I am slowly slowly learning how to have grace and understanding with myself as a writer.
I see things and I want change.
And I want it so badly that I want it so quickly.
And often times, I want it so quickly that I take it upon myself and carry it heavily until I am able to accurately process it and write about it… hoping that because I can now write it, I can now call for that change that I so earnestly desire.
But the thing is… these things take time.
Lots of time.
And I cannot exactly force myself to process them too quickly.
I mean, for goodness sake, Africa took me a year to finally write about.
And the specifics of the power of those moments in Wli took me even longer, technically.
But what I do know is this: I cannot avoid it… simply because it is difficult.
I desire to spend myself to write about the things that hurt.
Within and without. Personally and universally.
These issues… no, these people… must be met.
They must be acknowledged.
And they must be spoken for.
And so I speak for those who cannot speak for themselves.
Walking down one of the many streets involved in the trafficking that runs so rampant here in Bangkok was surreal. My stomach was sick and it churned with every single step. The nausea and the sadness rose within me and as I attempted to make eye contact with someone… anyone It proved to be more difficult than I thought it would be. No one would. The men nor the girls. They could not. They would not. There was too much shame.
I had anticipated anger… an almost hatred for the men that I would see, but I found it was not there. When I saw them… I saw my brother. I saw my father. And in the women… oh those precious girls… I saw myself. I saw through any attempt at a masquerade on both sides.
I was not filled with anger at all. Only sorrow. A deep, intense, paralyzing sorrow that was so strong that when we finally stopped moving and sat to talk about what we had just experienced, my legs and my arms went completely numb. My head spun and my vision trembled, but I could not find a single word to say. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes, but they just could not brim. For some reason, they would not. Too much. It was too much. Too chilling. And too much to take in. I searched my mind for questions, but I couldn’t find any about specifics: numbers, figures, statistics, process, government… only: Why? Why on earth must this be so? And: No more, no more, this cannot be.
Those looks. Those calls. And that was in the afternoon! With the setting of the sun every single evening it becomes too too real. I know what is happening and all I can think of is sorrow. Sorrow playing the part of lust. Men and women alike convinced of the lie that they are slaves to their desires. That they must ultimately obey their hormones rather than a call to love their fellow man.
And them, no better or worse than me.
It is the same lie I have chosen.
The same myth I have believed time after time after time.
To have walked it now… to have seen it with my own eyes- the captives. To have heard with my own ears their cries for mercy disguised as calls to further, darker sins- I cannot help but be changed.
This darkness here is so deep and clinging. I want to shake it off in every way. Every single ounce and speck. Every last bit. I want my heart flushed. Cleansed in a violent way. I want the darkness that causes this sorrow I have seen- the same darkness within me- so very very far away from my own heart. I want it forever gone from what Christ has renamed and reclaimed as His own.
It was easy before to pretend that none of this was real.
It was easy because it had not been seen.
But now- all has been exposed.
All has been exposed and everything has been brought to light.
It is seen and can no longer be ignored.
I will never forget their eyes and the sadness held within them. The women… and the men. I will never forget them because it was inside of them that I discovered myself.
The same lonliness.
The same sadness.
The same captivity.
But within mine- the only difference:
Grace.
Grace as the source of light.
My prayer is that the light would be seen and desired- even in a simple passing glance.
That the Spirit would do It’s job in interpreting the Source of the Light for those who do not know.
That they would see that Grace and call it Hope and that it would ignite within them a fire to search until the source is found.
Until that same hope is grasped.
That at the very least, they would begin to dream of it- to long for it- even without knowing exactly what it is.
To call it Grace. Hope. Freedom.
Words they may have been too afraid to ever utter before.
I desire it for those men.
I desire it for those women.
And I desire it for me.
Beautifully written. Thank you for bringing me into your journey. Not only could I see what you were seeing, but I could feel what you were feeling.
God has some incredible plans for your life.
You are in my prayers.
Blessings,
Cheryl
sweet friend. beautiful words. and such a beautiful heart you have.
you will be forever changed.
i still believe that i’m processing the time i spent in Bangkok. thank you for writing this … i’m saving it, so much of it holds true for the things i felt/still feel/struggle with.
many prayers are with you. bring the kingdom. and it’s beauty.
love love.