Ministry Lessons . . . from a French Catholic Priest and a Khmer Worship Service

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A scene from the Alsace region

Earlier this week we invited one of Jonathan’s language school friends to our house for dinner. He is a newly ordained French Catholic priest who has been assigned to Cambodia for life. He hails from the Alsace region of France. When Jonathan asked him about the most beautiful place he’s ever been, he answered that it was his own region. His home in Alsace, the place of his roots.

He told us he believes that if you cannot love the place you come from, you cannot love the place you go to. So I dropped out of the dinner conversation for a few minutes to contain my emotion. What a beautiful thing to say. He loves his home, but he has sacrificed living there because of love for his God, and his heart is open to love this place and its people as well.

I am not sure whether it is the French-English language difference, or simply because he comes from a different faith tradition than me, but his words were filled with grace and meaning for me. Tears welled up in my eyes. Yes, I love my home. Yes, I love the people who live there. Yes, I love my God, and yes, I love this place. I fully intend to love the people of this place. I want my heart to be open to love.

Then this Sunday I experienced my first non-English church service. Jonathan had attended non-English services before — in Cambodia and also in Russia and Germany — but I had not. I had not expected it to impact me quite so much (not because I thought I was immune to such things, but because I had not taken the time to think about it, silly me, mother of 4 young children, too busy getting ready for church to stop and think).

John 1:1-5

I could reliably understand only a few words: “thank God,” “Jesus,” “love,” and “hallelujah.” I could not read the Cambodian song books; I did not recognize the melodies. But I worshipped all the same. It was at this service that I finally understood, at my very core, that Jesus does not speak only English. His offer of salvation is for all nations. Oh, of course I “knew” that before, but there, in that small gathering of Cambodian believers, I truly realized that God speaks all languages with the same perfect skill. He understands each Christian across the globe, no matter their language. He does not understand me better than He understands a Khmer Christian — even if I do not understand that same Khmer Christian.

What I said to my kids later was, “Isn’t it neat that everyone can talk to Jesus? Isn’t it neat that Jesus can understand everybody?” I hope they can grow up strongly convicted of what I am just now learning.

I haven’t blogged for a while. I tend to wait until something significant happens, something that really affects me. I had two of those events this week and wanted to share them with you. As always, thank you for praying for our family and for the people whose language we are trying to learn. We want to communicate the Gospel to them in their own words. We want to communicate the Gospel to them with much love. And this week God sent me those two little reminders, much-needed missionary lessons.

On the Road Again (Trotter Traveling Troubles)

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Two Christmases ago Kansas City was blanketed with snow. We set out cautiously from our home at the Red Bridge Church of Christ Parsonage for a Christmas morning with the Raymore Trotters. Less than a mile into our journey we watched a car spinning in the snow, unable to drive onto Wornall from the side road. A man was pushing the car, to no avail, so Jonathan stopped and pushed with him and helped them onto the main road.

Just this week Nathaniel remembered that experience. Jonathan confidently replied that a car would never get stuck in snow here in Cambodia.

It is precisely because we never get snow in Cambodia that we can go swimming any time we want.  Our favorite pool is at the Kingdom Resort 20 minutes out of Phnom Penh – where the street signs aren’t in English anymore. We’ve been planning to take the kids swimming for a couple weeks now, and they were excited to wake up this morning and get on the road. After applying copious amounts of sunscreen (Moms and Grandmas, I know you care about this detail!) we buckle up and start out, keeping a close eye on the temperature gauge. On our last Resort excursion, the radiator overheated, and Jonathan was forced to wait by the side of the road for 2 hours while a providentially placed mechanic “fixed” it. I took the kids ahead of him to the pool via tuk-tuk, but Jonathan missed out on the water fun.

So naturally, we watch the temperature gauge with appropriate levels of fear.

After an uneventful drive TO the pool, we enjoy ourselves for a few hours. When we are homeward bound again, I think to myself, in 20 short minutes we will be home for lunch and nap time. What a wonderful world!

My hopes are shattered 5 minutes down the road when we find ourselves trapped in Cambodian Gridlock.  Cambodian Gridlock is not the same as American Gridlock. Cambodian Rules of the Road do not require distinct lanes (although lines are painted on the roads). Whoever is bigger, more expensive, honks his horn first, or flashes his lights first, has the right of way, even if it means he is driving into oncoming traffic. Whoever is smaller, less expensive, or slower to honk horn or flash lights, MUST yield, even if he is in his own lane of traffic. Motos seem to be able to fit anywhere.  They fill in the cracks of traffic and keep moving even when all other vehicles are stopped. Like water molecules in a jar of rocks.

Here is a picture of traffic, the “normal, natural, right, and good” way – the American Way. See how the 2 lanes go in opposite directions but don’t interfere with each other? It’s so pretty.

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Here is a picture of traffic the Cambodian Way. It is Cambodian Free-For-All, Every-Driver-For-Himself, as each lane expands to cover all lanes, in all directions. See how it would be nearly impossible to break up? Of course you do.

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We saw construction on our way to the pool, and by now it has totally blocked the flow of traffic as cars on both sides try to barge past the block. We’re on a national highway, which means we are often driving through or avoiding pot holes that have the dimensions of car tires.  The road isn’t very wide, and the “shoulders” are mud.  But these muddy shoulders are exactly where the cars are heading in an attempt to push through Cambodian Gridlock. You know it’s bad when even the motos can’t move or when the Cambodian drivers turn off their engines, get out of their cars, and look around as if to say someone should fix this mess.

Indeed.

Our kids are tired, hot, and thirsty. I’m tired, hot, and hungry. Fellow drivers and passengers like to stare at my 4 white kids — we’re always a comical sight here.  For a while we turn off our engine to avoid overheating (we’re still scared of that radiator, because it still leaks every single night), but the heat and engine exhaust suffocate us. We turn the engine back on. We’re all a bit bored. We start to sing.  Old favorites like “Sing Hallelujah to the Lord,” “There is, Beyond the Azure Blue,” and “Jesus, You’re My Firm Foundation.”

A big truck is pushing us out of his way, so we scoot over. Remember, he’s bigger, so he has the right of way. A Lexus or two (emblazoned with the letters LEXUS) passes by us. Remember, they’re expensive so they can do whatever they want. I get this funny churning feeling in my stomach that says I’m surrounded by too many cars.  Claustrophobia is closing in. Then we hear some whistles. We see several uniformed men directing traffic.  Slowly, the car in front of us moves. We follow it. Thank you Mr. Police Men!  I realize it’s the first time I’ve had a positive thought about police officers in 4 solid months.

After a bit of zippering from 3 city-ward lanes to 2, we find ourselves behind Gourd Man. He drives a moto and pulls a wagon brimming with gourds. Enough to overflow the bed of a pickup truck.

It’s a lot of gourds. A lot of big, green gourds. Gourd Man gets stuck in the mud. Directly in front of us. He eyes Jonathan. Jonathan puts the car in park and gets out. Straight from the pool, he is wearing Old Navy floral swim trunks and University of Missouri Tiger flip flops. (Hey! No judging please. They were the only flip flops on sale in the middle of December when we were packing to move to Asia.) He wades into the mud and pushes the gourd-wagon while Gourd Man pulls with his moto. Triumph! He is unstuck. But wait, that’s a lot of mud up ahead of us. He will get stuck in the mud again, we just know it. We follow Gourd Man until he does get stuck again, but this time there’s enough “shoulder” to drive around him.  Bumpy, muddy shoulder. At this point we’re desperate to get home. Every-Driver-for-Himself, right??  We leave Gourd Man in the dust, er, mud, as it were.

Thank you, Cambodian Gridlock, for eating an hour and a half out of my precious Saturday afternoon. You will not be easily forgiven.

As it turns out, that Christmas morning with the car stuck in the snow is not unrelated to this story. It was not the last time Jonathan had to push a stuck vehicle. The only thing that has changed is the material in which the vehicle gets stuck.

A Tale of Two Toilets (Or, How I Found Myself in a Men’s Restroom in the Kingdom of Cambodia)

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I’m watching my children play at an indoor play place. A fun Friday afternoon play date.  One child suddenly declares the need to visit the restroom. This need is urgent. I reach for my backpack; it has toilet paper, wipes, and hand sanitizer. Must never leave home without toilet paper, wipes, and hand sanitizer. No bathroom in Cambodia is guaranteed to provide toilet paper or soap. Come to think of it, no bathroom in Cambodia is even guaranteed to provide a seat on a toilet, or the toilet itself.

No worries, my friend says, these bathrooms have toilet paper, and she’ll watch my other kids. With baby on hip, I take the older child to the restroom. Stall #1? No toilet paper. Stall #2? No toilet paper. Stall #3? No toilet paper. Stall #4? Jammed.  But my child absolutely cannot wait any longer, so I say I will run to get the toilet paper while you stay here. Stall #2 is chosen. Close and lock the door, I instruct.

I run for the backpack and return with it and the baby. I hand over the toilet paper. I stand in the bathroom, waiting. The child claims the toilet won’t flush. So I say, move to another toilet.  But someone will see me, is the reply I hear. I close the bathroom door and say, now no one can see you, so switch stalls. Check Stall #3. No seat lid. Check Stall #1. No seat lid. Check Stall #4. Still jammed. Back to Stall #2. Which supposedly wouldn’t flush?? But we’re American so I guess the presence of a seat is more important than flushability. I re-open the main door.

It is at this point in time that I hear water running. From behind Jammed Door #4. Oh yes, someone was in that stall this entire time. What emerges from Stall #4 is a Cambodian Man.

It begins to dawn on me that I have been standing inside a men’s room for some 10 minutes now. Of course I have been; the child with the bathroom emergency is a male child. I move out of the man’s way and inch toward the door. Feeling awkward, I ask the son if he’s done. Not yet, I hear. A Skinny Asian Dude walks in the door.

Son asks me for more toilet paper. I pull some more out of my back pack. Skinny Asian Dude is at the urinal, talking on his cell phone, positioned between me and my boy. I self-consciously look away and squeeze past him in order to give my son more toilet paper. I move toward the exit again. After all, I don’t really want to be inside the men’s bathroom. But I don’t really want to let my beloved son out of my sight in a foreign country, even for urgent bathroom business.

I move out of the way for yet another man to enter the restroom. I wait at the doorway. Several more men go in and out of there while my son finishes. I witness every single one of those skinny Asian Dudes washing his hands in the sink. Germophobe Mommy is impressed. When my little man (finally!) emerges from Stall #2, a Skinny Asian Dude dispenses soap for him and turns on the water.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now back to the 4th Floor Play Place.

Fireworks For Freedom – 2012

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This 4th of July, celebrate freedom by giving it.
www.fireworksforfreedom.com

This year we’re hoping to raise at least $10,000 for the Christ-centered ministry of The Rapha House. So far, we’re at $2,000!

Scheduling a Dentist Appointment in a Foreign Country (Or, How I Made a Fool of Myself on a Monday Afternoon)

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— By Elizabeth

I have been putting this off. Making that dreaded phone call to schedule dental appointments for our family. I must do this — finding a dentist and doctor in your host country is an important part of the re-settling process.

But calling the dentist here is not the same task it was in America. Here is my story:

The baby is napping. I inform the older children that I must make an important phone call and not to talk to Mommy. I walk into the kitchen, which is swelteringly hot, and close the door. I dial the phone number. Three rings. I hear a Small Voice. I hesitate. What did that voice say?? “Hello, is anyone there?” I hear an Asian accent. I guess it was English words, after all. I can barely hear her. She asks if I’ve been here before. I say no. She asks me if tomorrow is ok. I say, no, 2 weeks from now. (When has a dentist in the States ever offered to see me the next day??) She asks me what we are having trouble with. I say, we just need cleanings, X-rays, and my son may need sealants. I tell her my name and how many people need appointments (5), and she schedules appointments for 2 adults and 1 daughter. No, I say, 2 adults and 3 children. 2 sons and 1 daughter. Ok, she corrects it.

Then she asks for my phone number. To confirm the appointment later.

I do not have this 12-digit number memorized. I say, I need to look in my phone.

I look at my phone. I normally know how to find my number. But I cannot for the life of me figure out how to access it during a call. My phone is sopping wet with sweat at this point. I haven’t seen that before. Neither have I pressed the phone so hard against my ear before. I can barely hear this woman’s voice, and she’s clearly not a native English speaker.

It is at this point in time that one child decides to hit another, that other hits back, and the crying begins. I motion for them to be quiet and leave me ALONE, and I close the door again. I retreat to the bathroom just off the kitchen to try to continue the call.

I tell her, I can’t get my number right now, can I call you back with it? She gives me a number that will reach her personally, and I hang up. I briefly tell the children not to talk, not to hit, and can’t you see I’m busy trying to make this important call?? More crying ensues. I again close the door.

I dial the number she gave me. I hear some Asian words and read “Not a valid number” on my screen. Again I see my phone dripping wet. I try the number again. Same result.

I figure I’ll call the original number again and try to explain myself. I hear a New Voice. I made an appointment 10 minutes ago, I say, but I need to give you my phone number. She tries to make my appointment all over again. I say, I already made that appointment. She sends me to a Different Voice. I say, I already made an appointment and tell her when it should be. I am starting to wonder if I did make this appointment? I ask, is it scheduled? This Voice is louder, clearer, and more authoritative. Yes, it is scheduled. She asks me if I’ve been here before. I say no. I give her my phone number. She asks if they need to call me back?? I say, no, this is the number to call to confirm the appointment, later. Yes, yes, she understands.

Sigh of relief.

Then she asks, is there another phone number I can be reached at?? I say, there is my husband’s phone, but I don’t know the number. Let me look in my phone. I look again. Still no luck finding a phone number while I’m in a call. I am however still finding sweat all over my phone. I say, I can’t give that number to you now. Can I call you back??

No, no, she says, this is fine.

End call.