Laura Parker — a Life Overseas {a missionary blogs of life in Asia}

The Eggs

by Laura on May 14, 2012

I posted this photo on Instagram several days ago with some wisecrack about how a bird building a nest in our mailbox was evidence for our obvious popularity with the world, both locally and globally. At first, we thought it was mildly adorable– this smattering of twigs and leaves, obviously collected on purpose by some nearby feathered friend.

But, then, five days ago, what was the source of a smart-aleck photo caption became the source of anticipation for our entire family as we saw, first one, then two, then three, four, five little baby eggs in the nest, in our mailbox. Everytime we left home and shut the gate to our house, one of the kids would look and report the status of the eggs. We were waiting with baited breath for the moment we would peer into that box and see not blue spottled eggs but actual baby birds.

I was thinking, “Homeschool science! Score! Now I don’t have to plan anything for the week! Or watch another Magic Schoolbus episode!” But, apparently, the locals were thinking something different.

Yesterday, my precious house helper, Da, asks me about the bird eggs and whether white people {called farangs} eat them or not. My heart sank because I knew that perhaps the polite thing would be to offer them to her, especially if it was some kind of local delicacy. I asked her if she ate them, and she immediately said that she preferred chicken eggs. Whew. I told her how excited my kids were to watch the eggs hatch and how we loved birds and the cycle of life and all that {Okay, I didn’t say the ‘cycle of life’ part– my Thai is not that good.}

And we went to grab dinner last night at this local place that ended up with more flies and fish-taste than anything, and when we drove back into the driveway, all five of us crammed on our scooter, I hopped off to open the gate and give the daily egg-check.

Gulp. Empty Nest.

And the kids are, “What happened?! Did they hatch that fast? Did the mama bird move her eggs to a different nest?”

And I am all, “Sure, maybe. Maybe they are really-fast hatchers here. Hmmm . . . .”

And some neighbor somewhere closeby is all, “Free eggs for dinner!”

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Ever employed the vague-parent-lie yourself? Or, perhaps the bigger question of the day, would you be tempted by some free eggs in a mailbox?

On another note, I’d love for us to connect via Instagram, if you’re using it. I, am suffering from Instagram-addiction of late, I must admit. My twitter and instagram handle is LauraParkerBlog.

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On Short Term Missions {Justifying the Truckload of Cash Spent}

by Laura on May 10, 2012

Consider this: a group of 15 high school students {with four adult leaders} want to go on a missions trip to Africa. They write support letters, hold spaghetti dinners, call up grandma and gramps across the state line. The cost of the trip is 8 days out of their summer vacation and $1800 USD out of somebody’s pocket. Per person.

The goal of the trip is to paint the outside of a church, do a VBS for an hour four evenings, and “love the orphans” at the local orphanage {a.k.a. play soccer and give lots of hugs, since they don’t speak the same language}. The group gets called to the front of the church for a send-off prayer before and produces a killer video that makes their mothers get teary after. There are lots of Facebook updates and instagram pictures of the trip– rich American teens hugging on dark African orphans– which become the profile pictures of the participants for a good six months post-travel.

The church got painted, which locals could have done for about 30 bucks maybe.

The orphans got hugged, and then had to say goodbye to people that they’ll never see again and who promise to write, but never really do.

The four days of VBS got delivered. And included the same bible stories which the previous four short term teams had also told. Through the mud of translators and with songs and hand motions that didn’t really make cultural sense.

And the grand total of this particular missions trip: $34, 200 USD. Ouch.

In a country where the average wage might be $2USD a day. That would be the equivalent of 17,100 days of work for a local. At that rate, the money could have gone to give 46 single mothers honorable employment for an entire year.

In this part of the world in Asia, it could provide clean water filters for 1,700 homes in village communities or it could begin a business to give hundreds of future prostitutes another choice or it could fully fund several national pastors for a whole year.

Ouch, again.

And maybe I shouldn’t knock what I myself have tried, and tasted the benefits from. I went to Jamaica on my first summer missions trip as a jr. high kid, and I still remember the stories. My husband has led a half-dozen missions trips for teenagers during his work as a student pastor. And some of our ministry here in Thailand has been based on the idea that there is incredible value in the mentorship of young adults as they travel and volunteer internationally. {And we have seen that it has.}

I get it.

And I know that maybe that money wouldn’t have been given to support those other {more cost- effective} endeavors, anyway. I understand that motivating a Westerner with an experience which could make him or her a financial supporter of missions for the rest of a career has value. I get that there is intrinsic value in letting the third world know that they are not forgotten by the first, and I can see that a missions experience for a teenager could translate into a lifetime of living overseas themselves.

Yet, yet. $34,000. For eight days? When people are starving and children are trafficked and pastors themselves don’t have access to Bibles?

It’s hard to swallow. Or justify sometimes.

Or, is it?

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Alright, short term missions senders or goers or proponents or hosters – I’d love to hear your thoughts about the value of the short term mission trip and how it relates to the amount of cash we spend to get it.

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Some other great resources: Jamie the Very Worst Missionary’s Series on STMs | Are STMs the Answer? by the Hendricks in Haiti | Rethinking Short Term Missions series by Desiring God

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Snapshots of a Mom

by Laura on May 8, 2012

I have snapshots of my mother stored away in the photo album of my 30-something-year-old memory.

There’s the picture of her singing resolutely “It is Well With My Soul” at a funeral- my dad’s, a 35 year-old father to four. Then there’s the picture of a gaunt face and a bald head- hers this time, as cancer once again visited our family several years later. And though disease stole breath from my father and a year from my mother’s health, she refused to let it steal her faith or her joy. And I have the photos to prove it.

I scroll through, and I can see snapshots of her sitting in the early-morning dark in prayer, her cheering from the bleachers embarrassing-loud during games I often sat the bench, and her dramatically directing summer musicals for a rag-tag group of kids.

My memory album holds images of her reading aloud C.S. Lewis {as we all cried that Aslan really died}, images of her building forts on rainy days, pictures of her from the front seat dolling out complicated clues to mystery trips.

I can see her teaching my sunday school classes, and I remember that time she literally stood with her heels on top of her marked-up Bible to tell a bunch of sixth graders that we should stand on the Word of God– no matter what.

I see her in cream as she marries again and in pink when she holds her first grandchild– mine, a girl.

I have an image of her at airport after airport, as she died innumerable small deaths– deaths to her own dreams of watching all her grandbabies grow up close, of birthday dinners and soccer games and long conversations in the flesh and over coffee on normal weekends. And I’ve watched her die them with grace and trust and a commitment to the Kingdom that outweighs everything else.

Mom, words will never express how deeply grateful I am to have such pictures of motherhood over my years as your daughter. My memory album is full, of you.

Thank you that the photos you created were happy ones that encouraged me to always, always look up.

Mom and I {My Third Birthday}

Happy Mother’s Day, friends. In honor of my own mom, I wanted to re-post this piece {with a few edits} I wrote for her in 2010. It all still rings very, very true.

Have a snapshot of your mom that you’d like to share? What was your favorite moment with her? And how are you going to celebrate her this year? Even if you aren’t going to physically be with her?

Related. Injustice of Skype | Leaving and Being Left | And Then, They Came {Video of My In-Laws Visiting Us}

Care to subscribe by email?

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Nights

by Laura on May 6, 2012

Heads-Up: The following is a more mature post about prostitution in Thailand, potentially inappropriate for younger readers. The girl in the story moved to the city to work in the bars, of her own accord {not being forcibly trafficked}. She was born into a world of poverty, little education, and a culture that in many ways readily accepts prostitution as a lucrative means of income. In some ways, you could ask if she had much of a choice, after all.

We both get ready for a night on the town.

I lean over the dresser and brush on mascara, while telling my kids to clean their rooms before the sitter comes. I straighten my hair for the first time in a week, and I squeeze into that cute strappy-top and those jeans that are just a tish too small but do wonders for my back end– at least that’s what he jokingly tells me.

She peers into the mirror and swipes on lipstick–bright red because it makes her look older, at least the 18 she claims. The girls crowd for mirror-space and chatter about makeup and last nights and family, back in the villages. She curls her hair, like every night since she came to the city, and zips up that tight dress, which makes her look sexier– at least that what he’s told her before.

I kiss kids and then ride in the front seat beside a husband that’s put on cologne for me. We linger over candles at dinner and treat ourselves to coffees afterwards. We hold hands beside the plates, and brush feet under the table, and think of the Romance to come.

She dances on stage and scans the evening crowd–trying to catch an approving eye, an interested gentleman. She locks eyes with a European, 50′s she thinks, dressed in baggy shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt stretched over a beer-belly. She watches as he motions for her to be brought to the table. She’s number 14, the card pinned to her chest. She sits beside him and rubs his leg and thinks of the night to come.

And I walk through my night as one born into wealth and education and opportunity. I enjoy my date night as a woman whose husband fights for her happiness.

And she walks through hers born into poverty and survival and the pressure to provide. She lives her nights as a woman whose parents expect money at the end of the month.

And my people look at her and say, “She always has a choice. How could she choose that?”

And her people look at me and say, “I can not imagine that life. How could she ever complain?”

And the night ends.

And I curl up beside a husband that protects me, thankful for my tomorrow with happy kids and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, again.

And she slips away from the sleeping stranger, glad she made quota for the night, thankful for the food that will be on her family’s table, back home.

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The above was inspired by a precious young prostitute we recently met. Her name is Ariel*. She says she’s 18, and she works to provide for her family in a remote village in Thailand. She is one of over 2 million men, women and children in the sex industry in Thailand. Pray for them, would you?

*name and some details changed to protect privacy, reposted from the archives

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Humpty Dumpty

by Laura on May 4, 2012

It takes guts to step out, to begin the adventure. It takes a certain amount of bravery and courage to first look for the risk, and then to be willing to push off the shore.

Water is scarier than land, after all. But, it’s oftentimes more thrilling, too.

And it takes guts to climb the tower, too. To stare up at the ladder that has grown much higher than it appeared from the other side of the dock, to put bare toes to rickety metal, anyway. To climb.

And, then, that look. down.

Terryifying enough to make you crouch at the top instead of stand with straight knees. And you see the watchers– those observing from the safety of their benches, in the cool of the shade, over sticky rice and cokes. Quick to cheer, yes, but quicker still to laugh at the white kids who might not have what it takes, after all.

And the pressure mounts. The expectation, the follow-through, the eyes looking up. The gravity of the smaller steps you’ve made that have lead you to this colossal jump begin to weigh heavier with each moment your heart pounds in your ears.

So, you muster courage, close your eyes, and you leap. Flail through the air, limbs and lungs screaming.

And it’s adrenaline-pumping victory, for a few glorious, petrifying seconds. . .

But what if, what if.

After all of that, you hit pavement? You smack cement. The water was a mirage, and you find yourself shocked and shattered into a million different pieces, like glass on marble. What if there is no confident kick to the surface, no cheering crowd to greet you when you suck that first breath? No high-fives. No sighs of relief. No heroic story to tell on the boat ride back.

What then? Where is God in that? How is that fair or good? To have the courage to leap, but to be blindsided with epic failure?

Maybe, maybe, in that case, broken is what he was after all along.

And shattered becomes the path to greatness, instead of the heroic fanfare you expected.

Perhaps the real danger lies in the assumption that an unsuspecting leap to cement speaks of a God who isn’t able to put all things back together again,

better, and stronger.

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To the Homeschooling Mom Who Changes Her Mind

May 2, 2012

Dear Homeschooling Mom Who Is Considering Putting Your Kids In School Next Year, Even if you’ve waved the homeschooling banner strong in years past, you are not less of a mother for considering sending your kids to public school full-time. It is not failure to change direction mid-course, and it doesn’t in any way mean [...]

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The Wrong Bullseye {Goals vs. Desires}

April 30, 2012

“I’m sad to confess that I yell at my kids most often when I am trying to finish a P90x workout video in my bedroom. It seems that regardless of how occupied they all appear to be before I push play, they descend on my exercise time like locusts on a fall crop. Suddenly, I [...]

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The Word We Hate to Say

April 27, 2012

We just said goodbye to our closest family friends here in Thailand. It was one of those very rare relationships where everyone in the family actually enjoyed each other — the kids, the wives, the husbands. And it was community born of necessity, and desperation, and proximity. We iced Christmas cookies together, we babysat each [...]

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{Authentic!} Thai Basil Chicken

April 23, 2012

I love Thai food. Not the boiled intestines or the congealed blood so much, but on the whole Thai food is pretty amazing. It’s spicy and fresh and has tons of flavor. And it’s about a dollar a plate, typically, which is an added bonus. Two weeks ago, my friend Deb had one of the [...]

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One More Piece of Advice for First Year Missionaries

April 20, 2012

When I wrote about the top five mistakes I made during my first year overseas, I loved checking my inbox for the several days following the post. I loved hearing from missionaries all over the world, some of whom have logged decades overseas, some who are leaving next month, and most of whom said that [...]

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When Rice is New

April 18, 2012

After a season of slash-and-burn, of smoke-filling-air, of black-ash covering fields, they’ve started to plant the rice again. And I am reminded, by the process of the Thai farmer, that things often have to be burned and consumed, broken and charred, first. And then, sometimes only then, New Life is able to sprout, and give [...]

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