life and death

"I died today, and I have been born into a new life in Jesus Christ."

These were the words of my friend, TDW, minutes after she was baptized this morning. True, but really very shocking. Becoming a true follower of Christ means nothing short of dying to sin and being brought to life by the power of God.

"We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life." (Romans 6:4)

That's radical. It's life and death. Death to life.

At our Wednesday Bible study at work, we were asked the question, "How would you explain 'eternal life' to someone who's never heard of it before?"

My friend Kelli said something like this: "Here on earth, everything is moving toward death. In heaven, everything is moving toward life." That made sense to me. Things fall apart here. The law of entropy is at work because the prince of this world has been given some power for a time. But in Jesus, everything is moving toward life. He creates. And when the fullness of his Kingdom comes, glory will pile upon glory like diamonds in a hall of mirrors. All things will be made new. And then, as John Donne wrote in his poem, "Death, thou shalt die."

There is a lot of dying going on in this world - so much that is decaying and breaking and going terribly wrong. But, thanks be to God, this is not the end of the story.

"Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this." (Isaiah 9:7)

Hallelujah! Endless increase of all that is in Jesus - of all that is life! Amen.

That increase starts when we accept the gift of life made possible by Jesus' death. It can begin in us here. It began in TDW today. And it began in my housemate, Mary, a few weeks ago. I praise God for my sisters in Christ, born into eternal life!

"And we who, with unveiled faces, all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit." (2 Corinthians 3:18)

the sound of music

I love music so much.

I can't listen to music while I'm doing something else that requires concentration. I will get distracted and sing along. Even if it's just instrumental. Ask my brother.

I am told that when I was being potty trained at age 2, I would spend lots of extra time on the porcelain throne in the little tile echo chamber, singing my little heart out. Call it an early appreciation for good acoustics.

When I'm in a parking lot and a car alarm goes off somewhere, my first impulse is to make up a song that includes the monotone beeping as a complimentary part of a more complex melody.

If I, or anyone in my presence, mentions a word, phrase, or even idea that reminds me of a song, I will sing it - sometimes without realizing I'm doing so.

In musicals, it is often said, the characters break out in song when what they have to say is too important to be left merely to the powers of speech. I think this is perfectly natural. Life therefore should be a musical. Mine is.

I've always had music around me. And I've always been given opportunities to make music of my own. Instruments, choirs, concerts. Singing prayers at meals and bedtime. Musicals. Lessons. Caroling. Worship teams. Composition.

Yes, there is also music in Thailand. But not nearly as accessible to me, and not nearly as much to my taste.

I have heard some extremely painful performances here, live and on recording. Thai is a nasal, tonal language containing sounds strikingly similar to the vocalizations of suffering felines. And they love loud speakers here. Really loud speakers.

Pianos are my favorite instrument, and they are hard to come by in Mae Sot. Most electric keyboards have (far) less than 88 keys, and I am a bit of a piano snob; I want the whole instrument to be present, if at all possible. Acoustic pianos have about as much luck staying in tune here as they would have if you dunked them in a hot tub for a few months out of the year.

There are no choirs I can join, no performances of "The Messiah" to see at Christmas, no instruments in my house - unless you count my voice, which I do employ at a frequency and volume that might explain the neighbors' knowing smiles when I pass them in the street.

All this to say - I miss music. I've been surviving on low rations, and I'm feeling it. I suppose since I've never really been forced to reduce my musical intake, I haven't noticed how important it really is to me.

And, as if in response to my relative deprivation, my heart has recently been very much blessed "with the sound of music."

At Christmas, I was given not one, not two, but twelve albums of music that I'm thoroughly enjoying. That's right. Twelve.

I got to see a musical performance of the Christmas story at Mae La camp - quite well done.

I heard a spontaneous, solo classical rendering of "Oh Holy Night" when I was in Chiang Mai.

One afternoon, I got to play Allan and Joan's real acoustic piano, which was, incidentally, in very good tune.

I was invited to spend three hours singing Christmas carols with a bunch of delightful folks in the festively lit garden of a friend.

When my parents were at Oma's house, I sang "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" with the three of them over Skype. There was a bit of a delay, but I could definitely live with that.

I was over at some friends' house on Christmas Eve helping set up their elaborate Nativity scene, and a whole gang of Karen kiddies came to the house caroling.

There is a full length electric keyboard in the home of one of the families in Mae Sot that works at Partners with me. I got to play that keyboard during our time of worship at Home Church last Sunday. And I was joined at the last minute by two other musicians - one on guitar and one on box-drum. An impromptu band! Everyone in the room seemed to worship with great passion. I certainly was. That might be my favorite thing to do - right up there with swimming in waterfalls. I was so thrilled for the rest of the day that I couldn't help riding my bike home twice as fast as I normally do.

That same family has asked me to give one of their daughters piano lessons. I can hardly wait.

Aaaaand they have offered to let me use their keyboard for four months while they're back in the US on furlough this summer. I'm pretty sure I jumped and cheered.

"Therefore I will praise you, Lord, among the nations;
I will SING the praises of your name!"
Psalm 18:49

okra, toilet paper, and a pageant

Some random experiences from the last little while...

A few weeks ago, I bought some vegetables, including okra, with the intention of making a stir-fry curry dish. The next day, I discovered said vegetables on the stove, concocted into a soup by one of my lovely housemates. I tried some. It was odd. First of all, okra should never be boiled. It becomes positively mucoid. Second of all, okra should never be sweet. It just doesn't work. I bravely slurped away regardless. When the creator of the soup found me eating it, she made a face indicating that her opinion of the stuff coincided with mine. Turns out that some of our many recent house guests had refilled one of the Thai spicy salt containers with what they of course assumed was spicy salt. They were wrong. They had got hold of my baking supplies, more specifically my brown sugar. Mary was not aware of this unintentional blunder when she began cooking a few days later. The result was painfully sweet okra soup. Interestingly, while she seemed averse to the fact that it was sweet, she was not bothered by its blatant sliminess. We threw the rest away. Eventually.

Most people from Thailand and Burma do not use toilet paper. Let me re-phrase. They don't use toilet paper for its intended purpose. They do use it as a rolled, segmentable serviette during meals. But in the bathroom, they prefer to use water. Only water. Sometimes from a handled dipper bucket, sometimes from a conveniently-located spray hose. The two bathrooms in our house are each blessed with the spray hose variety, an easy reach from the toilet. I don't use them. Let me re-phrase. I don't use them for their intended purpose. I do use those hoses to power-wash the bathroom floor and walls from time to time. Ever since we got a water pump for the house, our water pressure is first-rate. And the little spray hoses only have two settings: off and full blast. Water comes out of those nozzles at a speed that would rival a Delta Sonic car wash. Yet, I've noticed that the toilet paper in the bathrooms still remains almost untouched. I can only imagine the alternative experience.

Mary and I went to a fashion show at a Karen school around the corner a few days ago. The first two hours were predictable but not uninteresting. Pairs of high school students were dressed in traditional Karen clothing from ten different Karen State regions. Each guy/girl combo would take turns stepping up to the microphone and explaining the symbolism and significance of their apparel. Then came part two of the program. It was a complete surprise, at least to me. You might even say shock. With much fanfare, the MC announced that we were about to witness a pageant: Miss IDP. Now, IDP stands for "Internally Displaced Person," a status normally associated with brutal attacks and death-defying escapes. Not exactly congruous with a beauty pageant. I wasn't sure what to expect. Pretty soon, the louder speakers started blaring Smash Mouth's "Allstar," and the contestants paraded onto the well-lit stage: ten uncommonly shapely youth flaunting about in trendy western style dresses. The MC put them through all kinds of entertaining trials: model walking, "Simon Says" type physical antics, and then live interviews. By then, if there was any doubt as to the identity of the contestants, it was completely dispelled by their cracking falsetto voices and masculine laughter. "Internally Displaced" indeed! We left around eleven, and they were still going strong. Over all, I was rather encouraged by the proof that these young Karen were holding onto their traditional roots but were also willing to be ridiculous. In both cases they were uninhibited, which gave me hope for future theatrical adventures alongside the Karen.