Author: trotters41

No Pit So Deep?

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— By Elizabeth

During worship this morning, we sang these words:

Ascribe greatness to our God, the Rock,
His work is perfect and all His ways are just.
A God of faithfulness, without injustice,
Good and upright is He.
 

Later during the service, as usual, I took Faith to the unstaffed nursery. And as usual, I talked with other parents. But not as usual, I listened to one parent talk about an anti-trafficking ministry in a particular part of town. There, parents sell their children for the day, often as punishment for irritating the parents. These children aren’t permanent residents of any brothels but they’re abused nonetheless. This ministry offers daytime care for the children and parenting classes as a prevention strategy. One of their goals is to be able provide overnight shelter for the children during holidays.  These children and their parents are technically homeless, so in preparation of the holiday festivities, men, women, and children are cleared off the streets, forced into containers and taken out of the city.  Families are separated.  There are no toilet facilities in the containers. Adults abuse the children during their containment.  Afterwards children must find their parents on their own

Who does that to children? To families? To human beings?  Smells like . . . Holocaust.

After that conversation I met a lady who works with an after-care organization. They provide safe houses and counseling for rescued girls.  One of their after-care facilities is actually next door to us.  Girls living there are mid-teens who have been through the initial rescue and intensive counseling but whose homes are not safe to go back to — often because it was their families who trafficked them in the first place. We’ve noticed how teen boys flock to this house.  The woman who spoke with me today told me that these sexual issues are never fully settled for the girls. The issues return when they have their first boyfriend. The issues return when they get married. The issues return when they have their first baby.

I stood there and cried.

You see, I fell in love for the first time when I was 17. And it was beautiful. I married that same boy when I was 18.  And it was beautiful. We had our first baby when I was 22. And again, it was beautiful.

Sexual slavery did not mar the blessings of love, marriage, and babies for me. The “God of faithfulness, without injustice” was faithful for me.

Is He faithful and just for girls in Asia?

May it be that you – and I – can proclaim, along with Corrie ten Boom, “There is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.”

A Good Day

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– By Elizabeth

I had a good day today.

Yes, it’s true.

I had a good day yesterday too.  And not just “good for Cambodia,” but honest to goodness, downright good.

Last November I climbed a 20 foot pole.  And jumped off it.  (I know you’re all asking yourselves if this is the same non-athletic Elizabeth Hunzinger you thought you knew.)  I climbed it with no fear.  But when I got to the top, I froze.  The transition from crouching at the top of the pole to standing on the top of the pole was incredibly frightening.  It’s the shortest part, about 1 second of motion, but it’s the most difficult.  And I needed Jonathan to coach me through it.  Once I was standing, I felt fine again.

It’s the same in labor.  Transition, that part of labor just before full dilation, is the shortest part.  It’s also the most intense and the place where a mom doubts herself.  She needs help to get through it.  (Jonathan claims that since he did this for me 4 times, I owe him 4 doula fees).

At MTI last fall we learned about the “Chaos Bridge,” which is an analogy for transition (or “transsizion,” as our South African SPLICE leader called it).  We start out settled and stable, move into unsettled with all its farewells, and then into the bouncy bubbly transition.  We start to come out of it while resettling, and then finally reach a new settled state.

When I was neck deep in missionary transition, you supported me with prayers and encouragement.  I couldn’t have made it through without your doula-ing, as all my birthie friends would say.

Transition.  The most terrible part.  The shortest part.  Now I know with certainty that it doesn’t last forever.  And I can assure the next person I see experiencing transition that it does indeed end.  It’s painful, but it won’t last long.  Not much longer now.  I promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. Psalm 23:4

How Beautiful

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– By Elizabeth

How beautiful the hands that served

The wine and the bread and the sons of the earth

How beautiful the feet that walked

The long dusty roads and the hill to the cross

———-

Tonight I sat outside our door and watched my sons scooter, race, and jump in our dead-end street.  I like sitting out there.  It feels peaceful.  I watch people come and go on motos and bicycles, and I watch them turn on the outdoor spicket and rinse their filthy feet before entering their houses.  And I wonder how dirty were the feet that Jesus washed the night before He died?  I see how grimy my sons’ feet get, but they wash their own feet, so I don’t have to.

———-

How beautiful the heart that bled

That took all my sin and bore it instead

How beautiful the tender eyes

That chose to forgive and never despise

———-

I watch the orphanage children play with each other and with my boys.  They smile, and their teeth are black with decay.   I watch a teen girl pry lice out of the orphanage manager’s hair for 30 minutes.  And I think, Jesus was not afraid of these people.  He did not despise them.  Should I?

———-

And as He laid down His life

We offer this sacrifice

That we should live just as he died

Willing to pay the price

 

How beautiful the radiant bride

Who waits for her groom with His light in her eyes

How beautiful when humble hearts give

The fruit of pure lives so that others may live

 

How beautiful the feet that bring

The sound of good news and the love of the King

How beautiful the hands that serve

The wine and the bread and the sons of the earth

———-

Yes, it’s true, I love Twila Paris.  She gets it right every time.

The Saga of Sorya

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By Elizabeth

The Trotters want a TV and DVD player. We plan to drive to Sorya Mall, near the Central Market, after church. Mistake #1: Driving somewhere you’ve never driven before in a foreign country. Mistake #2: Doing it on a Sunday afternoon. There are lots of one way streets near the Central Market, and although we have a map, I misread it, and we drive in approximate circles for awhile. Then we find the hidden entrance to the parking garage. It’s 5 stories high.

Parking, next challenge. Success! Jonathan is becoming quite adept at driving and parking here. I on the other hand am not even attempting yet. My husband’s heart would probably stop if I tried. But back to the mall. And all the people at the mall. We hold our babies close and try to find the floor that has the electronics store. Remember there are 5 floors. All full of people staring at us. Like caged circus animals. Yet again. We find the store, and the kids and I plop down at a table to wait while Papa picks out the cheapest TV and DVD player he can find. Remember this is also where the ultra-elite Cambodian wealthy shop, and it’s expensive. He’s not sure if the DVD player will play our American DVD’s since the regions are different, but the employee assures him it will, and we pay and leave.

But. We’ve promised the kids ice cream at Lucky Burger. So we find Lucky (First we try a few different floors. Remember there are 5). More people staring. Actually, there were no Asians in that burger joint who WEREN’T staring at us. There were 2 white people. They weren’t staring. I am highly irritated. I’ve always been invisible in life, the unremarkable nerd who doesn’t attract attention. And I’m exhausted. It’s past 2 and we haven’t eaten lunch, and the journey to the mall was tiring to begin with. Hannah runs into a table and cries, and Jonathan starts to order. Half naked women are on TV, and Isaac has a hard time not looking at screens. We do all enjoy our ice cream. It actually tastes just like McDonald’s soft serve. Yummm. Now people start taking pictures of the white alien creatures. Time to go.

Time to drive home. A drive during which Jonathan gets stuck in an intersection when the cross traffic starts coming. Yikes. We make it through. Phew! Yikes. There are those police officers again. Phew, they want less money this time. Time to get home. Where we can set up the DVD player and see if it works. Phew. It does. The Incredibles is playing as I type.

Now I’m home, and I like to say my home is like the Embassy. It’s American soil. A Christian nation. And no matter what each day brings to me, at the end of it, I count myself blessed because I have a husband who welcomes me with open arms.

A Trip to Lucky

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By Elizabeth

I braved Lucky on a Saturday evening. I have a love-hate relationship with Lucky. For one, I am very thankful there’s even a grocery store here and I am fully funded and can shop at it. That I love. But the experience of Lucky is something I could do without.

I fill my CVS-size shopping cart to the brim while people stare and point. They touch Faith and laugh when she cringes. The carts don’t maneuver well when empty, and certainly not when full. Many items are not in English, or only partly in English, so finding what you want is tough, and deciding how many to get is tougher. About halfway through my list, my brain stops working. I am already pretty embarrassed that I’m white. Additionally I have a full cart (Cambodians tend to go to the market daily and buy less). It’s only enough food for a family of 6 big eaters for one week, though. I branch out this week to the produce section. Every other time I am too exhausted after picking out the staples. . . Next week I might foray into beef and chicken.

At the very end, with Faith whining at the bananas I squeezed into her seat, and with people staring at me, I pick up my last item — the kind of mop and bucket my house helper needs. I push the overflowing cart with one hand, and pull the rolling bucket and mop with the other, through impossibly narrow aisles to the checkout counter, where I hope and pray Jonathan Trotter is done with his shopping elsewhere in the mall. He has the cash, you see. He arrives, I avoid crying for the time being. A total of 4 ladies help me at this point. When the cashier can’t find the price on the cheese, another emplyee runs to the refridgerator section, and when she returns with the price, speaking in Khmer, they all laugh hysterically. Jonathan pays, and we leave.

When we arrive home, after unloading and getting the kids a snack b/c it is now past bedtime (meaning Jonathan had to drive in the dark which is always stressful), we discover the source of the ant problem I’ve had this week. Ants in my precious brown rice (have I mentioned whole grains are hard to find here??). Plus some other creepy looking critter. So I cry, “mommy, mommy, mommy,” and I’m not sure if I’m talking about myself or my own mother. We clean out the pantry and dump the rice container, which is obviously not airtight. I take care of the mess while Jonathan reads Narnia to the kids.

What a day.