Art Class

Change of Scenery

I was last minute invited on a weekend excursion to the beach. Five volunteers said they had an extra place that I could fill because my last trip didn't end up working out...! So I was able to enjoy God's glory in complete relaxation. It was different glory from the crazy and busy life here in Manila. Good all the same. Except for the sunburn...I learned my lesson with my last beach experience ruined by the suns harmful rays. I was so careful and cautious and aware! Sunscreen and umbrellas and indoors and more sunscreen. Now I just know it is a battle that cannot be won.

Within minutes of our arrival, the vendors take notice and start their approach. Baskets, necklaces, pearls, bracelets, sunglasses, fresh fruit sliced and served; beggars with a simple loose change cup and nothing to offer. All for special price, just for me. All new arrivals. All persistent after rejection.

No thank you, sir. No thank you, ma'am. That's my one-liner-tell-off-attempt as I walk away trying to look confident in my denial but melting inside.

Okay, maybe later, ma'am? I come back later. Tomorrow?

Umm...I say, buckling. And they know and I know and they're happy and I'm angry. I don't know. And they try to catch me with eye contact and I'm still angry. And they still know. Because I'm buckling.

Ma'am? Maybe later?

Okay. I walk away. Maybe later.

And there you go. That's all they want. That's what they know how to do. I always walk away feeling sort of taken advantage of...I secretly want to leave a light aroma of bitterness so they know that I know that they know! But I actually don't know. And it's frustrating and it's tiring. And it's a situation that's simply hard to know how to react to. And it is everywhere: the beach, the markets, the malls, the shops...the everywhere. We drive out into the horrendous Manila traffic, sitting sometimes half hours at a time in the same quarter mile of street.

Young children stand on the very tips of their bare toes, peering up into our windows. Eye contact is made. They hold high above their heads a handful of Sampaguita, the national flower. Three or four of these flower buds are woven onto a string that can hang on your rearview mirror and serve as an air freshener that lasts for a day before withering up and losing scent. Or any other number of purposes. The simple, maybe useless flower necklace isn't supposed to catch your eye, obviously. Tilted heads, inferior eyes, tattered clothing, dirt-covered and bare feet, silent cries. Window after window, day after day, night after night, earning about 8 cents at every sale, seeing about zero cents at the end of the long work day when earnings go to the rightful owners. That catches eyes.

Blind beggars use an escort, following close behind in the shadows of the child street vendors. The escort uses one hand to back and one to support the blind beggar's cupped hand. The eyes of the escort which see stare at you. Don't you see his state? Have mercy on him. The eyes of the blind which cannot see stare at you. Eyes grayed and glazed and dead, they speak for themselves. They beg for themselves.

Never give in to them. It's not good for them. Remind yourself. It's never what it seems. Keep crackers in the dashboard. Don't give in to them.

If you don't look them in their eyes, working or broken, it can make it easier. But they stay and stare into your eyes that are pretending not to pay attention. A quick knock on the window tells them you're not interested. They sometimes move on at that, sometimes just stay. And sometimes knock back or just tap their small or withered finger on the window.

It's what they know how to do.

It's guilt and shame and pity, frustration and helplessness, sympathy, hopelessness, confusion...brokenness. It's everywhere.

A few of the many that seemingly mobbed us shortly after our arrival on Puerto Galera were women native to the beautiful Filipino island of Mindora. One of the women introduced herself, Alona. I was surprised. I heard that name before...and I knew it meant something worth finding out. As we talked, the other vendors seemed to disappear. But Alona and three other woman stood there sharing their beautiful, endless selection of colorful bracelets and hand woven baskets. There was something about their approach or maybe just their overall aroma that held my attention. They were so special.

I ordered an anklet to be made with writing on it and told them I'd buy bracelets when I picked up my anklet later that day.

You met Alona? Kim said to me as I entered the room. And suddenly I connected all of the dots. And I was moved and I was taken back.

A couple of months ago in May, my sister Katy and her two friends Jaime and Emily ran a booth for Jefferson High School's 2008 Diversity Day. They did the same thing for the 2007 Diversity Day. Different booths are supposed to represent different types of diversity whether it be culturally, ethnically, spiritually...anything diverse...which is everything. When I was first introduced to the idea of going to the Philippines I heard about a ministry called Threads of Hope. It was founded on the hope to rescue this small island from the state of desperation it was in. Bracelet making and selling was not enough to survive on, resulting in resorting to prostitution, selling kids into prostitution and barely surviving even then after ultimate sacrifice of innocence and life itself. The story in its entirety is really amazing, you can read the account of the missionary, Alex Kuhlow who had the vision of revival and acted upon it here: http://limelight-designs.com/threads.htm

Kuhlow bought thousands of bracelets and over time has dispersed them all over the Philippines, all over America...all over. He brought the bracelets with the story woven into everyone of them and has moved thousands of hearts.

Katy, Jaime and Emily ran the booth: Philippines. Hundreds of these bracelets laid out over their table, they told the story of the women of Mindora to the students at Jefferson High School. From desperation to revival. And students remembered the booth and were still wearing the bracelets from the previous year.

I sat at that booth watching in complete adoration those three girls representing something so worthy of representation.

Today I said goodbye to the very women who sat and wove every single one of those bracelets. The ones on the wrists and ankles of students at Jefferson High School and other students, campers, people alike all around America and here and wherever else they've made it to by miracle. Only God knows where each has landed. And the ones that are with me now. The ones my sister and I picked out for each other in knowledge that we would be separated for a time.

What a beautiful picture of Hope. And the truth in miracles of victory over hopelessness. Glory, glory, glory...for Light in the darkness. For connections connected. For Alona and all of Mindora. For revival.

Prologue

I am in a place I remember being some time ago…in more ways than one. Besides the obvious physical factor in being in the Philippines before and being here again now, a similarity much more prominent is weighing on me. The combination of the lifestyle of this culture and the lifestyle of this ministry, so much is going on always. Always moving, always busy, always changing, always adapting. Merging back into all of this took and is still taking a lot of trust. It is a constant pursuit of a constant focus in order to attain only the surface of this unnatural action called trust…or surrender. I find overprotective guards up in places unexpectedly protected and unexpected exposure to powerful vulnerabilities.
Clarity unfortunately is not a pledged constant. Courage is frighteningly much more than deciding to go. The beautiful promise of victory isn’t ease during inevitable battle.
Times like these make me wish I were a singer/songwriter. I feel being that would then somehow allow me to get it all out. The whole process is real and raw and fascinating. Experiencing the initial inspiration. Interpreting the inspiration poetically, lyrically, and musically. Working through the strife of rewriting, rewording, re-noting. Only letting hope and faith and belief in the inspiration uphold the melody. And finally, singing your heart out singing your song out with the passion in your voice supporting every purely composed lyric. The magical blend of a deeply personal journey and sharing the glory of it all.
I want to and will talk all about the Philippines…but I haven’t set my focus yet enough to. I haven’t figured out how to interpret this inspiration. In this place before, I fought redundancy always. The same words itched to surface; making sense in everything, encompassing whatever idea.
Cling. Truth. Journey. Revel. Glory. Story. Song.
Looking forward to the many tales sure to come from here and everywhere, honored and newly humbled every time, I draw back and hold tight to the inspiration.
Cling to the truth in the story of this journey and revel in the glory of the song it is writing.
His grace is sufficient, his glory is everywhere.
In clarity and in mystery. In courage and in terror. In victories and in battles.
Always and forever.