Love146 Partnership Trip: Day 4

Northern Thailand

April 25, 2009

"Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning." Psalm 30:5

We wake early and head back to the Bangkok airport to board a flight to a northern city in Thailand.  The flowers and trees, from birds of paradise to leopard-spotted orchids, are blooming and fill the air with a sweet, alive smell that I've missed through the winter months.  They also wreak absolute havoc on Kristian's allergies.  Our hotel lobby is open and airy; the heads of white flowers float in a glassy fountain.

Today we are going to our first safehome, a partner organization that Love146 has supported for years.  The safehome compound is only a short ride from our hotel.  It is beautiful, with a swingset out front, and overlooks a wide field of lush green that stretches on behind it.  Shadows of mountains rise up out of the ground, and there are no buildings in sight.  Alice*, the woman who started and currently runs the safehome, greets us as our van pulls into the heavy, wrought-iron gate.  She is someone who radiates peace, and her voice is low and soothing as she clicks between Thai and English.  She takes a seat on our bus for a slightly longer ride out to a resort, where we join the safehome girls

 (about 30 of them) and their Thai caregivers for lunch.  It is a large buffet, spilling over with spicy chicken soup curry ladled over thin noodles; bits of fried fish; stirfried vegetables; sushi.  Two women behind a bar spoon out coconut ice cream and Thai milk tea for dessert.   Paula and I sit at a table with Alice, and she tells us about the girls.  They are shy at first and eat at their own tables.  I ask Alice, although I think I already know the answer, if any of the youngest girls are by chance someone's daughter.  One of them in particular is so tiny, with a pink shirt and white sandals emblazoned with Mickey Mouse.  With a slight shake of her head, she confirms: Their oldest girl is 22.  The youngest is 6; she came to the house two years ago, when she was only 4 years old.

While another European family from Alice's home country also lives here and works with the organization, Alice's plan has always been to raise up Thai workers and eventually give the entire mission to them.  But it is clear, beyond nationalities, that these girls see Alice as their mother.  She holds them, she disciplines them, and she loves them; and they clearly love her back.

Today is a special treat for the girls--we are taking them on a mini-hike to a waterfall.  Lunch has eased their apprehension and they let a few of us join them for the ride to the waterfall in the back of their open air truck.  We pile in, 4 of us from the team situated between 7 girls, sitting side-by-side on two benches facing each other.  The breeze blows through the cabin and we take turns saying our names and ages.  The girl to my left is 8; to my right is 10.  They are quiet and shy.  The older teenagers speak a little English and are more talkative.  

"Do y'all know any songs?" Sharon asks, her blond hair blowing around her face.  Without too much prodding, M.* starts singing a praise song in English that we all actually know: "Light of the world, you stepped down into darkness, open my heart, let me see; Beauty that made this heart adore you, hope of a life spent with you."  We all sing, the girls laughing and smiling at our exuberance, and it is like the sweetest salve for yesterday's rawness and despair.  The girls become more open and talkative as the 30-minute ride progresses and we exchange attempts to communicate.  We teach them a song with hand motions as the trees overhead get thicker and the sunlight grows less intense.  

The smallest girls aren't old enough to go on the hike, so one of the caregivers takes them to a shady bank to play near the river while the rest of us push on to the jungle path.  The hike itself takes about 30 minutes, a trail carved in between thick stalks of bamboo and a deep ravine to our right side.  Some of the Thai we pass seem amused to see us, panting and pinkfaced, next to the unfazed kids.  M., who is 14 but looks about 10, walks with me the entire way and starts

 to teach me words in Thai as we walk.  "Mai pai," she says, pointing at the bamboo.  "Heen" is rock.  "

What's waterfall?" "Naam dtok," she replies.  Then she adds more words and continues to quiz me about every fifty paces.  My shirt is wet with sweat and my face is flushed a dark pink by the time we climb down the last decline to the waterfall.  It crashes down the cliff side into laughing children below.  

The girls go right in with their clothes on, splashing one another and playing.  I stand among the rocks for a long time, letting the mist from the waterfall spray my face, and watching them.  This is what it is all for.  To see them happy, playing, out under the open blue sky.  This image in my mind will forever be one of the best things I've ever experienced.  It feels like being in the very heart of hope, the moment that it's realized.  

By the time we are back at the safehome the sun is setting over the field.  A meal is b

eing cooked in the open air kitchen.  The youngest girl grabs my hand and shows me her bed.  It has a stuffed animal and two little dolls resting on the pillow.  Two dogs run around the girls' feet; there are also plans for ducks and a few chickens in the future.

As we say our goodbyes one of the girls runs out to give me a gift: a little ceramic lamb, handpainted.  Some of the other girls run to get theirs and bestow them on the rest of the team.  Kristian's is painted blue and missing part of its face.  M. runs up to say goodbye and tells me that she loves me.  I tell her that I love her, too, and she waves enthusiastically until our bus pulls out of the gate.  

After all of the anger, heartache, and despair, this is what I know is true: Hope is living, playing, laughing, breathing, in a small safehome in Thailand, and it is giving us something to carry home.