Baggage

Originally written August 5, 2011

I came to Southeast Asia 2 years ago

And I came with a lot of baggage.  

Back then, I thought I had so little.

I realize now, that it was too much.

Tomorrow, I'm leaving a lot of it behind

my motorbike

my laptop

I want these things to stay in Laos 

as gifts to friends.

I'm also leaving behind 

my insecurities

my materialism

I want these things to stay in Laos 

as gifts to my King

I came with two bags.  I'm going back home with one.  

Yes, I'm taking some things back with me:  

some books, some clothes, some electronics.

but more valuable than the things, I'm taking back memories

crunching down on my first stir-fried cricket

the flopping fish and giant beef livers at the morning market

being showered with dust in an all day pickup truck ride

the smell of an imminent torrential downpour in July

running barefoot down a steep mountainside in the rain

taking a bucket shower in my underwear, outside, in the cold, at night.

the sweetness of a just-picked mango

and most importantly, I'm taking back relationships

church members:  who taught me how to give

my neighbors: who always had time for me even when I didn't

my teammates: who accepted me just as I am

my students: who were patient with me while I became a better teacher

the things I leave here, I want to leave behind for good

and the things I take back home, I want to keep forever

Water Fight

Last year for the Buddhist New Year, I was laying on a hammock on the Mekong. I avoided the partying, the crowds. It's my only vacation in spring, so I'm going to travel, take advantage of it. On the sleepy island I was on, only a few kids were playing with water pistols. By the time I got back to Vientiane, the partying was over.

This year, I decide to stay local. I visit my buddy in Luang Prabang, and it's mayhem on the streets. People are rubbing cornstarch and powdered charcoal on each others' faces. Throwing bags of dyed water: green, red, purple, yellow. Stains your shirt. Girls dancing outside. For a culture that's normally very conservative, in terms of dress and social relations...it's a bizarre turnound. All high school and college-aged girls wear long traditional skirts to school. Today, though, it's like girls gone wild out there, stripped half naked, baring their midriffs, shaking and humping like it's a hip-pop music video. Normally, girls don't look at guys in the eyes, or even say much to them. The sexes aren't supposed to interact. Now, they're throwing water on each other, flirting, hunger and desire coming unbridled in a 4-day affair. I go to a party, and people are trying to get me to dance with them, forcing beer down my throat. Teenagers are getting wasted, jumping on top of cars, screaming and dancing and hollering.

The foreigners and the kids are going wild. But at the temples, the parents are in a serious spiritual state. Dousing water on the buddha, asking for luck this year, lots of rain for the farmers, money and health and propserity. 7, 9, 11, or 13 temples, any of those are lucky numbers. My neighbor is carrying a bucket of water with flowers. It smells like potpourri. I want to touch it but she yells. You can't touch it, it's special water! Her daughter asks for permission to splash water on me. Sure, I say, as I put my cell phone away. Then she puts the hose over my head, wishing me luck in the new year. She's smiling as she's doing it, but it's not playful. it's a serious spiritual ritual.

It's Sabbath today. The last day of the festivities. People are hungover and won't be coming out til the afternoon. I don't want to be out there in all the madness. It reminds me of being in a club. Foam parties, high school girls shaking their stuff, my neighbors are inviting me out again, want to drive around on the back of a truck and have a waterfight. I'm cooped up in my house. But i'm not sure if i should be in my house either. I can already hear the music bumping outside.

I used to think I knew the answers, back home...telling people to do radical street ministry. But today, sitting here in my room, I realize that I don't know a thing. I have no idea what i should do. When you realize the great spiritual need out there...you can't help but join the waterfight. When you realize your own sinfulness...you can't help but stay at home and pray.

It's my battle and yours. When we're in this situation, we're forced on our knees. All we can do is pray. Maybe you want to go out and get soaked, but He wants you to stay at home and pray. Maybe you want to stay at home and pray, but He wants you to go out and get soaked.

The Fan

My neighbor has an 8 year old son. He's always either playing soccer or watching cartoons. Sometimes he comes over to play with my camera, or to ask for candy. The other day, we played a game of connect four.



To me it was just a game, but to Ben, it was life. Playing is the most important thing in the world to him. "if you're willing to take time to play games with me, you must think I'm an important person!"

My other neighbor is 15. He's got a customized Honda motorbike with his name emblazoned on the side. He's on the basketball team of his school. I'm almost 30 and basketball is too hard on my knees. But last Sunday, I went with him to work on his free throws. I go to watch the first game of the season, and everyone on his team is so skinny and clumsy. It was just a game for me, but to him, it's the most important thing in his life right now.



I remember my dad coming to my basketball games when i was in pee-wee league.
back then, basketball was life. The fact that my dad came to my games to watch me, meant a lot. He was a doctor, with a busy schedule. But he always made time to come to my games, holding an icebox with lemon-lime gatorade. It made me play harder, to know he was cheering me on. Whenever I doubted that he loved me, I always remembered that he was there at my games.

but that was 15 years ago. Since then, I moved away to college. He joined the Army as a doctor. I don't see him for a year at a time now. And we've never been good at communicating.

Calling my dad is like pulling teeth. After I talk to my mom for an hour, I'm lucky if my conversation with him lasts 2 minutes. It's always about my health (he is a doctor after all), or the condition of my car. My mom is my biggest cheerleader; my dad is becoming a stranger to me.

But I realized that I've been waiting for my dad to change. I'm waiting for him to talk more, make more of an effort, be a better father. I'm waiting for him to come watch my games again. And I realized, I could be waiting his whole life.

So a few months go, I called his cell phone, out of the blue. He was surprised, I think. We talked for an hour. He talked about him: his work. his golf. The reunion he's planning with his junior high school friends. I didn't know those things were so important to him.

During our Christmas vacation in Korea, our family went to visit dad's childhood home, near Sookmyong Women's University. He hadn't been back there in 25 years, he said. He was pacing up and down that road, trying to remember the location of the house. His eyes were glowing. I've never seen him so happy, to be reminiscing about his childhood.

My mom flew out first, so it was my dad who took me to the airport at 4:30am. Instead of sending me on a bus, he surprised me by buying tickets for the just-built 43-minute light rail to Incheon Airport.



It was time to say goodbye. I crossed into TSA to screen my bags and he was still standing there. Unsmiling. Waving. The doors closed. I kept moving up in line, kept looking back to see if he was there. He was. I was walking off toward passport check, out of sight. Only then, did I see him turn around and leave. Tears were rolling down my face. It was the first time my dad saw me off like that. I felt like I did when he came to my basketball games. My dad was cheering me on again.

The last few months, I've called my father every week or two, usually at night when he's still at his office past midnight. We only talk for about 5 to 10 minutes. He always seems tired, busy, impatient to end the conversation. But I still call to ask about the things that are important to him. He's my father and I want to be his biggest fan. I want to be at his games and cheer him on.

When Jesus came to earth, he came for a mission. To redeem humankind, to die on Calvary. He had important tasks to accomplish. But he didn't just come for that. He also came to be at our basketball games. To show up at our Korean Culture nights, our SAT exams, our band concerts. To affirm us when we sing special music, when we're trying out for a play, at our bench press competitions. To cheer us on.

He's at your games, cheering you on. He's your biggest fan.
Even if it's your hobbies that take you away from Him,
He's still your biggest fan.



You're busy.
You have important things to accomplish.
You have your basketball games to prepare for, tests to study for, recitals to practice for.

But your heavenly father has dreams too.
He waiting for you to come to his game
He's waiting for you to cheer him on.

The Needy God

In English, "need" is a four-letter word.

It's OK to be needy if you're a baby. Your first cry was your first time asking. But you soon became a toddler who could walk on his own, potty without mommy's help, eat by himself.

We Americans like to do things ourselves. Everyone has their own plate, their own Happy Meal all bagged up in individual servings. We value independence, self-sufficiency. We're taught not to need so much, ask so much, lean on others so much. The most shameful things to say in our culture: "I'm living with my parents. I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I'm on welfare. I need help."

Neediness is weakness.



I'm almost 30 years old and I'm still single. Why? Because I don't want to need anyone. Marriage is the ultimate confession of neediness. It's admitting: I am incomplete. I am helpless. I am not able to take care of myself. I am not happy. Without you. And I'm willing to take a risk with you.



In the spiritual arena, we often treat our salvation the same way. Daily devotions. It's something YOU need to do. And don't you dare ask how mine are going. It's my business, not yours.

I'm a pastor who's trying to build the Body of Christ. I preach about getting everyone involved, each one reach one, and how it's gonna take more than just preaching to finish the work. But it's just theory. In the end, church is all about me. My sermons, my ministry ideas, the direction I'm gonna take the church.



Here in Southeast Asia, though, I'm slowly dying to my independence. Spiritually I've fallen apart countless times. After coming face to face with all my weaknesses and my ugliness, I think I've finally given up. I've embraced my true identity. I'm weak. I'm a sinner. I'm a needy person.

And realizing my neediness, my weakness, it's radically changed the way I look at God. I see a different Jesus when I read the Bible now.

I see a God who's all powerful, yes. who's everywhere, yes. who knows everything, yes.

but also a God who was needy
who sought out fishermen, and asked them: Follow me!

He accepted money for his ministry
He asked for a boy's lunch
He asked for water at the well
He asked for a place to stay
He asked a favor while on the cross
He asked for prayer when he was struggling in Gethsemane

He even asked for affirmation for his identity as Messiah: Who do you think I am?

He created us, to fill that need of His for intimacy. When we praise God, we're not just saying mindless phrases to pump up the ego of some Being who's made an ultimatum. Worship is something God asks for. He needs. He craves quality time with us. He's intentionally made himself dependent on our affection.

Yes, he died on Calvary 2,000 years ago.

But right now, He's dying emotionally because you're not in His arms.
He's thirsty for you. He's craving you. He can't imagine life, eternity, a moment without you.
He's crying out: "I need you! I need you to be a part of my life! Please! I need to spend time with you!"



God is needy. He's asking. He's weak.
He's that beggar on the street, hands outstretched in supplication
He's the single mom with unpaid bills, running her hands through her hair in worry
He's the toddler that can't feed himself, looking up to his parent for love
All this time, you thought you needed God
but in reality, He's the one who needs you.

Culturesick and Homeshocked

I've been here in Southeast Asia for almost 2 years. Suddenly, I'm on the plane and headed "home" - well, kinda home. Korea. For almost 2 years, I was living in constant sweltering 80 to 100 degree heat. My body's become acclimiatized, so at 70 degrees in wintertime before sunup, I'm shivering head to toe after I take a shower. So you can imagine my fear + trepidation at flying into Seoul, Korea in the dead of winter and stepping out of the airport into a blizzard at 20 degrees with my little Nike running jacket.



Financially, I've been living on a salary of $135 a month. Half of that goes to food. I grew up eating anything I wanted, anytime I wanted. On the airplane, I eat everything on my tray. I mean everything. I don't even like butter but I use all of it. I almost eat the cream too. I feel like I should save the salt and pepper and plastic ziplock wrapper. It feels weird to appreciate airplane food so much. My family is happy to see me, and then shocked. They are horrified at how skinny I am. "You look terrible! What have you been eating over there?" We go to the US Army base and my dad throws down $20 for a bunch of burritos. The cheapest combo at the Chinese restaurant is $4.69 plus tax. My sisters get Subway. The food costs so much money! I'm shocked. I can't believe how much money fast food costs. Everyone picks at their food. Hunger takes over, and I eat everything on my plate. I remember eating this type of food, almost everyday. It feels so familiar, but also foreign.



We go shopping, and I can't get myself to buy anything. Even candy or a drink. At the optometrist, my family urges me to get a pair of glasses. But I already have a pair! Yeah but they're scratched and an old prescription. I imagine what I can do with $70 back in Laos, and I can't do it. People get upset at me for not buying anything, thinking everything is so expensive.



My friends are buying scarves and they're on sale for $15. So cheap, they say. I go to a wedding and there's so much extravagant food: sushi and pastries and spaghetti and stir-fry. I can't believe how much food is being made, overeaten, and thrown away. The food is so rich that I can't eat very much of it. The desserts are so calorie-packed, so powerful. I feel like I'm eating a whole day's worth of nutrition in one meal. By this time, I learn to keep my thoughts and feelings to myself. Nobody wants to hear how I feel about coming back home. It will only make them feel guilty. Who wants to have me around, if I evoke in them is guilty feelings?



I flashback to my first few weeks in Southeast Asia. When I showed off my brand-new set of $6 Chinese headphones I'd bought. "So cheap!" I marveled to my friend, a Hmong sharecropper with 6 kids. "Cheap? How much?" I told him: "50,000 kip." "50,000 kip? For that? Oh my. That's so much money!" I was hurt by his shock. Like a stab of a knife. It made me feel so rich. And I've always thought I was upper middle class. My dad is an Army doctor - he's not even in private practice. I decided I wouldn't ever tell these people how much my stuff cost, ever again. Now, I'm back home and I suddenly realize how much I've changed. I've started to see the world through a poor person's eyes. I've become a Southeast Asian living in Korea, a poor man living in extravagance. What if my friends back home saw me, eating at this fancy buffet and throwing away this delicious steak? I just ate ramen with my sharecropper friend. He ate it with such gusto. I'd brought it from home, because I knew he didn't have any food and had foraged some spongy stalk of a wild plant in the woods. He told me, when I eat this plant, I get hungry again in 2 hours.

We're eating at a $45 per-person 9-course meal at "The Korea House." My uncle is a retired army general and he also owns a lot of land in Seoul. He's asked about what Southeast Asians eat, and I'm telling them about my sharecropper friend. How his family eats mostly rice, and some smashed peppers and garlic. Because soy sauce is too expensive. It suddenly gets quiet.



I can sense their discomfort, as they pick at their food. The food tasted great until Chris opened his big old mouth. It's difficult to hear, I know. They're experiencing what I went through...and it hurts. But then, I tell them about how much those people love Korea. They watch Korean dramas on TV. They listen to Korean pop, and follow the singers and actors. They love kimchi, and Shin ramen. My friends are so jealous that I'm able to visit. They tell me to bring back some snow. Korea's doing a lot of development work there. There are several Korean schools there. My family's smiling, proudly. I tell them about how much Southeast Asia has taught me. About how to be content with what I have. How to budget. How to ride a motorbike. How to depend on God, and not just my parents. My mom shares about how much my time there, has changed her. How she always had bailed me out financially so I could avoid pain. But that through this experience, she was forced to realize her own weaknesses. That as countercultural as it is, that she needed to let me suffer, to face my own consequences. My uncle speaks up: I'm proud of Chris. There aren't too many like him. Why, my own kids are waiting for a handout from me. These are things that we Koreans need to teach our kids.



It's a week later in Korea now. I've gotten adjusted to the cold. I've gained more than 10 lbs. I'm in a glowing shopping mall, filled with shiny electronics and the smell of new books. I'm able to buy things now. Like typical Korean relatives, my extended family's give me money, especially after hearing about how low my stipend is there. They're not rich themselves. But they want to help me. I use some of that money to buy gifts for my friends back in Asia. As I browse in room-temperature comfort among the neatly arranged rows of kitchenware, I remember the marketplace back "home." The smells of live animals, the mud and grime sloshing in between your sandaled toes, the random chicken poop smeared on your shirt by a passer-by, the racket of salesmen announcing their prices, the ubiquitous folk music blaring in the speakers, the sound of laughter and joking and bartering and arguing. Me, the foreigner who can kinda speak their language, and doesn't mind lugging around a backpack full of vegetables and fruits, to spend an hour with them in their world.



In 7 months, I'll re-enter the "real world," gain my weight back, eat fast food, shop at malls, and forget all my Southeast Asian culture and language. In 10 years, it'll just be a faded photograph, fond memories, stories to tell my kids and randomly insert in sermons. But I hope some part of it doesn't die inside of me. I hope that in struggling to make sense of those 2 worlds, that I was able to learn something that I won't lose. That somehow, these 2 worlds won't just remain distant, misunderstood stereotypes...but that they will collide and challenge each other. Realize how much they need the other. Because we serve a King who made himself a beggar. He had everything and made himself nothing. To feed the poor, and develop a hunger for the Bread and Water of life. To make the rich feel poor, and to make the strong feel weak. To make us all cultureshocked to sin + homesick for heaven.

The Gift

i have this book
i bought it for about $3
from a bookstore on the outskirts of town
it's a little kids' bible
it's still too hard for me though
i bought it so i can read it w/ my neighbors
to practice my language reading

i bought it w/ my own money, too. you see, my family is upper-middle class. i've always depended on them to bail me out when i need money. but this year, i want to live on my own
i'm learning how to value things
how to budget my money.
it's the first time in my life i've actually budgeted
i'm spending $20 a month to eat out, $5 to skype my family
i put my savings away at the beginning of the month, bundled in a safe.

i used to give anything to anybody whenever i felt like
and i thought i was a giving person
but i realized, that my idea of giving was skewed.
because if you value things, that means counting its cost
to really give, you have to choose what + when to give, and to whom
i've realized, that i'm not the generous guy that i thought i was
i like to appear generous. but really i'm very selfish. i don't like to give.
i like to appear giving
i give on impulse
i give stragetically
i give manipulatively
i give with strings attached
i give to some, but not to others
i give to those who deserve it
i give to those who give to me
i give when people are watching
but when it comes down to it, i don't really like to give
my time. my money. my things. myself. i like to keep it. for myself

but i don't want to stay that way
when i give, i want to really mean it.

so i have this book
and i'm taking it over to my neighbor's to read and practice
i'm a little nervous because i wonder if they'll be offended. maybe they won't even want me to read it there.
"we don't want to read those falang stories about pra-yesu"

my neighbor has a little daughter
she's barely past 1
she used to be scared of me for a month
but now she likes me. we play sometimes
she likes to play with random things: shoes, a belt, chairs



i visit them to say hi
but really, to practice my language reading skills
it's been getting better
i bring my kid's bible there
it's hard for me. but i want to practice.
i pull it out + her parents are wowed. what a beautiful kid's book! they don't have books like that

they can't afford books like that. + this country doesn't even have them. they're just getting by w/ food for the next meal. + literacy + education is still in the developmental stages

i read the cover: the bible for kids.
they ask: is it a gift for her?

i get defensive. selfish. how dare u assume it's a gift.
+ i say: no. actually it's for me. i'm learning how to read. can i practice?

they smile. the mom corrects me as i read. she's only a high school graduate herself, but she reads proudly

i ponder how much i spent on the book. it's $3. just 3 measly dollars. but to me right now, that's a lot. it's 25,000 kip. it's 4 hours in the internet cafe. it's 3 meals out. it's a month's worth of phone credit. it's actually a sacrifice for me, on my budget now.

i flip to the next page. the title says: "pra-yesu came down to be born." a baby's bundled up in a manger. three kings have followed a star to give him gifts. i point to one of the wise men's camels, and ask the little girl, what's that? the mom answers. i don't think there's a word in their language for camel, because the mom says, "it's a cow"

the little girl is distracted. she's only 1. the book is only interesting for 10 seconds at a time. but the mom is entranced. what a nice story, she says.

it takes all the willpower i can muster, but i make the decision. and i tell the parents: i change my mind. i'll give the book to your daughter. you can read her the stories.

the little girl looks up from the book, and stares at me intently. she smiles. she flips to the beginning, to the page about creation. adam and eve are looking at the sunset, surrounded by a deer, rabbits, a lion. and the mom starts to read.

The Laughing Man

he's the neighborhood laughing man. i see him everyday walking by with his dirty bare feet. wearing the same grease stained green jacket, no matter the weather. his hair is disheveled. his face is leathery, ageless. he could be 80 but he also looks like he's 15 sometimes. when he smiles, he's like a little child. he laughs w/ abandon - frenzied, uncontrollable. like he doesn't care about what anybody thinks.

he digs through the trash every night for food. seeing him has always filled my heart with guilt. how can somebody live off my trash?

it's around midnight one night, and i'm sitting on my porch when he comes by to dig in my trash.
He plucks out a magazine + squeals with joy.
he sits down to read it
it's a teenybopper magazine

i've seen him before and i've always been scared of him
but tonite, i dunno what's different. i want to be a part of his life. i want to dig in the trash with him.

i walk next to him, but he doesn't see me.
he picks up his bag and walks away.
i follow him, and call out, hey, hey there, hey you!
he can't hear
i realize
he's deaf

i follow him to his alleyway where he stays. when I tap his shoulder, he turns around and looks surprised. he shuffles past me and sits down on a concrete divider. I sit next to him. I reach out for his bag. he lets me open it.

it's full of discarded children's books, pretty boxes, random packaging, knickknacks that people throw away. he pulls out a teenybopper magazine, and we read it together. I reach out to touch his hand. he doesn’t make a sound. we hold hands there on the side of the dusty road, tuk-tuks creaking by.

as I get up to leave, he points to his stomach and rubs it. I point to my mouth, asking, are you hungry? he nods. I go back home and get some leftover rice and curry, and make a fried egg. I bring it back to him. he smiles and giggles. he eats it slowly, meticulously. He uses his hands to eat the egg. he pushes the carrots around like a little kid would. he likes carrots, i think. when he’s about halfway done, he offers me some food. I take a bite (to be polite), and give him back the plate. he doesn’t finish it all. he’s been quiet this whole time, but finally he laughs. his grin shows a row of rotting teeth. he’s happy.

ever since then, the laughing man and I haven't been able to hang out like we did that night. I saw him the other day, sitting on a concrete divider as usual with his bag of treasures. the little kids at the local elementary school were pointing at him, mocking him. daring each other to touch him. when he saw me, he smiled. nodded politely. and laughed.