Though there are several ways to see the Angkor Temples - the famous temples in northern Cambodia - I decided that I would rent a bike and take a tour by myself. I woke up at 7:30am, and made my way over to the bike rental place. For a grand $1.50, I was able to rent what seemed like a decent bike for the day.
It was quite easy to navigate my way through Siem Reap, the city near Angkor, and make my way to the front gates of Angkor in about 1 hour. The men at the front stand said I needed to buy a ticket and pointed me in the direction I needed to go. As I was enjoying the scenery around the road, I began to hear a funny noise coming from my bike. Before I could even stop to look at it, a loud noise came from my tire and completely deflated. I quickly came to a stop and began to examine my new problem. I couldn't see anything seriously wrong with the tire so I figured it was just a hole in my inner tube.
I was about half way between the ticket office and the front gate and decided that I would make my way to the ticket office and see if there was someone who could help. After about 30 minutes I arrived at the ticket office and the very kind man told me to continue down the road for about 10 minutes and there would be a bike stand. I arrived at the bike stand and the man began to look at it. He immediately showed me a massive split in the tire and with his hands explained that he would have to go into town to buy a new one. So I sat there drinking my water and laughed to myself at the situation. The man eventually made it back after about 20 minutes and very quickly put the new tire and tube on. I payed him $10 dollars and with a smile said goodbye and made my way back to the ticket office.
Its really not that big of a deal, right? Even so, I realized today that my patience has developed immensely since I have left the US. If this situation would have happened a year ago, I would have been on the verge of melting down. Though I wasn't exactly happy about the whole thing, without thinking about it I calmly figured out what to do and within an hour was able to get everything solved.
An hour.
How many times has an hour meant life or death to me? - "I can't stay on this bus one more hour or I am going to go crazy", "If I stay on this plane for another hour I am going to freak out", "Do you seriously expect me to sit through this lecture for an entire hour?"
But really an hour is only an hour. A small hiccup in our lives. I don't think that I have ever realized how insignificant an hour is and even had the patience to understand this until now. I usually go through a day without having to wait for anything and everything happens in the timing I want it to. It's so easy for us to do that. But sometimes situations throw curve balls at us, maybe just to see how we handle it.
For me, it takes a flat tire and an hour to really understand a small change this whole trip has had on me. I am grateful for this and I hope that it continues to work on the other flawed areas of who I am.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Saturday, December 22, 2007
The Lepor's hand
I have been having a very difficult time trying to explain my current state of mind concerning my faith in God. For some reason, until yesterday words seems to do no justice to how I have been feeling.
But yesterday I remembered watching a movie in Mongolia after a nice day's work of laying bricks called The Kingdom Of Heaven. The movie was alright. It kinda dragged on a bit but was entertaining. I don't remember the exact scene or even the story line for that matter but I do remember a scene when the mother of the soon-to-be King (then a child) realized that he had leprosy and in that moment she realized that because of this he could not reign as King.
That scene paints a very real picture of the way I have been experiencing my faith for nearly 6 months:
The mother can see the hand and feel the hand, it exists and is very real. There is no way to deny that. But when she touches the hand with a hot needle, the boy cannot feel a thing. He does not move or flinch.
In the same way that the mother can see and feel the hand, I know my faith is real and that the God I worship exists. There is no way to deny that. But as of recent, I feel much more like the boy. With his eyes he can see his hand and with an outside object he can touch it, but inside him at the tips of his fingers, he does not feel a thing. Much similarly, in the bottom of my heart I do not feel my faith. When the hot needle of my faith touches the fingers of my heart, I do not move and I do not flinch.
This is a very foreign thing to me and I know that these things pass, only making one's faith stronger and more real. Its just so odd to be surrounded by the least of the least day in and day out, the true face of God, but still not feel a sense of God in my heart.
As I have written before, a distance in feeling does not always mean a distance in faith and I believe that God is walking next to me and carrying me when I am weak.
I only write this now because I feel it is important to express how we feel with honesty and it wasn't until yesterday that this was possible.
Thank you to all for your amazing support!
But yesterday I remembered watching a movie in Mongolia after a nice day's work of laying bricks called The Kingdom Of Heaven. The movie was alright. It kinda dragged on a bit but was entertaining. I don't remember the exact scene or even the story line for that matter but I do remember a scene when the mother of the soon-to-be King (then a child) realized that he had leprosy and in that moment she realized that because of this he could not reign as King.
That scene paints a very real picture of the way I have been experiencing my faith for nearly 6 months:
The mother can see the hand and feel the hand, it exists and is very real. There is no way to deny that. But when she touches the hand with a hot needle, the boy cannot feel a thing. He does not move or flinch.
In the same way that the mother can see and feel the hand, I know my faith is real and that the God I worship exists. There is no way to deny that. But as of recent, I feel much more like the boy. With his eyes he can see his hand and with an outside object he can touch it, but inside him at the tips of his fingers, he does not feel a thing. Much similarly, in the bottom of my heart I do not feel my faith. When the hot needle of my faith touches the fingers of my heart, I do not move and I do not flinch.
This is a very foreign thing to me and I know that these things pass, only making one's faith stronger and more real. Its just so odd to be surrounded by the least of the least day in and day out, the true face of God, but still not feel a sense of God in my heart.
As I have written before, a distance in feeling does not always mean a distance in faith and I believe that God is walking next to me and carrying me when I am weak.
I only write this now because I feel it is important to express how we feel with honesty and it wasn't until yesterday that this was possible.
Thank you to all for your amazing support!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Moments
In 10 months, there has been a handfull of times, or moments as I like to call them when I am instantly and overwhelmingly reminded that I am living my dream. That being here is exactly where I am suppose to be and everything becomes peaceful in that moment.
Yesterday I experienced another of these moments.
As I sat on the top of a "junk boat" with the wind blowing in my face and the sun setting in the distance, I watched the seemingly endless and beautiiful islands that make up Ha Long Bay in northern Vietnam slowly glide by. And very softly I thought to myself:
This is my dream.
This country. This boat. These people. This is why I didnt go out to dinner twice that week. This is why I didnt by those jeans.
To be here. To do this.
We are rarely given the opportunity to actually do what our crazy minds think up.
I thank God for this.
Yesterday I experienced another of these moments.
As I sat on the top of a "junk boat" with the wind blowing in my face and the sun setting in the distance, I watched the seemingly endless and beautiiful islands that make up Ha Long Bay in northern Vietnam slowly glide by. And very softly I thought to myself:
This is my dream.
This country. This boat. These people. This is why I didnt go out to dinner twice that week. This is why I didnt by those jeans.
To be here. To do this.
We are rarely given the opportunity to actually do what our crazy minds think up.
I thank God for this.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Breakfast With God
The week before I left Beijing, I had been craving eggs $ bacon. It wasn't a strong "go out of my way to find it" craving but it was definitely on my mind. That said...
For the last few months I have been wrestling with God over some things I disagree with and can't get my mind around. I feel like a child who is throwing a temper tantrum because his Dad said something he didn't like. I believe we go through times when its hard to digest all that is God and when it becomes too much we shut down. We turn off. This is probably the worst thing we can do but we all do it. Its easier to stop thinking sometimes than to think things through. But it's the struggles that we work through that make us who we are.
When we are not struggling we are not thinking and when we are not thinking, we are not living.
I knew this but somehow forgot it until last Sunday.
The Sunday before I left Beijing, a couple friends of mine wanted to go get coffee and invited me. We went to a place I had never been. I didn't think much of it until the menu came. Guess what was on it - Eggs & Bacon. It was like God said with a small voice "Here you go Mike. Its nothing special but I wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Hang in there."
Thanks for breakfast.
For the last few months I have been wrestling with God over some things I disagree with and can't get my mind around. I feel like a child who is throwing a temper tantrum because his Dad said something he didn't like. I believe we go through times when its hard to digest all that is God and when it becomes too much we shut down. We turn off. This is probably the worst thing we can do but we all do it. Its easier to stop thinking sometimes than to think things through. But it's the struggles that we work through that make us who we are.
When we are not struggling we are not thinking and when we are not thinking, we are not living.
I knew this but somehow forgot it until last Sunday.
The Sunday before I left Beijing, a couple friends of mine wanted to go get coffee and invited me. We went to a place I had never been. I didn't think much of it until the menu came. Guess what was on it - Eggs & Bacon. It was like God said with a small voice "Here you go Mike. Its nothing special but I wanted you to know I was thinking about you. Hang in there."
Thanks for breakfast.
Friday, November 23, 2007
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Sunday, November 18, 2007
Names On Walls
This morning, I wrote the names of 3 children who have recently passed away on the wall of our home. I wasn't really close to these particular children and didnt even spend time with 2 of them. Either way, its a very odd and awkward thing to do.
Names on a wall. These children have become names on a wall.
I have had an overwhelming feeling the last 2 months that what I was doing wasn't really making a huge difference in anything. Sure, I spend time with the kids and we have fun. Sometimes I even teach them a thing or two. But, I was beginning to feel that when I left it wouldn't make a difference to the kids and that I would leave no lasting impression through my work here in China. And, to an extent, that is very true. You can't change the world in 3 months.
But today I realized that the way I have been looking at this whole thing is very selfish. I have been so worried about "my" work and what differences "I" can make that I have so easily forgotten that this is not about "my" work or what "I" can do. Its about them. Yes, when I leave the kids here will forget me and I highly doubt any of them will cry because I never walk into their playroom again. But thats not really important.
I have realized that what is important is that they are loved. That they feel comfortable and safe. That they smile. That they laugh. That they experience happiness and joy.
These things are important.
Not me.
Names on a wall. These children have become names on a wall.
I have had an overwhelming feeling the last 2 months that what I was doing wasn't really making a huge difference in anything. Sure, I spend time with the kids and we have fun. Sometimes I even teach them a thing or two. But, I was beginning to feel that when I left it wouldn't make a difference to the kids and that I would leave no lasting impression through my work here in China. And, to an extent, that is very true. You can't change the world in 3 months.
But today I realized that the way I have been looking at this whole thing is very selfish. I have been so worried about "my" work and what differences "I" can make that I have so easily forgotten that this is not about "my" work or what "I" can do. Its about them. Yes, when I leave the kids here will forget me and I highly doubt any of them will cry because I never walk into their playroom again. But thats not really important.
I have realized that what is important is that they are loved. That they feel comfortable and safe. That they smile. That they laugh. That they experience happiness and joy.
These things are important.
Not me.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Valleys
Wow. I have been in China for nearly 3 months now. It seems like I just arrived from Mongolia yesterday. My time here has been more than amazing. The friends I have made and the work I have been a part of have definitely been the highlight of my trip so far. I truly cant put into words the significance of what this organization (New Hope Foundation) is doing for these kids.
Now, after 3 months, I can walk into any playroom in our home(there are 3) and I will be tackled by little rugrats before I can shut the door. I no longer need to bribe the kids with candy and chocolate to play with me. If a child catches me walking down the hall they come running at me knowing I will soon administer my signiture "tickle torture" technique on them. The nannies hand over babies to me when they are crying and to my disbelief they actually stop crying when they are in my arms. And yes, I actually changed a diaper(emphasis on "a", but it still counts).
I feel at home in many ways.
But with all of this surrounding me, I feel as though my heart has left a mountain top and entered into a valley in a way. I have had a feeling of defeat for some time now. I cant explain why. I am surrounding by life and imagination here, but cannot capture it. Its as if the passion in my my heart has escaped me and I dont know how to get it back. I read somewhere, and have probably said this before, that "in order to get to the next mountain top, you have to go through a valley." I do believe this and acknowledge the upmost importance of the struggles of life, but that never really makes it much easier does it?
When I was in Peru, I did a 5-day trek that ended with watching the sunrise over the historic ruins of Machu Picchu. 5 days. It wasnt an Everst attempt but it was phyically trying. On the last day, we had the option of treking to the peak of Machu Picchu in the dark or taking a 15 minute bus. Me and my new friend Sergio decided we wouldnt feel right taking the bus and at 4:00am went on our merry way up the mountain. On a scale of 1-5, 1 being relatively easy and 5 being extremely strenuous, I would say the next 2 hours were about a 7. Seriously. I am not exagerating. But if we slowed down we would miss the sunrise and that, in our minds, would be a devistating thing. So we kept going. Sergio was more fit than me so I had to keep stopping to catch my breath but we eventually made it. And, luckily for us, before the sunrise. So we climbed up a couple more rocks and found a good seat to watch the sun come up over the mystical mountains of Peru. As the sun slowly crept up from behind the peaks, we looked at each other and in our eyes you could see that the trek that morning had made the sunrise even more beautiful to us. Sometimes, most the time, the climb is worth the view.
Im not sure how far I am into my climb out of this valley right now. Maybe an hour, maybe 2, maybe 15 minutes. Either way, I know that the sunrise at the top in going to be beauiful and I cant wait to see it.
Now, after 3 months, I can walk into any playroom in our home(there are 3) and I will be tackled by little rugrats before I can shut the door. I no longer need to bribe the kids with candy and chocolate to play with me. If a child catches me walking down the hall they come running at me knowing I will soon administer my signiture "tickle torture" technique on them. The nannies hand over babies to me when they are crying and to my disbelief they actually stop crying when they are in my arms. And yes, I actually changed a diaper(emphasis on "a", but it still counts).
I feel at home in many ways.
But with all of this surrounding me, I feel as though my heart has left a mountain top and entered into a valley in a way. I have had a feeling of defeat for some time now. I cant explain why. I am surrounding by life and imagination here, but cannot capture it. Its as if the passion in my my heart has escaped me and I dont know how to get it back. I read somewhere, and have probably said this before, that "in order to get to the next mountain top, you have to go through a valley." I do believe this and acknowledge the upmost importance of the struggles of life, but that never really makes it much easier does it?
When I was in Peru, I did a 5-day trek that ended with watching the sunrise over the historic ruins of Machu Picchu. 5 days. It wasnt an Everst attempt but it was phyically trying. On the last day, we had the option of treking to the peak of Machu Picchu in the dark or taking a 15 minute bus. Me and my new friend Sergio decided we wouldnt feel right taking the bus and at 4:00am went on our merry way up the mountain. On a scale of 1-5, 1 being relatively easy and 5 being extremely strenuous, I would say the next 2 hours were about a 7. Seriously. I am not exagerating. But if we slowed down we would miss the sunrise and that, in our minds, would be a devistating thing. So we kept going. Sergio was more fit than me so I had to keep stopping to catch my breath but we eventually made it. And, luckily for us, before the sunrise. So we climbed up a couple more rocks and found a good seat to watch the sun come up over the mystical mountains of Peru. As the sun slowly crept up from behind the peaks, we looked at each other and in our eyes you could see that the trek that morning had made the sunrise even more beautiful to us. Sometimes, most the time, the climb is worth the view.
Im not sure how far I am into my climb out of this valley right now. Maybe an hour, maybe 2, maybe 15 minutes. Either way, I know that the sunrise at the top in going to be beauiful and I cant wait to see it.
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