (not that we're biased). Jennifer leaned over during this time and said, "Would anyone mind if we take them home with us?"
We ate lunch and had humongous portions of a humongous cake, at which time we were warned that it was a tradition to rub icing on the visitor's faces. "Really? How exactly did that become a tradition?" "I don't really know," says the guy who started the restoration center, not sounding at all convincing. Sure enough, we were soon wearing at least as much icing as we'd eaten.
Next was crafts. Erica, Jen, and Katherine showed the girls how to make bracelets with strips of cloth, but the girls were way ahead of them, and were soon making headbands, anklets, and all in all doing a better job in ten minutes than we did in all of our of practicing leading up to the trip. But we're perfectly fine with that. Mostly.
While the girls were running artistic circles around everyone, Mike and I were blowing up water balloons. A lot of water balloons. (At one point, one of the Khmer staff that was helping us looked at the stack we already had and said, "How many do you need?" with that tone of voice that said, "Crazy Americans, you already have plenty!") When you play water balloon volleyball (four girls on a towel, throw it to another towel held by four girls), you need roughly six water balloons per towel per minute. We had eight towels. The math is left as an exercise for the reader.
The actual "volleyball" portion of water balloon volleyball only lasted, I don't know, maybe 45 seconds, and then it was just a water balloon fight. With fifty girls, another twenty or so staff, and us. It was hardly any fun at all. I hope we don't have to do that again. At least, not until today. Today would be a good day to do that again.
After that we lined the girls up into five lines and did a series of sack races. They had a blast, or at least appeared to, but as much fun as they had racing, I think they enjoyed the last race most of all — five of the staff lined up in the sacks and took off. The girls went nuts, yelling and laughing and screaming for their favorite to win. Yes, today, today would be a good day to do that again. Seriously, can we do that again today?
Was it a perfect day? Well, I've married the woman of my (and may others) dreams, I've heard a judge say, "Ashley, you are now officially a Rice," and I've been in the hospital room when they brought in the WCG (World's Cutest Grandbaby). So, no, I don't think it was a perfect day.
But it's in the Top Five.
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