Jim’s Massive Forehead

One score and eleven months ago (…hmm actually means just 31 months, right?), I was brought into this world; that said, I really wish I still had my Abraham Lincoln beard. During the course of my Earthly existence I have developed in most dimensions in a rather rapid fashion. I would like to think that I have progressed since I was ten, five, or even one year ago. To check my progress, I took some time to get in touch with my inner boy, gently coaxing him into writing a brief description of himself:

I’m an 11 year-old boy. I weigh 185 lbs and I am 5’6.” I like video games, reading, and thinking and I hate talking to strangers and trying to make friends. I am very opinionated and I am confused by chemistry, girls, and predestination.

Only slightly surprised that my inner boy’s self-description closely resembled an ad in a paper, I decided to check my growth by letting my “fully-grown” self write a similar introspective ad:

I’m a twenty year-old boy. If I have learned anything from my twenty years of experience, it is that I don’t deserve to call myself a man. I weigh a whopping 195 lbs and I tower over the average (Asian) person at 6 feet 1 inch. I hate that I like video games, I am worried to read too much because I can sense an escapist tendency when I participate in one, and thinking is a taxing, if highly rewarding and enjoyable, activity which I hope to do more of in the future. I love talking to strangers and I enjoy trying to make new friends. I am extremely opinionated and I am confused by chemistry, women, and predestination.

As I compared the two accounts, I couldn’t help but notice that the same confusions have haunted me through the years. It seems that in at least three ways I have failed to grow— I would like to take a moment to investigate those three here.

Chemistry: Although I took a Chemistry class during my first year of college, I didn’t really understand most of it and what I did understand I quickly forgot. But hey, I was 16, the class had no lab, and I haven’t had to use much chemistry since then. I guess I don’t mind being confused about chemistry.

Women: Perhaps the greatest enigmas ever invented, the “Form” or essence of women is impossible for the simple male mind to ever fully comprehend. Why bother trying?

Predestination: Now this is a meaty topic. Honestly, while I was chatting with a friend recently, she brought this up. I have a nice little answer in my head to ward off such dreadful ideas about our existence. Let me try to make it pretty:

(P1) Humans are morally responsible beings.

(P2) Morally responsible beings have free will.

(Interim Conclusion) Therefore, Humans have free will.

(P3) If predestination is true, then humans do not have free will.

(IC) Humans have free will.

(Conclusion) Therefore, predestination is not true.

Okay. While these are valid arguments, a lot of work is required to show that they are sound. Not only must I show how these statements are logical, but I must also explain why many points in scripture seem to disagree with me. I just hate to think that I spouted off some formula to a valued friend without it being solid, so the following search for Truth is one I find necessary.

Looking through the premises, it seems that only two are really questionable— it would be difficult to be a rational human being and hold the belief that humans are not morally responsible for their actions. What I mean to say is, rationality (eventually) points towards Christ, and Christianity is nothing if it is not the religion of responsibility, so it seems that premise 1 is highly warranted and not worth much investigation here.

That leaves premise 2 and premise 3—

Morally responsible beings have free will… “That’s what she said” *the grin fades from Michael Scott’s face and is slowly replaced by a look of confusion.*

At this point my brain literally exploded; it took the last remnants of my cerebral matter to coax my fingers into typing these sentences. I will soon expire, so please feel free to continue with the line of thought described above at your own leisure. Thank you.

*croaking*

P.S. Perhaps we will pick up this article again later if anyone seems interested.

Conspiracy theories are wonderful. Without these clandestine devices our world would be a suboptimal one (best possible world and all that jazz). Why, without conspiracy theories millions of people would have no outlet for their overwhelming paranoia, countless dinner tables would be completely silent or would be focused on mundane details, and we would never have been blessed with Mel Gipson’s inspiring film performance (Three cheers for nervous eye-twitching in Conspiracy Theory!). Let’s not forget that without conspiracy theories we would probably never have formed the phrase “the Man’s got me down,” a delightful hippyism that is used the world over.

While most of them are generally pretty entertaining, possibly even interesting, conspiracy theories do have one major drawback— depending on how they are presented, they sometimes reject the presence and predominance of God.

I have had many conversations with fellow Christians, most of them great friends, about a wide range of conspiracy theories. We have discussed the authenticity of the events that occurred on 9/11, the questionable elections of our beloved president, and the unbelievable misinformation that lead to the Iraq War. While moral outrage seems to be a constant when talking to a Christian conspiracy theorist, I always found it much easier to talk to Christians that talked about conspirators as people that are doing evil things for presumably “good” reasons. When I was told that these conspirators were committing evil acts for the sake of being evil, I always had to suppress my gag reflex. Only recently did it become clear why this way of thinking is so dangerous.

The following is an excerpt from C.S. Lewis’ Mere Christianity, in which Lewis is discussing the problem with Dualism, or the belief that there exists two equally powerful forces, one which is good and the other which is bad:

If Dualism is true, then the bad Power must be a being who likes badness for its own sake. But in reality we have no experience of anyone liking badness just because it is bad. The nearest we can get to it is in cruelty. But in real life people are cruel for on of two reasons— either because they are sadists, that is, because they have a sexual perversion which makes cruelty a cause of sensual pleasure to them, or else for the sake of something they are going to get out of it— money, or power, or safety. But pleasure, money, power, and safety are all, as far as they go, good things. The badness consists in pursuing them by the wrong method, or in the wrong way, or too much. I do not mean, of course, that the people who do this are not desperately wicked. I do mean that wickedness, when you examine it, turns out to be the pursuit of some good in the wrong way. You can be good for the mere sake of goodness; you cannot be bad for the mere sake of badness. You can do a kind action when you are not feeling kind and when it gives you no pleasure, simply because kindness is right; but no one ever did a cruel action simply because cruelty is wrong— only because cruelty was pleasant or useful to him. In other words badness cannot succeed even in being bad in the same way in which goodness is good. Goodness is, so to speak, itself: badness is only spoiled goodness. And there must be something good first before it can be spoiled. We called sadism a sexual perversion; but you must first have the idea of a normal sexuality before you can talk of its being perverted; and you can see which is the perversion, because you can explain the perverted from the normal, and cannot explain the normal from the perverted. It follows that this Bad Power, who is supposed to be on an equal footing with the Good Power, and to love badness in the same way as the Good Power loves goodness, is a mere bogy.

In other words, to assert that there exists an entity that is completely driven by evil, that is evil, is to imply that there are entities which are completely independent of God. Granted, anyone that has heard the phrase, “Existence is a perfect-making property,” as a proof of God’s existence will probably already know that Satan, qua his existence, must be in some way good. If we claim that anything can be purely evil, completely devoid of goodness, we are also claiming that there is something capable of existing against the Will of God, something that does not need God to exist, something that God does not have complete domination over.

Granted, this might be Jim splitting hairs or getting overly involved in semantics, but the language we use is important— if Christian conspiracy theory junkies don’t really believe that conspirators are being evil for the sake of being evil, than I hope they will be more careful with their language. However, if said junkies actually do believe in a completely evil human (or a completely evil entity), then I ask for some justification of their beliefs in light of this criticism.

(Ooh, I bet I’ll this contentious, unknown blog will receive an avalanche of responses after a challenge like that! /sarcasm OFF).

 P.S. Oh yeah, I would like to thank C.S. Lewis, the contributing author of this blog article; he is da MAN, fo Sho.

Transportation— when you move somewhere, transportation is one of the essentials, gently placed between finding a Laundromat and locating a consistent source of good coffee on your mental checklist of needs.  When you get down to it, transportation can make or break you.  So it goes without saying that I was overjoyed to have a motorcycle in Thailand.  But I recently realized exactly how important my motorcycle is to me:

The 200cc Honda Phantom that normally resides outside of room 2 at the Maitrochit building in Sammuk Christian Academy is my burning bush.

Don’t get me wrong; my motorcycle is not a divine miracle, a biblical masterpiece that has been reincarnated as a two-wheeled terror.  Rather, this wimpy, 200cc chrome contraption is the object through which I hear God.  

Every morning I mount my motorcycle at 7:40 and head out to work.  The perilous path to work forces me to alertness, the dangers of the road always pulling adrenaline into my bloodstream.  Through the past months of driving I have acquired a passable understanding of the herd-like movements of traffic— I know never to turn left next to flat bed trucks, because they tend to make most turns from two lanes over.  I have learned to stay away from buses and the large trucks; they have no qualms forcing me off the road or into oncoming traffic.  I have learned that most oncoming traffic fails to consider motorcyclists when they try to pass one another.  These things just come with familiarity and near death experiences.  I have also learned how to weave through traffic smoothly, which sidewalks I can drive onto when the number of lanes on the road is reduced from four to two, creating a dangerous bottleneck.  Additionally, I have learned that when driving at dawn or dusk, I must always have my visor securely locked in the closed position or the clouds of mosquitoes will find themselves trapped within the tight confines of my helmet, sometimes maddeningly working their way into my ears.  It is remembering and mastering these rules and the skills involved in balancing a 500 lb. piece of rolling machinery that makes driving a motorcycle so thoroughly enjoyable.  Sometimes I feel that God allows me to enjoy driving so much as a form of encouragement— it is surprising how many times I have concluded that I love Thailand while on my motorcycle, especially when you consider how few times I have arrived at a similar conclusion without my motorcycle.  

Several things stick out in particular— like driving up and down the winding roads of Sammuk Mountain or being encompassed in the beauty of this land.  Nothing seems more wonderful than driving along a lonesome road, not another living creature in sight, while the setting sun creates a beautiful, shifting tapestry of vibrant colors through the distant clouds ahead of you.  Almost everything seems pleasant where driving is concerned, even plowing through the dense legions of bugs, each tiny collision adding to the sensation of being sandblasted clean.  When I am on my bike I want nothing more than to wind my way through herds of water buffalo or to drive through pouring rains, slowly placing both of my feet against the wet asphalt and feeling my feet glide, hydroplaning effortlessly.

One of my earliest memories made on a bike, one which felt like God telling me to stay in Thailand, was of driving along the beach.  During the weekends, throngs of sunbathing Asians board buses and attack the sands.  During the night, I would drive my motorcycle down the almost empty road, amazed by the shear number of apparently abandoned buses.  Even more amazing was how the buses were able to, through their size alone, block the wind which was coming strongly from above the dark waters.  As I drove along  the beach, passing an empty bus every two or three seconds, the direction of the winds would suddenly change, so that my bike alternated between being strongly blown away from, and then suddenly pulled towards, the water.  It was honestly a surreal incident, as if I were actually experiencing the ebb and flow of the ocean currents without being in the ocean. 

However, my most recent occurrence on my bike was less pleasant than the aforementioned ones, but felt even more like the still small voice of God than all the other events combined.  Yesterday, after Anthony helped me clean up my room, I promised to buy a blanket and sheets which he could use at my room— you can only ask your brother to sleep with only a towel for so long before you are officially a bad older brother.  After our Saturday night church service, we both drove out onto the busiest road in our province, a 4-6 lane highway called Sukumvit, to go shopping.  As I drove down the road Anthony and I each sang our own little tunes— well, Anthony sang while I screamed “I Saw Momma Kissing Santa Clause” at the top of my lungs, yet another reason I love driving loud motorcycles while wearing helmets.  Always hyper alert when my brother is driving with me, I saw flashing lights far in the distance and become silent.  Having heard of the horrors of Sukumvit before, I knew what we were going to pass soon.  As we approached, I felt Anthony become still; a murmured, “Oh no,” somehow clearly passed through the incessant noise which surrounds Sukumvit like a thick, desensitizing fog.  All the vehicles were channeled into the far right lane, a bottleneck made necessary by the crumpled bits of metal and the innocent white sheet draped over an unmoving form in the middle of the road.  Black oil leaked from the ruined vehicles, flowing and pooling along the gentle curve of the road, mixing with blood that had seeped out from under the white sheet. 

We drove the rest of the way in complete silence.

When we got to the store and got off the bike, I noticed that Anthony’s eyes had welled up.  My first reaction was one of confusion— what good will crying do for the person we had just seen?  However, I was impressed when Anthony asked, “What if he is not a Christian?  He is going to hell.”  While I have no emotional ties to the ruined mess that lay motionless under the engulfing white sheet, the chances of that person having been a Christian are worth mourning. 

God spoke through my motorcycle—

Thailand is a race against human error and natural tragedy.  Every life that is lost here is one more soul lost for eternity.  There is work to be done, so step up!

Warning:  Awkward and potentially embarrassing confessions are forthcoming.  Please refrain from rubbing this stuff in my face unless I deserve it or you can’t muster the strength to fight the urge. 

For the past several years, perhaps for most of my life, I have been constipated.  No, I am not describing my bowel movements on a blog.  What I mean to say is, my recent history has been plagued with an insistent emotional constipation; I can’t pinpoint the moment when this began, thus limiting my ability to discover its source, but I know that it’s probably not a good thing.  But first, let me describe my emotional constipation (EC).  Recently, a friend of mine from work quit her job to get a new employer in Bangkok.  She is an Indian who is willing to share the “secrets” of proper Indian food preparation, so I had her come to my parent’s house and teach me how to make (red) curry and chicken.  I wrote the recipe down and learned some cool stuff, like how to skin chicken legs really easily.  When the food was ready, we set the table and ate it with Anthony, Abby, and Kathy.  It was delicious— the curry gravy was edging towards profundity as I consumed six drumsticks, each complimented with a generous helping of white rice.  Here is where the EC becomes relevant; even though I was thoroughly enjoying my food (I ate the legs off three chickens), my friends all thought that I didn’t like the food.  I was somehow hiding my pure enjoyment from everyone, slightly insulting my Indian friend. 

Not only can I not express pleasure, but I also seem incapable of crying.  Seriously.  I have gone through some stuff which really made me want to cry, both here and in the states, but much to my chagrin, I was unable to shed even a single tear (okay, maybe once).  When was the last time you cried about something?  I know the days will vary from one person to the next, but I remember hearing that the average male cries around once a month.  As it stands, I am far below the average— I’d be lucky if my eyes welled up once a year!  I have been told that at least three people have cried while reading my blog, which is upsetting, considering I never cried while writing it or while going through the experiences which later went onto the screen. 

Regardless, I have recently realized the cure for my emotional malady:  M. Night Shyamalan.  I know its weird, but I have cried in three of his movies (Lady in the Water only got my eyes to well up, Signs got perhaps one tear, and The Sixth Sense got a whopping four tears!).  While each movie results in the same emotional expression, I think that reason I cry is very different for each film.  In Lady in the Water I was able to mourn for the protagonist— yes, I know I’m just crying for some actor who never really suffered the loss of his family.  In Signs I cried because of the overwhelming sense of purpose and the presence of God within a character’s life.  For a non-Christian, Shayamalan really knows how to show the suffering of a believer.  In The Sixth Sense, the most powerful of the films I thought, I cried (and can make myself cry again simply by thinking about the scene!) when Cole tells his mom his “secret.”  Earlier, when the mom weeps bitterly, as her child shakes with fear in her arms, and she cries out “Cole, What’s wrong?  Why won’t you tell me?” I realized how horrible it would be to watch your child suffer psychological trauma without any means of alleviating their pain (using plural possessive pronouns as single poss. pronouns to avoid “gender issues”).  When she finally learns his secret, she shows such a huge sense of relief at knowing the problem while simultaneously being afraid of the “secret” and its implications for her son, that I can’t help but cry with her.  My emotions are like puppets for Shyamalan, which is another reason to be wary of them. 

Also, it should be noted that the term EC does not describe the inability to experience emotions, but instead denotes the incapacity to display the emotions that one feels (if you think about the constipation metaphor, this makes sense… enough said).  As it turns out, it is much better to have emotions and be incapable of expressing them than to not have emotions at all— when I was younger I strangely thought the highest aim of mankind was to flush ourselves of feelings, hiding our deceptive emotions until we no longer had them at all, but recently I realized the value of certain emotions such as disgust, righteous anger, and joy.  Granted, some might not call these emotions, but I am tired of upsetting cosmetologists by splitting hairs.  The point is, it is only truly problematic when you fail to be disgusted at what is disgusting or angry at what angers God; failing to express these emotions is not nearly as big a deal.

I know this is a bit of a lame blog entry, considering I’m just saying that I like this guys movies cause he can tap into a relatively unexpressive guy, but it’s all I got for now. 

My desk is made for Asians.  To fit my legs under my desk, I was forced to take out the pencil drawer—it now sits unwanted and unknown behind the water cooler.  I wonder how sad the drawer must feel to be as unloved as Solomon’s 431^st wife (he probably loved the first three and the last three… the other 694 wives were never able to evoke a sense of nostalgia or novelty and were easily forgotten).  The glass-covered top of my desk is a cluttered mess, a disheveled war zone on which the ungraded papers battle the persistent and devious red pens (I believe the red pens will have a decisive victory soon).  Next to my desk is my supervisor’s desk and across from me is a dining room table, complete with a set of matching chairs.  During our lunch break, the other teachers file into the room, setting their metal trays on the glass tabletop, and idly chat as they read through the Bangkok Post, an English propaganda pusher.  Beyond this table is a wall, much like any other wall in Thailand.  The top portion of the wall is a chalky white. At shoulder level the wall becomes a glossy gray; a protective coating guards the walls from the hands of dirty children (Wow. That is surprisingly fun to type.   Go ahead; open up Word and type “dirty children” – isn’t it funny how tone-dependant our language is sometimes?).  This wall is far from extraordinary and yet I stared at this bifurcated ugliness for the better part of two hours on Wednesday— shallow in thought and deep in grief, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the previous days. [Note: This article was started a week or two ago]

I started my Tuesday morning by bringing one of my favorite books, Joseph Heller’s “Catch 22,” to a coworker.  He had asked for it after I described it during one of our conversations.  Upon receiving the novel, he promised to bring in Noam Chomsky’s “Hegemony or Survival.”  Eager to get my hands on a new book, I enjoyed the rest of my day at work, returned home to the boarding school at 4, where I was invited to go to the market with my friends and my supervisor.  We drove to one of the larger markets in town.  A giant circuit of various shops surrounding a large building, it is reminiscent of the bolgia (ditches) in the 8^th circle of Dante’s hell.  While the vast majority of vendors are decent, if simple, there are certainly enough seducers, thieves, and counterfeiters to earn this market some decent real estate in the underworld.  I idly went from one shop to the next, scampering past a few of the seedy shops, stopping to buy a new set of sheets and some food.  At one point, I looked down and saw a beggar— this is an all too common sight in Thailand.  It is well known that the Thai mafia ‘places’ beggars at specific locations, supplying them with transportation and guaranteeing the beggar his or her spot for a cut of the earnings; this makes it difficult to give to the poor.  To help the poor necessitates, in most cases, assisting the mafia (who also deal in the child sex trade and lots of other nastiness).  But the beggar at the market filled me with such sadness that I could not even consider potential mafia ties.  I almost didn’t see him at first— the path was quite crowded when I was near him, but when I looked down, I saw his completely prostrated, crippled body on the path.  His tattered pants lay limp and flat from the knees down, the amputation scars clearly visible on the remnants of his thighs through the torn holes of his trousers.  His face pressed into the dirt in the ultimate sign of humiliation (to place your head at the level of another’s feet is extremely humiliating in Thai culture), the man’s arms stretched out grasping an empty bowl.  People walked the path, occasionally looked down at this broken man, and then continued to scan the wares, ignoring the suffering and helplessness of their brother.  They skillfully sidestepped the beggar, careful not to step over him (stepping over other people is extremely rude in Thailand); their caution betraying a lack of anything but polite indifference.  I can understand why this happens though— there are just so many beggars in Thailand!  I saw two small children nearby, a young girl and an even younger boy (5 and 3 perhaps)— the boy was letting out a continuous cry, almost a whimper.  There is much need in Thailand.

On Wednesday, I entered the office and was handed Noam Chomsky’s “Hegemony or Survival.”  I had two periods free to begin my morning, so I cracked open the book and read the first chapter and a section or two of the second chapter.  It was not easy reading— granted Mr. Chomsky is a brilliant writer, his works charged with eloquence and insight, but I found it difficult to read this book quickly due to its contents.  The opening of the book discusses two ideas which I personally find terrifying.  First is the notion that the U.S. is now actively using force abroad to maintain its position as the sole global superpower.  What is scary about Chomsky’s writing is that he does not simply use hindsight— he does not solely consider the actions of the U.S. when trying to support his theory (which would be easy enough to do it seems) but actually does the research to find how the government is intentionally and publicly promoting this ungodly goal.

In the official rhetoric of the National Security Strategy, ‘Our forces will be strong enough to dissuade potential adversaries from pursuing military build-up in hopes of surpassing, or equaling, the power of the United States.’ (Chomsky, 11)

It is difficult to think that the government is performing an act of altruism in the Middle East, bringing democracy to a foreign nation ruled by despots, when they make declarations like that.  The actions of my government weigh heavily on me sometimes— the U.S. affords me and my countrymen a panoply of opportunities that people of other nationalities envy and I respect the origins of my nation, but I cannot agree with the nationalistic pursuits of my brethren when they foster systematic oppression or aggravate unnecessary war. 

As I read about the goals and methods of my country, I was reminded of a recent trip to the orphanage for the blind.  Mong, my Thai friend, and I had just arrived.  We walked through the courtyard to the atrium of the central building, where the children gather after lunch.  As I walked, I noticed a pair of young boys ahead of us, one of whom had a particularly dirty uniform.  The normally light-blue, button-up shirt and navy-blue shorts were stained brown.  At first I couldn’t tell what he was covered in.  I noticed that the stains were almost all circles that faded at the edges, a liquid that spread through the fibers of his clothes.  It suddenly dawned on me that this little boy’s cloths were stained in blood.  A teacher noticed this at the same time as me; she stopped the pair of boys and began searching the bloodied child, looking for his injury.  She gently gripped his meager forearms and tentatively prodded his chest and back looking for a wound.  Eventually she found a gash on the forefinger of his right hand.  Unaccustomed to bleeding and not terribly bothered by the cut (it is difficult to be bothered by an injury you can’t see), he had simply wiped the blood on his clothes— they quickly took him away, patched him up, and got him into clean apparel.  However, throughout my time at the orphanage that day, I kept noticing the effects of this boy’s injury on the bodies and attire of the other children; occasionally I would see a smear of blood on the back of another child’s shirt or trousers, or I would see a bit of dried blood on a boy’s arm.  I even saw one of the teachers vigorously scrubbing a kid’s nose to get off a drop of blood.  It struck me as amazing how oblivious the boy was to the effects of his actions.  Later, as I read from Chomsky’s volume of discernment, it struck me that our nation is similarly blind— we are blind to the moral depravity which infects and saturates our motives.  Our nation might be comprised of decent people, sometimes even approaching the Will of God with sincerity, but our implacable desire to maintain our position in global politics, at the expense of other nations and innocent peoples, is one that goes beyond simple ignorance of Truth— it might actually be labeled intentional evil.  By that I mean that there are two types of sinners; people that choose to satisfy their own will, the secondary effect of this being the rejection of God’s Will, and people that intentionally try to thwart the Will of God through deviation.  We have made ourselves unaware of our motives— because sin guides our actions, everything we touch becomes sullied.  Just as the blind child made himself and everything he touched dirty, our current agendas are tarnished by our sin.  Though we may rid the world of tyrants, we do so without the approval of our creator.

The second idea presented in the introduction to Chomsky’s book is that democracy, almost since its inception, has focused on “controlling the Beast” or is centered on placating the masses through manipulation.  Initially physical oppression was used for this manipulation— however, in our era of “civilized democracy,” the government, ruled by a select few, uses media and propaganda to harness or even manufacture the consent of the people.  He discusses the massive volleys of propaganda employed to convince the American populace that war in Iraq was justified— showing similarities between the current Bush administration and the strong arm tactics sometimes employed by the former Bush/Reagan administrations.  Just before I read this section of the book, I had watched a video on the internet of a young man being dragged away from a John Kerry speech.  While the man was asking rather inflammatory questions of the presidential could-have-been, his actions hardly warranted his forceful, public arrest or the threat of a tazer (he might have actually been tazered).  I can’t help but feel that this might be the breaking point— the people have spoken out against their government through protests and rallies and the approval rating for the current administration is so low it is setting historical precedent.  People are now realizing that democracy, as it was gloriously presented to us in our youth, is a lie— the people have spoken and have been ignored, contrary to the central idea of real democracy.  The situation has turned sour; we are no longer as prone to the lies supplied by the government, and yet we have almost no power to stop the madness which are country is rushing into.  Without propaganda, will the government succumb to the “Beast” or will it revert to the previous (violent) tactics of democracies long gone?  Was this act of silencing through violent means the first of many to come?

These are the thoughts that plagued me on Wednesday— as I thought of the state of global affairs, I found comfort in the unsightly white and gray wall in front of my desk.  It is difficult to think of the needs of this world while simultaneously mourning the actions and ignorance of an increasingly independent government (that is one thing a government should never be if it is not lead by God— since we have rejected Theocracy, we must strive to keep the people as closely entwined with the government as possible).  I was bothered by the thought that there is so much work that must be done, so many hearts that can be touched and so many souls that can be untwisted, and yet we stubbornly provoke other countries into an unending cycle of guerrilla warfare, in which every missile we launch and every bullet we fire ensures the next batch of fresh enemy recruits.  Fighting a growing sense of helplessness, I stared at the gray and white wall in front of my desk for two hours.  Ignoring the trivial conversations that other teachers involved themselves in, I focused on the cement partition as if I could somehow find a solution to the world’s problem on the plain surface ahead of me.  Sometimes a loathsome wall is the only source of solace provided by God. 

How much longer must we stare at the wall?  God, Hear our Prayer.

Jim

Point of Reference: It is 9:17 am, September 24 of the year 2007.  I will give my first class their final English exam for this term in an hour.  I have just finished my open-ended weekend poorly and unproductively; I could have written in my blog at any time during the weekend, but instead I wait until I have an upcoming deadline to begin.  Perhaps this is not the smartest way to record my life.

 Okay– here is what I want to talk about.  First, the importance of roti in my recent history and perhaps in my future.  Secondly, I have devised one of those simplified explanations of the world; you know, the ones that start “there are only [insert number here] types of people in the world” and generally end leaving listeners desiring something a bit more profound.  And lastly, I would like to write about the wall in front of my desk, since I spent two hours staring at it the other day.  So, here is how it will work.  I will post this now, and when I am finished writing what I truly want to write, I will edit this post and add it on.  Until then, all of my loyal readers (all three of you) will get to enjoy the knowledge that an article is forthcoming.  Oh, and I haven’t used my camera for a good bit, so I will try to change that soon, perhaps with this article!

I’m reclining on my bed, laptop resting awkwardly on my lap, steadily being educated by “Cake” through the well-cushioned headphones attached to my ears. It’s a fun little band, full of quirky lyrics and stunning instrumentals that remind me a bit of “They Might be Giants,” except “Cake” lyrics have a slightly more ominous tone than the pure randomness of “Giants.” One song says “As soon as you’re born you start dying so you might as well have a good time”— hardly the epitome of Christianity. Lyrics aside, the band beautifully employs a trumpet and often uses the guitar as a substitute percussion instrument. Hah, “lyrics aside;” look how easily I can ignore the world’s existential despondency!

I visited the orphanage again today. Lately I have been helping the teachers during the gym/swim time. They break up the first graders into boys and girls for two hours— during the first hour the girls swim and the boys play on the exercise bikes or sit idly on the stone benches next to the pool. Afterwards the boys get a chance to swim while the girls peddle almost comically on the old junkyard-worthy bikes. Only a few of the kids get to swim each Thursday— although most of the kids can stand up in the shallow pool and they must all use flotation devices, it is still pretty dangerous to put more than four blind children into a pool. The first week I spent the entire session on the sidelines with the kiddos, talking to a few of them and playing little games with them (I like closing my eyes and thumb wrestling), but later I was allowed to jump in the pool with four of the boys (Abby swam with the girls). The school is very close to the beach, making the weather almost as unpredictable as Kentucky— while I watched the boys scrambling around the pool to get little floats for their arms the cloudy sky burst open and torrents of rain abused the roof that covers the pool. The water rolled off the building in streams as we swam, the rain colliding with the pavement below like the steady drum roll that precedes almost all of Michael Scott’s major announcements.

Now a different “Cake” song is saying, “Some people like to make life a little tougher than it is.” Ain’t that the truth!

Today was different though— although I had packed my swimsuit and an extra tee shirt (it’s simpler if they don’t know I have a tattoo), I was told upon arrival that several children had gotten sick from mosquitoes, so the school was going to be spraying pesticides everywhere while the kids were gathered in a single room for two hours. Being flexible is a must here— this happens a lot. I am constantly being affected by other peoples’ decisions; it’s actually pretty impressive how much control I have over my life considering how wantonly people try to decide my fate for me. I headed up to the room where all the children were being herded. They sat according to their grades on one side of the open sided room while a small contingent of the kids stood facing them on the opposite side of the room. The standing children began singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider”— they all sang together two times through, then after a short pause, the girls began by themselves, followed two lines later by the boys. It was the most beautiful rendition of the song I have ever heard, even though most of them have no idea what a spider is, much less a water spout. Afterwards they sang “This Old Man.” While they had stood completely still for “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” they used many hand motions for “This Old Man.” I found it oddly humorous when they got to six— as they said “he played knick-knack on his stick,” they all grabbed the segmented walking sticks that were propped against their left arms. As the singers performed the same two songs over and over for an hour I sat with two first graders that I had previously conversed with, “A” and “O” (they go by nicknames— their real names are actually incredibly difficult for me to say correctly). While they are both first graders, “A” is probably 9 and “O” is probably 13— they are put into grades according to previous education, which seems pretty wise to me, considering how many Thai kids are put into English classes that are too advanced for them simply because they are the same age as the other kids in the class. While I showed “A” how to open and close my watch (it might be a useful skill if he ever decides to be a thief) I sang along with the kids. During a break I began singing (or perhaps it is beat boxing…) “Another One Bites the Dust.” “O” began rocking with the beat, obviously enjoying the song despite my lack of musical ability. He began mimicking me when the children began singing again. Instead of singing I leaned close to him and began to do the same beat box sounds to “Itsy Bitsy Spider”— soon we were both having a little jam session in the back of the room, matching each others beats, “O” sometimes using pretty elaborate syncopations and occasionally transitioning into whistling. It was pretty great— I think it is pretty rare for these kids to have something that they do independently of the other children (they all sang the same two songs for a whole hour) and “O” definitely has a good sense of humor.

The singing ended when a cloud of pesticide rolled into the open building from the other parts of the school. The thick, choking cloud tasted sour— I’m sure I left the school with a few less brain cells than I had when I drove through the gate.

Now the lyrics bounce through my head, “Adjectives on the type writer, he moves his words like a prize fighter, the frenzied pace of a mind inside the cell.” I think I like “Cake,” despite its faults.

We moved towards the fencing that lines the far end of the room— there I saw one of the children I have already met, though I doubt she had any memory of me. Our meeting was brief and she is even more disabled than most of the kids. This tiny girl is both blind and deaf; I sometimes find it fascinating to think how new experiences must be interpreted and understood by these children. I understand why many of the children stand with their heads hanging low, turning their head first to the right then to the left— I have done the same thing before with my eyes closed. It isolates and amplifies the sensations generated by your inner ear, a sensation which is all the more precious to these children. Part of me can understand what these kids are going through, what it would be like to experience the world almost exclusively through touch and sound. Other things seem almost incomprehensible without sight. For instance, I think I could explain to a blind child what a pool is in reference to the water that the child must consume, but how can you convey what an ocean is? I mean, I don’t even think I completely grasp the vastness of the ocean. And even more impossible is trying to describe this to a child who is blind and deaf.

I first met this child three weeks ago when I was introduced to a partially-blind British volunteer named Joy. This remarkable and colorful lady has come to Thailand for one month a year for the last 15 years and has recently completed the adoption process for the blind and deaf child (who will go to live in Britain with Joy soon). Joy wasn’t at the school today, so when I saw the girl, wearing a tiny jacket with a red hood pulled over her short hair, she was alone. I reintroduced myself by touching her hand then standing still while she tried to figure out who I was— she felt my watch and realized I was taller than most people here by grabbing at the belt loop on my side, then began to explore the backpack I was wearing (surely something she doesn’t have much contact with normally). When she seemed comfortable with me and tried to get me to give her a hug and pat her head, I picked her up. She giggled; I think she is just now getting to the size that forces the majority of people to not pick her up. She felt my arms (most people wear short sleeve shirts, not rolled up long sleeve shirts) and registered curious surprise when she felt the puffiness that is my hair. This was nothing, however, to her reaction to discovering my goatee; she began laughing aloud at my weirdly placed hair. The vast majority of Thai people are cleanly shaven or unable to even grow facial hair, so I doubt she has ever met someone like myself (I am an enigma all around to this girl). At one point she lightly slapped my cheek, feeling the unkempt stubble that seems to plague me of late. When I put her down, she put her arms out, obviously not ready for her ride to be over, so I grabbed her arms and pulled her up into the air. I find it both amazing and saddening that these children are so easily impressed; while it is stunning to see someone derive such enjoyment from a simple gift such as a little ride or a poor attempt at beat boxing, it is also a sign that these children have very little in their life to enjoy. After lifting her up over and over, my back aching, my arms tired, and sweating profusely in the Thai heat, I set her down, had her face the same direction as me, then gently placed her feet on my own. I grabbed her hands and began walking around the room, occasionally tricking her by changing my gait or lifting her into the air on one foot. When her feet slipped off she would stand still, waiting for my foot to gently tap her heel, and then she would step back onto my shoe. At first I was a bit worried about the other teachers; there are many taboos against feet here. It is rude to point your feet towards someone and using your foot to do anything besides playing football is very impolite. But the teachers only sat watching together, one of them mentioning that the girl was grinning from ear to ear (I could not see her face, so I wasn’t really sure how much she was enjoying this).

I was really surprised how many of the teachers just sat on the sidelines with each other. Granted, it is easy for me to jump in among the kids and have fun, I’m only staying for two hours, but I can’t help but think that many of the teachers are very distant towards the kids. I don’t even think it’s because they are blind— I see the same thing at my school. Teachers are so focused on being respected that they can’t relate to their kids. I hope I am never like that, even though it can be more difficult to discipline children when you are trying to be fun. I would rather struggle to maintain discipline than to have well-behaved children who are afraid of me (A wise man once told me, “a son should never be afraid of his father;” does the same apply to teachers?). I wonder to what degree you can maintain this idea when you are dealing with your own kids? I just don’t want kids to think that adulthood demands aloofness from innocent childhood pursuits.

Okay, I gotta sleep— I have class in the morning and I haven’t really gotten a lesson plan… again…

Jim

The other day I went to the Khao Kheio Open Zoo— a nice distance from our city, this expansive animal sanctuary is nestled between the foliage-covered mountains.  While it was hardly the multimedia experience that most zoos have become today, it certainly had its own charms.  Unlike most zoos I am familiar with, visitors do not walk from exhibit to exhibit, instead relying on the cars or motorcycles on which they came into the zoo.  If you walked, or have a really big vehicle, you can rent a golf cart; I don’t know why I was surprised at how many parents were letting their 6 year olds drive these things— it is not uncommon to see 12 year olds driving in the busy streets, so a golf cart along a lonely zoo lane is relatively safe.  Most of the animals are separated from visitors by large trenches— the more dangerous the animal, the bigger the trench.  Some animals, like the deer and their similarly antlered cousins, as well as the smaller monkeys and the birds, are allowed to roam almost freely among the visitors (well, the birds are actually in a giant dome… but it is pretty much the same experience).  At the front of the zoo you can pick up a load of food for cheap which visitors are allowed to throw to the rather apathetic zoo residents (at least the animals… I know there are some workers that live there as well, and I highly doubt they would appreciate a random barrage of cucumbers).  Feeding the animals turned out to be a real drag— most of the kids nearby just tried to pelt the animals (honestly, I have never heard anything quite like the sound of raw ginger root striking the side of a camel), and only a few of the animals were even remotely interested in what was being offered.  The exceptions were the hippopotami, several of which would stare, massive jaws gaping like the foreboding entrance to an endless cavern, at the visitors who stood behind the fence, looking down at the hippo trench exhibit.  I have never seen a hippo at such a close distance before, and I have always been fascinated by these giant, misshapen creatures, so this exhibit left me spellbound.  I watched them long after Anthony was ready to leave; he is much fonder of elephants, which makes sense considering hippos lack the amazing height and the olfactory features of an elephant, but I feel a special kinship with hippos.  I think this kinship begins with the hippo’s appearance; when we first saw them, they glistened in the cloud-covered sunlight.  Apparently a random show from the Discovery Channel stuck with me, because I was able to recall that this was not water covering their leathery hides, but a thick, sticky sweat which acts as a sun block.  I couldn’t help but feel similar to this great beast— I can’t help but sweat a lot in Thailand too!  But I think the similarities go further; hippos are notorious for their temper.  They were the feared beasts of the Nile in days of old because they could sink an entire boat and devour the crew during a fit of rage.  I can’t help but feel that I am also like this sometimes— except it is not blind rage which drives me to be unthinking and callous towards others at times.  Instead, I am haunted by apathy.  Granted, I am not the hippo— I am not killing Egyptians left and right, and really I have just been careless with my words to friends and family recently, but I must admit that all is not well in Jimville.  I guess it all comes down to not being where I need to be with God.

I think it is interesting that no one says blind apathy; blind rage means rage without an intended or designed target.  There must be such a thing as blind apathy, and I think it must be the worst kind.  For to not care about a particular person or thing, you make a choice to not care— but to blindly be apathetic means you do not even consider what you are being apathetic towards, you don’t even acknowledge that there is something worth ignoring.  To put it in Michael’s terms, to choose to be apathetic towards something means you acknowledge that that thing is real—you consider it, so you lend it value.  To be blindly apathetic is to deny the value of everything.  Don’t know why that is worth writing, but now that it is on my screen I hesitate to delete it.  All this from a hippo!

On the way home from the zoo, I saw a lizard unlike any I have yet encountered.  Mind you, we were well outside the zoo, so I doubt that this was an escaped zoo dweller.  My brother and father were driving a motorcycle in front of me while my mother trailed behind us.  There must have been at least 100 feet separating each of us.  We were traveling at a decent pace, maybe 50-60 kph, when I noticed from the right side of the road a large black shape … do something across the street (it was from 4-5 feet in length from tail to head and at least a foot and a half wide from bent elbow to bent elbow).  First of all, we drive on the left side in Thailand, so it wasn’t yet it my lane— as for the shape, it moved so quickly, that I couldn’t tell what it was until it had … in front of my motorcycle.  The reason I struggle to use verbs here is that I’m not exactly sure how to describe its movements with a single word.  Maybe I could say it “dashed” across the street, since that would certainly project an accurate image of its incredible speed into the readers mind (it crossed the road between the time it takes for a motorcycle to drive 100 feet at 50-60 kph), but dashed fails to capture the smooth stride of this creature.  I would like to say that it “slithered”, because it certainly did swivel its hips and shoulders in a way that made me think of a snake at first (or Michael Jackson on all fours), but its underside was not touching the ground at all, so I don’t think I can say it slithered.  Perhaps this cold-blooded beast “glissaded” between my father’s bike and my own— but then again, I’m not sure I completely understand the meaning and proper usage of “glissaded.”  Regardless, it was the first of three lizards that I encountered within a two day period.  The third, and by far the most boring of the encounters, was almost as brief as the first— when I leave Sammuk in the morning, I must weave along a few convoluted turns and twisted walkways to get to the school’s main circle.  The day after seeing the giant lizard, as I was turning to avoid a flower-covered bush, I saw a dead lizard, at least a foot long but mostly just tail, on the path.  This wouldn’t have been that interesting if I hadn’t seen another lizard only 15 minutes earlier!  This was my morning lizard, and the second of the three lizard encounters.  I had woken up a bit late, and after I rushed to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I glimpsed, next to the toilet, an unfamiliar black spot, maybe three inches long and two wide.  I did a double take (and I thought that only happened when Sylvester was tricked by Tweety bird!) and saw that my floor was black with ants.  Ants are just something you live with in Thailand—generally, if you take the time to keep a decent house, they aren’t too much of a bother, but this was nuts.  There must have been over 200 of the little guys (luckily, the ants here are very small), all swarming around a small dead lizard.  As I watched, the lizard moved— I wondered why any living creature would remain so still when surrounded by hundreds of tiny scavengers.  I then realized that the lizard was not moving; it was being moved.  The lizard’s tail and lower legs swung first to the left, stopped, then swung to the right.  I watched, both enthralled and disgusted by the troupe of ants, playing with the lizard like a hundred separate marionette puppeteers.  The ants were not strong enough to move the entire lizard— its trunk and head proved to be too heavy a challenge for the little guys.  Realizing that I was only getting more late, I grabbed the sprayer that accompanies the vast majority of Asian toilets (… they don’t use toilet paper generally, instead using a water sprayer that is almost identical to the water hoses generally attached to kitchen sinks… this is why you must always have TP on you at all times), and sprayed the ants across the bathroom floor and down into the bathroom drain (since everyone uses sprayers, bathrooms all have drains, and it is very common to have floors that are covered in water… sometimes dirty water).  I got rid of the lizard and left to see the other dead lizard (the third encounter).  I hope there isn’t some disease killing lizards here…

Well, that’s enough about animals— keep me in your prayers.  Something is not right; although I can’t put my finger on it, I am bothered by a growing sense of dread, like when you see a thunderhead forming across the horizon during a camping trip.

Hey, quick post cause I gotta run:

I wish I had Sarah Rodrian here right now—I’m not sure I’m getting this quote right, so I’ll just use the truncated (inside joke incoming: truncated = limbless man) version:

They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freeeeeedom!

In other words, I am now the proud owner of a Honda Phantom. It’s a small bike, only 200cc, but that is fine for now. I have never really ridden a motorcycle before Thailand, so it is a bit scary, especially when I consider the traffic. Nothing much to say—just some pictures (NOTE: my hair only looks like this because I took a shower before I slept and didn’t shower when I woke up… the haircut wasn’t THAT bad… and I also have shoes that I wear when I drive—those are just my brothers sandals). I can finally get around by myself. Later, when I am comfortable with this bike (say 6 months?) I will trade it in and buy a bigger bike (I met a guy yesterday with a 1300cc sport Honda – what a beast!). Okay, I’m gonna go get a helmet and a jacket now with Anthony—pray for my safety!

Jim

Jim’s version of “deep” stuff:

Sometimes, when I think about what I am doing in Thailand, and perhaps the ‘reason’ for my existence (my “terrible purpose”), I am overcome with self-reproach— what naïve arrogance, what conceited thinking, what overbearing pride it must take to believe that I have a purpose, to think that I am somehow special, that someone like me, tarnished and twisted, could be called upon by God to do something for him, even something that is almost infinitely ‘less important’ than the purposes of other people. Arrogance and pride, I believe, are distensions of humility, which is an accurate understanding of one’s self-worth. In other words, arrogance is the belief that one is better, or worthier, than one actually is. I am sometimes burdened with the feeling that it might be arrogant to believe God would want me, his peon (drudge, and grunt—I like saying things in threes today), to do his bidding. But feelings are often deceptive; it is hard to deny that God has given me a path (for someone so young, it is surprising how much I sound like a hippy). In the words of John Elwood (watch the Blues brothers!):

I am on a mission from God

I am a nervous person by nature—I often have to stop myself from tapping pencils against the table, rhythmically drumming my big toes against the inside of my hard, leather shoes, and bouncing my leg up and down with my heel like a poodle having a seizure on a “magic-fingers bed” (where are those beds these days—I have only seen like 3 of them my entire life!). When I am in a new situation, this nervousness is amplified. When I first started at Sammuk, I was thoroughly run through with anxiety— my questionable understanding of English and my lack of teaching experience really worried me. Would I be okay in the classroom? Would Sammuk staff have a clandestine teachers’ meeting in the middle of my third night at Sammuk, then gather as a mob outside my apartment, surrounded by the flickering glow of torches and punctuated with the occasional pitch fork or machete, in order to run me out of town like Frankenstein’s monster (after all, his monster did have rather reprehensible English skills and didn’t “interact” with children well)? My fears were assuaged when I observed another teacher in action. She seemed to completely ignore the students that were acting up, and at one point she said, “Now you all know what a prefix is, right? A prefix is what goes at the end of a word.” After she said this over and over without correcting herself, I decided that this might be a sign from God, a gentle pat on the back from my creator as he softly whispers into my ear, “It’s okay Jim; she has taught here for a long time and still makes mistakes. You have been prepared for this and will do fine.” From then on I was okay— I felt secure and confident in my ability to impart knowledge; as long as I continue to doubt and check the efficacy of my teaching habits, I believe I will be able to do this job.

Recently God has done this for me again. Last Thursday I went with two friends to the orphanage for blind children—it is about an hour and a half away, and we got lost, making us very late. When we got there, the kids had begun to eat lunch, and we asked what we could do to help. In broken English, one of the teachers told us to help teach the little kids to eat; without guidance, it is very difficult for the younger children to eat, both because of the dexterity involved and because some of the kids seem generally apathetic. I walk over to a table of kids, pick one that is obviously having a difficult time, and straddle the long bench that they are all sitting on so that I can face him and easily help. But helping the blind is very different from what I had first imagined when I decided to visit this orphanage. These kids are not blind like people in the movies—they do not stare blankly off into space while meticulously probing their environment with swift, searching hands. While a few of them are cheerful and have an outward appearance of a normal child, most of them have deformed faces; some of them have irises and pupils covered in an opaque gray while others have pronounced upper cheek bones because their eye sockets are completely empty. For an unstudied and ignorant observer (such as myself), it is hard to associate their typically morose and detached behavior and their physical abnormalities with what I consider “childhood.” They seem so completely different that I was struck with worry— I don’t speak the language of these children, and I cannot use gestures to communicate to them (which is actually how I get almost everywhere…) — how can I possibly teach people whom I have almost nothing in common with?

After sitting down with this child, I gently grabbed his hand, closing it around the ladle-like spoons common in Asia. He had a circular aluminum tray in front of him, with some watery rice and chicken in one of the tray’s compartments (wrong word… can’t think of the right one though). I began by gently tapping his spoon along the perimeter of the compartment, and then tried to show him that he was meeting resistance when he scooped the rice. Chances are he can already do this clumsily, but he lacks to motivation to do so—without a teachers help, he will simply sit on the bench with the spoon loosely in his hand. I show him how to use the perimeter to move the food into one location, then I began scooping the spoon over and over, each time saying “scoop.” Since I don’t know Thai, he gets to learn English. Eventually I let go, and continue to say scoop. He is able to scoop over and over without me, which is good; it means I’m able to condition behavior (a good thing to know for sure), but it doesn’t get the food into his mouth. I then begin to say “scoop” and then I grab his hand again, guiding the food to his mouth and saying “eat.” He has had enough teachers simply bring food to his mouth that he knows what to do, but he at least gets to learn more English and it made the entire process a little easier by breaking it down into stages. When he didn’t get anything on the spoon, I would say “scoop” again and he would try again. During all of this he was very silent— it is hard to judge emotion without the help of facial expression, but I had heard that even blind kids smile and frown (interesting, huh? Must be hardwired into our brains, because we obviously don’t learn it from seeing others do it.), so I decided that he was more than simply unexpressive; this kid was depressed. After he eats most of his food, he puts his spoon down and slowly reaches to his right, grabbing a toy car that is resting next to his tray. He moves the car forward, lifts it backwards, and then moves it forward again. As I watch him play his game, I lean forward so that I am near his ear, and begin to make an engine noise (a poor one for sure) each time the car is pushed forward. The corners of his mouth begin to turn up and he changes the tempo of the car movements, at first slowing it down (resulting in long engine noises and long pauses) and then speeding it up (resulting in a rapid succession of little grunts). Eventually I attempt to make a separate noise for the backwards movement, but I fail to synchronize it smoothly with his actions, so I revert back to the single sound. He starts to giggle and is openly showing a toothy grin. I place my hand over his and direct the car for a bit, then I ramp the car off the table and land on the boys other arm; he lets go with his hand and starts laughing and squirming like only children can. The little car went off-road for a while, traveling all the way around the boy, along his neck, and up onto his head. It was a great moment for me. It was another whisper from God— “Jim, you can do this; they might not be able to see, but they are just like any other kids… tickle them and do they not giggle?”

But God has done even more to help me realize that I can and must do this orphanage work. The other day I got my first paycheck—although I thought Sammuk would be paying me, it turns out Anuban (the school where I actually work) is the school that must cough up the dough. When I got my money, I had quit a surprise. I was actually making 3,000 baht per month more than I had expected. I am supposed to make as much the other English teachers at Sammuk, which is a lot less than the English teachers at Anuban make (more than 10,000 baht per month difference), so I decided to talk to the director at Sammuk about this, since I don’t want to upset any of the Sammuk workers (I’m already an outsider at Sammuk because I don’t know the students, I don’t learn about events in advance generally, and I don’t work alongside the other Sammuk staff… why alienate myself more?). The director’s first response was for me to give Sammuk the extra 3,000 baht, since it was given to me as a housing allowance by Anuban, and I am living at Sammuk. I pointed out that my contract stated that I am supposed to get free housing— after talking to the accountant (honestly not sure what her job is… just assuming she was the accountant really), he said that I could keep the extra money as “lunch money.” Although I thought this was pretty funny, I ended up suggesting that instead of me simply pocketing it, I would like to collect it so that I have a way to pay to transport select Sammuk students to the orphanage with me on Thursdays (everyone needs a ministry). He liked this idea more, so now the money will go towards a fund for the orphanage project (at least, that is the plan for now). It just seems amazing how I had no idea how I was going to convince the people at Sammuk to give me money so I could bring their kids an hour and a half away every Thursday to play with blind orphans and then out of nowhere I am given an extra 3,000 baht a month.

Later, I was introduced to the principle of the orphanage—she is blind and a very good English speaker. She told me that Thursday mornings are not a good time— my heart sank as I saw the project begin to unravel a bit. After talking for a while, she told me that she would clear two hours every Thursday, from 1-3pm, for me to teach to the young children. This was very different from my first conception of this project; I thought I would simply play around with kids, but now I’m going to be teaching them English, helping them build muscles (without constant play, these kids tend to be very weak), and occasionally bringing them to the nearby beach with the assistance of some of the Thai teachers. This is going to be difficult—it means I must make a lesson plan for a two hour long class and I cannot use anything visual or anything involving lots of English, but I’m sure God will show me what to do.

I do not claim to be someone of importance, but it is not arrogant for me to say I have been given a mission— arrogance is a lack of humility, a belief that one’s position or worth is greater than it actually is. I would have to be stupid not to recognize God’s hand in this orphanage work; to think that God could not use me is blasphemy (as if there is something the perfectly powerful being cannot do), and to think that God would not want to use me would be the opposite of arrogance (another distension of humility) called self-deprecation. God obviously is using me, so to think he would not use me is wrong— it is a failure to see my worth.

Okay, it is very late and I have had a long day. I will write about what happened today in the morning and post a few things. Post a comment if you read all of this stuff (sometimes I think it could be fun to be a writer… but how do you get people to read what you put effort into and how do you ensure that you have something worth saying?)

Love,

Jim