Laura Parker

Today I expected too much of my children.

I swore in my head when my toddler dripped spaghetti,

and then I swore out loud when I dropped the keys in the dirt.

Today I rolled my eyes when a Thai woman asked to photo our {sweaty, tired} blonde family.

And then I smiled-plastic, and I faked it.

Today I grumbled of the trash-burning-smell and the always-sticky-heat.

Today I ate all the Rice Krispie treats that were supposed to be gifts, and then

I made my kids eat popcorn and carrots for dinner.  And that’s all.

And I resented.  And wallowed.  And sunk-low.

And I stepped on little people’s feelings, and I clutched-tight my comfort and

my way.

Today was all grit and no glamor,

and I fell woefully short on every front.

And that is just the truth of it.

Had a day that needs some confessing yourself?

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Typos that don’t get fixed.

Comments that go unanswered.

Videos that only half-upload.

Unexplained absences.

This is the fallout from attempting to blog consistently from rice fields.

Internet is a commodity I have learned not to count on in this life overseas.  Wireless and speed have become smaller concerns in light of just having anything, at all.  (Currently, we do not have internet access at our house.)  Sometimes I will be in the middle of editing a live post when the power goes out for the evening because of a storm.  Other times, I will have to write an update at home and upload it later at a coffee shop, in the space of time it takes my three children to be distracted by the consumption of one icecream cone each.  I don’t have a phone that will text messages to Twitter, and I generally don’t have web access long enough to post the videos I have in que for YouTube.  In a world where social networking has become such a large factor in “blog success,” I am not in a position to be social {based on my present foreign location} or network {based on my current technological lameness}.

And I would be lying to say that I don’t grit my teeth at this reality.  A lot.

It seems in my “blogging ability,” I am tied in many ways to this latitude I’m walking.

But, then again, I am tied in many ways to this latitude I am walking.

And maybe the lessons learned are worth the restraints.

Regardless, thank you for your patience and grace . . .

And maybe your lower expectations, too.

Since I typically write while you sleep (literally), consider subscribing to Life Overseas.  Posts get sent to your email, so you won’t miss one single thing–regardless of when I throw it up on the web.  It’s free and easy.

And, as always, I love your comments.  It reminds me that other people speak English, and that some are actually reading the English I write.  Happy Almost-Weekend, Friends.

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So, stop.  Right now.  Look Around.  Pause.  Notice.  In the backyard.  Outside the window.

OR

Think about your drive home from work today.   Imagine.  Remember.  In the line-of-sight.  Outside the car.

How will your eyes feast on beauty today?

Because there is always, always beauty worth noticing.

“Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every bush afire with God; But only he who sees takes off his shoes, The rest sit around it and pluck blackberries.” {elizabeth barrett browning}

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I gave the journal to my son to fill with long-legged stick-figures in blue crayon (his favorite).  We had carried around the empty book for years, and as we were packing during our recent move to Thailand, somehow the blank journal got moved from the dusty box in the storage room to the crammed-to-the-max suitcases that were destined to cross oceans.  And though Matt had seen them before, it wasn’t until just today that I read the first two pages.

I saw my husband’s small slanted print in blue pen (his favorite).  It was written years ago–maybe at a coffee shop in North Carolina or on the island of Saipan, maybe in a youth pastor’s office with posters on the wall or in a living room where a newborn slept upstairs.  This forgotten journal, now residing in a basket of homeschooling supplies in Thailand, contained two pages of notes from years back outlining a dream, a vision, an idea.

The vision was for our family to mentor college students within the classroom of an overseas experience. Ten years ago, young newlyweds teaching in the South Pacific, we talked in vague-idealism about living in a foreign country, about radically serving, and about pouring life and challenge into 20-somethings from our own culture.  And, at times over the years, the vision was fuzzy, or even forgotten.  At other times, it was reached for, and then snatched away. And, then, there were entire seasons where three babies and church ministry and life just consumed most everything else.  But, it was always re-visited. Always sighed-over. Always asked-in-the-quiet-for.

Maybe someday, he, especially, would say.

And the forgotten journal is evidence. With lists in blue ink, made by a much-younger man, I was reminded afresh of the history of the dream birthed a literal decade ago.

And tonight, as I type, Matt is going to pick up two college students. These girls are the first of seven who will be living and serving with us over the next three months here in Chiang Mai. And we will bring white hands to smaller brown ones, and we will share the realities of a life poured out.   And the dream will finally be tasted.

And I am excited and hopeful tonight.  But mostly, I’m grateful.

Grateful for living a Story that has a history.

And grateful for finding the proof of it.

Today, of all days.

This post is dedicated to our friends R. and J., who are stepping out in faith, to pursue a God-breathed dream of their own.

Have a dream that you need to remember?

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I’ve watched two men struggle to keep afloat.

My little man, Cade, is barely a whole handful of years.  Last week, we logged countless pool hours during our vacation to Pattaya in Southern Thailand.  And Cade was determined to swim.  In the deep end.  He desperately wanted the freedom to be a contender in the cannon-ball contests and chafed at the thought of his older sister doing something that he couldn’t.

And so I watched him from water’s edge.  I watched him struggle and spit chlorine.  I watched his arms push water and his feet kick-desperate.

And I didn’t help him.

I knew he could make that reach for the cement ledge of safety.  And I also knew that one day, he might need to tread water for a period of time, might need to make it to the side by himself, might need to hold his own in the pool.  If he falls off a boat.  Or if he dives in when no one’s watching.  Or if he challenges his sister to a race across the deep end. The boy has to learn to swim.

And I reckon the only way to make him a stronger swimmer, is to choose to watch the struggle.  But I don’t have to like it.  And I didn’t.

I married a leader– an inspirational one at that. My husband is the kind of man you want to follow into battle.  He’s a visionary, a William Wallace, an Aragorn.  Ask any youth who has sat under his teaching or any college kid he’s mentored–or just ask me. He has a gift of passionate leadership unlike any I have ever seen.

But for the past five months, I’ve watched him struggle in the water. I’ve watched him choke on hard decisions, and I’ve seen his confidence go the way of the dive stick down below.  As a relational, authentic man, he has been silenced with language and isolated by culture.  And I’ve seen him gasp for air and kick-desperate.

And I can’t do much to help; I don’t have the strength to lift this man out of the water.  But I know the Father does.

And, yet, he doesn’t seem to be offering much right now, either.

But then I remember my own controlled-resistance in the pool last week with Cade, and I am driven towards a deeper faith as I stand in this water.  I have to believe the struggle is only continuing because the bird’s eye view of the Story involves a pivotal scene where it’s vital that my husband be able to tread water for longer, that he be strong enough to cross an ocean, or that he keep all of our heads above water in a raging river.

And maybe that’s why this man I’d follow around the world and back again is being allowed to struggle.  So. Much.

And I get it.  I do. The struggle makes for stronger swimmers.

But, I still don’t have to like it.

“Every circumstance that God gives us, every person that he puts into our lives, is the perfect preparation for the future only He can see.” -Corrie Ten Boom

Who is struggling in the water right now in your life–yourself or someone you love?

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Boredom in the midst of plethora.

That’s the story around these parts all too often.  Somehow the equation goes a little like this:

Somehow when the matchbox cars and Connect Four game are hidden in the bottom of the toy chest under a stuffed animal or two, they get lost.  And not enjoyed.  And though the reality is that there are plenty of things to play with, somehow they’re not playing with any of the things.

Enter the Coffee Table Toy. The idea is simple.  Pull out one item (or group of items) each morning and set it on the coffee table in your living room.  Dominoes.  Lego sets.  A stack of puzzles.  A box of K’nex.  Transformers or Barbies.  Even a grouping of fun picture books.  Throughout the day, your kids will probably find themselves really playing with your showcased toy-for-the-day.   And, if you ever hear the word “bored” coming out of their little mouths, you have an activity you can immediately direct them towards.  At the end of the day, put that Coffee Table Toy away, and choose something fresh for tomorrow.

Oh, and don’t forget to play some yourself, too.

Have any practical ideas on how to better engage kids with their toys?  Share them with us.

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“Language is power.”  -Matt in a conversation about how vulnerable we feel because of our current language barrier

“Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.”  – book of James, Bible

Thailand is teaching me to shut-up.

Literally, when you can’t speak {very much of} the language, you quickly learn to just stop talking.  You learn to be quiet and observe more intently.  You learn humility in the not-knowing, and you taste a God-friendship in the isolation.  Even when I speak through a translator, I am learning the necessity of using few and  simple words.  Shutting-up is also teaching me to pray, smile, and hug much more often.  Mostly though, it is teaching me about where the true Power lies.

Let me explain.  Just tonight, I was meeting with our two college girls–recent graduates from Breanna’s House of Joy, who are currently supported as they pursue higher education.  We typically meet twice a month with a translator outside a Starbucks downtown.  We talk about their lives and then study the story of Jesus in the Bible.  And tonight, well, tonight did not go well.  At all.  My mind scrambled for the right words.  The translator fumbled.  The girls gave blank stares.  It was trudging through thigh-deep mud.  Uphill.  After already having run a marathon.

Messy.  Slow.  Exhausting.

And we were only 20 minutes in, and I had already run out of things to say.  I had left my Bible in the car and theirs were in Thai.  I had dropped the ball on preparing for the meeting in the first place, and so I hadn’t come with an inspirational story to deliver.  To be honest, I hadn’t even read the assigned chapters.  I was lost.  And we still had 40 minutes left to stare and smile at each other across the table.

And then I heard the familiar Whisper— as a thought, quick and definite.  And it asked  me where the Power to inspire and change and grow comes from in the first place.

And so, we opened the Word, and we let Him speak for Himself.

And we talked about Jesus being Bread and Water.  And we read about how he took a few loaves and a couple of fish and fed thousands.  We talked about how belief leads to Life and

how he is enough for even the thirstiest soul.

And those were much better words than I could ever have spoken in the first place.

Thoughts on shutting-up?  In what ways are more words not always the answer?

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“Don’t you know he enjoys giving rest to those he loves?”

“So those who went off with heavy hearts will come home laughing, with armloads of blessing.”

- selected verses from psalm 126, 127 {the Message}

I unpack the suitcases and shake out the sand.  I run to the store and stock up on veggies, declaring junk food a thing of last week.  I download the pictures, and I throw away the nearly-empty sunscreen bottles.

And then I wake up early.  And exercise.  And pull out the homeschooling books.  And turn my heart towards staying home.

Vacation is over; the routine has begun again.

And, so, today will be a choice–born of the will, and not my emotions.  It will be a choice to give thanks, anyway, and

a choice to hold my tongue, regardless.

It will be a choice to throw myself into serving, quietly, and

without complaint.

How about you?  Have any thoughts about life after vacation?

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When it rains, it pours.  Looks like all of my guest postings happened to fall on the same week.  Go figure.

This time, though, I have written something a bit different.  More factual.  More “real-article-ish.”  I would love for you to take a second and go read it.  It gives a better overview of the problem of prostitution here in Thailand and SouthEast Asia, and I even quote smart people, like some dude at Harvard.

The article is featured over at RELEVANT MAGAZINE.  If you haven’t spent some time there, I would suggest it.  Zondervan sponsors this online magazine (with writers whose names you might actually recognize), and it does an excellent job addressing how God meshes today with progressive culture.  And it’s got cool pictures.

Check out my article entitled WALK SLOWLY, and leave me a comment over there, if ya wanna.

And, thanks for following me a bit around the web this month.

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It is no small thing for a man to marry a woman who already has children.

Especially when there are four of them.

As many of you already know, my natural father died from cancer when I was seven years old.  A few years later, my mom remarried, and the name “Dad” re-entered our worlds once again.  In honor of his birthday which was this week, our Monday’s question {on Wednesday–I blame vacation and Internet troubles} is simply,

What do you appreciate most about your dad (or stepfather or father-figure)?

And this question comes with a challenge, too.  Email him or call him or link him to your comment here or something, but tell your dad today what you love about him.  Life is short, and seize the day, and all that.

Check out the comment section, and you can see what I wrote about my own dad there.

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We found ourselves there by accident.

By miscommunication.  And ignorance.  And impulsively hopping off the taxi-truck too early.

We thought we were headed to a pedestrian walking street, with ice cream shops and t-shirts for tourists.

But one wrong alley later, Matt and I found ourselves with our three little children in the heart of potentially the

worst red-light district in the world.

We clutched little hands tighter, and we started walking faster.  Matt and I talked-cheerful to our three blondes, but we caught each other’s eyes, and we both knew. We felt the weight, the oppression, and we prayed desperate-God-you-have-to-rescue prayers, as we navigated the maze of alleys and bars, searching for another taxi or a safer street.  But, the further we went in, the harder it was to find our way out–dead-ends and more alleys that only lead to more bars.  It was waking up in a nightmare–exposed, vulnerable, trapped.  Cheap sex dripped from everywhere– billboards, music, people, clothes.  It was evident that we did not belong, and so they all stared.

Short-skirted asian women, applying makeup, on tall bar stools.

Overweight white men, drinking beer, on leather chairs.

And we left as quickly as we could manage, physically sick to our stomachs. We took a taxi back to where we started, bought icecream on the beach with our kids, and prayed.  We had only spent a very-accidental 15 minutes in Pattaya’s red-light district, famous for it’s blatant sex industry, but it had left both Matt and I shaken and marked.

And today I cried on the beach.  While my three little ones shoveled sand, I cried for the injustice of it all.  I sunk under the knowledge that we humans can be such an evil bunch, and I wept for the realities of women in this country.  I cried for the understanding that just blocks away from where I sat under an umbrella, precious souls were selling themselves for eight dollars a night, and I cried for the men who were paying for it.

And honestly, I just wanted to bury my head in the sand at my feet. The knowledge so heavy and sickening,  I found myself wishing I had never seen, had never understood in the first place.

And the sea breeze floated in, and I wondered afresh what it must have been like for Jesus to walk dusty earth–

to see the blackest evil,

to know the details of each Story,

and to understand fully what could have been.

And I marveled at the weight he must have carried from the knowledge of it all.

The weight he still must carry from the knowledge of it

all.

Carrying the weight of any knowledge right now yourself?

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If you are visiting Life Overseas from {In}Courage, WELCOME.  In a spinning world, thank you for visiting this corner of the web to glimpse into a life on Latitude 18, raising kids and loving orphans.  Feel free to subscribe to this blog and have posts sent automatically to your email or to be read in a reader.  I hope you leave a bit more hopeful than when you arrived, and thanks again for stopping by.

“In the past, birthday parties for my own three children have been lavish affairs.  We’ve brought pancakes on fancy trays to beds, and we’ve planned elaborate scavenger hunts for party games. We’ve dressed up as pirates and jedi knights and princesses, and we’ve made crafts and baked chocolate cakes. And there have always been presents.  Lots of them.  Mostly from generous grandparents, but also from friends, and of course, a few from us. And my children are grateful, generally. They play with their toys and thank their friends who spent the morning at our house. They blow out candles and enjoy the attention, as well they should.

But, inevitably, tomorrow comes. . . “

You can read the rest of this post about birthday parties (and gratitude) over at {In}Courage today.  {In}Courage is a collaborative effort of women bloggers who encourage readers in faith and life, and I’m thrilled to be a small part of it.  The site is a  Dayspring affiliate, and if you leave a comment over there about my post, you will be entered to win a beautiful painting of a heart and globe.

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The following is a new page that will remain as a link at the top of the site.  Just didn’t want ya to miss it . . .

To my friends of varying faith journeys as well as to my church-going-friends, both kind enough to visit me (and Matt) here,

I understand I often write a bit vague and a lot gentle, but let me be clear in this particular smattering of words–

I’m not trying to sell you Jesus.  Honest.  I’m not hoping you’ll sign-up for anything, and I sure as heck don’t want your money as some sort of spiritual pay-off.  You can visit me here if you are a still-seeking Christian or a devoted Buddhist or a set-in-stone agnostic, and I will be better for your presence on these pages.

Yet, I would be gravely inauthentic if I failed to say upfront that

I’m crazy about this Jesus.

I grew up watching other people love him, and I stepped into faith young. But wanting to know him and wanting to be known for knowing him are two different things entirely, and I always chose the latter, I’m afraid.  And, so I raised my hand in Sunday School, and I clawed the mask of perfection.

But, then in my twenties, through this man that lays beside me at night and through failures that I couldn’t hide in the day, I really met him again.  This Jesus who claimed to be God but washed people’s feet.  I read about him afresh in this Book, and I fell in love all over again.  Actually, maybe for the first time.

And I’ve learned over the past decade that he’s after my heart entirely, and that he could care less about the show.  I’ve learned that his call begs me to risk everything for the following and that His death mysteriously means my redemption.  I’ve learned that he hung out with the weak and the poor and the kids, first, and that maybe I should do the same.  I’ve known him to be demanding and gentle and True and completely other. I‘ve learned that more than anything he wants

love.

A love for him that is crazy-consuming.  And a love for people that is crazy-sacrificial.

And that is why I find myself hacking out this life overseas.  Not because I’m a “good humanitarian,” and most definitely not because I thrill for the adventure of it.  Not because I am trying to earn a spiritual merit-badge and not because I think the going is somehow more valuable than the staying.  I’m here in Thailand simply because I believe that this Jesus I’m so crazy about, wanted me to come. And this Bible I read, tells me that obedience naturally follows love.

{The idea of not selling Jesus, but introducing him instead, came from the book Blue Like Jazz by author Don Miller.  It’s one of my all-time favs, and in my humble opinion, you should totally check it out.}

For further discussion about spiritual matters, visit a friendly site I’m involved with called Tattered Couch.  Feel free to jump in to the conversation over there, as well.

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