Until all is ready and Ripe

The Prophets spoke in completed tense,

Yet I am sitting halfway in between.

At times its hard to Imagine, 

That someday things will be new.

You have written the Truth

On the pages of History,

You say it again and again

As History repeats itself.

Purify us with Water;

Cleanse us with Fire

Illumine in us this Way O Lord.

Our groaning is our fault

We forget to turn to you.

But you are faithfully calling,

But who can hear your words?

First Adam and then the second

Seven days to completion

How slow yet steady time moves

As I meditate on this Mystery.

I have found a lamp with oil

And so I wait in darkness,

For the coming of the dawn

The long awaited Prince of Peace

I check and double check, 

the jar still has Oil; 

It is sloshing around in there now 

but will it be enough?

A treasure in a field,

a pearl of great price, 

A seed has been planted

and Leaven is rising in my soul.

It is a story like all others 

Yet is holds a special touch

For its more than all others

These words are deep and True.

A beautiful Disguise My Lord

One would surely not have guessed

That such Majesty would disguise their clothes

In such a mocking way.

If you Love us, just say so

And so you have said;

But what heartache, and desperation

The one you love says No.

So take me I am willing

Though scarred and worn and tired;

I don't know if I can love

Or if what my heart speaks is love.

But if you want it I am yours

There's no one else's I want to be

If you'll have me,count me in.

But could you lend me clothes?

Mine are all tattered and torn

Not right for such an occasion.

It doesn't have to be fancy

Just a white will do

I will wear my hair down

There is no need for a crown.

As long as I can see you

All will be ok,

Just be near me always

I'm just a little bit afraid

Trembling for love I think

not sure what you will do

Don't get me wrong, I trust you

Its just all so new to me

I don't doubt you,

Nor the love in my heart, 

But I doubt me, why me

When there's so many others.

My joy and my delight

If you left me I would die,

For your love is more than sustaining

It s honey on my lips.

In your arms my fears turn to trembles

Some day I will walk the Way

In purity to you.

And see you standing there

In your House, 

A thousand smiles on your face.

I have waited a while, but you have waited longer still

Until all is ready, and ripe 

and dripping out its love for you

You have been so patient, so kind.

12 days...

Each country celebrates a bit differently, each religion has their own ways of trying to give honor. Here is no different. In the days leading up to the celebrations I understood that there would be music and dancing and things to buy. One thing the people with whom I talked, forgot to mention was that these would be taking place not just in the day or evening but throughout the night. One might think what follows is a bit exaggerated but I assure you I write this in a way that communicates the events of the ten days as well as my feelings around them:

Day 1: Curiosity is aroused as Foreign words to me blast through the speakers lashed onto a pushcart going down the street, and bamboo and tarps are being strung together into stalls of little treasures. I am Curious.

Day 2: new foods I have not seen before line the street along with ones I know are delicious. That night I hear the music. A mix of modern music and traditional drums and my imagination stirs up images of people down on the streets below eating and laughing and enjoying their festival.

Day 3: My friend takes me around and I see the stalls and the Ferris wheel and the bouncy house and I am amused at the things I see. There is a special stage for the group of three women who perform a dance show three times during each day. The sounds I hear out the window make a bit more sense.

Day4: The music sounds like surround sound. What a gift, eh?

Day 5: We normally play Taize songs or Benedictine chants, but why bother when there is music provided for us.

Day 6: I try to lean back and find pleasure in the music, as I take in the soft evening light through the open window; the birds flying the breeze is blowing…and the gongs clang, and the banging of bells ring out over the open air speakers. We like the traditional music, yes we like the traditional music…we LIKE the traditional music….I tell myself half convincingly.

Day 7: All Night. Wow that's intense I try to imagine them dancing...one traditional, another Techno, and on and on and on...

Day 8: And on and on... They have played music from last night all through today and long into the night. I struggle through the day wondering how to hold today as a day of prayer and “silence” as we had planned.

Day 9: The power went out tonight! Such a small thing as no power didn't stop our neighbours; they give the energizer bunny a run for his money. I think they ran the generator just so they could keep the music going.

Day 10: I am pretty sure they turned the music up at 3am tonight.

Day 11: Modern upbeat music all night again. 3 nights in a row. Is it punk, techno, rock,? ...It is is loud and all night, this countries has a style of its own.

Day 12: The music stopped at 3am and the shouting out numbers began. They looked as if counting a long line of monks. At 5am all was silent, and the sun rose a new day.

Myanmar Men in Colour

It is a fun thing to see
A man in bright array.
Pink, and turquoise
Purple and blue.

It Bothers them not
to be decked out in colour
painted as a flower
In the sun's warm glow.

On the rooftops they sweat
Building their hopes for the future
In longyi green plaid, pink hat
and flip-flops.

Bags with tassels
Neon pink shoes
and t-shirts that say
Punk rock skulls.

It is what it is
Frilly umbrellas and all
So we leave it at that
And admire Myanmar men in colour.

frilly words about what i felt when I saw...

I walk, my feet are tired, but I want to walk more.

To meet and see the faces of those so beloved, 

To see the ones I have been uprooted for.

I don't yet understand it, but maybe if I see I will. 

I need new eyes to see beyond the the grey bubbly water

under the houses and board walks;

New eyes to see through the open windows

half built walls and worn out tarps. 

New eyes to see the Joy in the laughing children, 

the staring women, and the teen boys' ego.  

I need new ears to hear the greetings 

beyond  he crazy and some foreign words.
I need new ears to hear the meaning of the mumble, 

to understand the cautious low tone, 

to hear anything of consequence. 

To speak of what is or what will be
To be able to share a peoples story;  

I am not gifted beyond the average person,

and the tragedy around me seems to worsen.

Each step I take I know I am weak
Unskilled and untrained in this place would I break?

A seat of humility is where I want to sit
I asked for it but I don't like it. 

Involuntary repulsion to these hopes of remaining here
Unsatisfactory surrender to my Lord. 

How far can obedience carry?

Mother Teresa, how did you do it? 

So many years so faithful and not budging,

Keeping the faith and holding Truth;

A call to a Way and a Place.

Our paths have troubles, that way is sure

Our pains will be great, how great the darkness

Our satisfaction--

Rest in the knowledge that God has said it is finished.

The Prophets spoke in completed tense,

So I will Faithfully wait here and pray.

Study the truth and hold on. 

That's all I can do...

Or rather, that's all I'm asked to do. 

(Written after a long day of walking around looking in Y.) 

In trying to express myself again i have waxed poetic

(Real poets please skip over what follows): 

My soul is still before the Lord.

My heart strings are plucked 

in the tune of a whisper, 

An uttering deep and mellow. 

Longing to speak only words that satisfy, 

I am silent. 

Ancient words uttered long ago speak of today. 

They have been shown true in times past

would now be different than then? 

A wise sage remains true, 

I choose to Listen.

Oh, my wandering ways. 

Easily led one way and then another
My feet swell and my clothes wear out, 

But not because God has forgotten. 

No, his ways are steady and sure to come about.
It is my eye

That catches the sparkle of things soon to tarnish. 

Discipline me Oh lord, 

But not in your anger, lest I come to nothing. 

Let your love root in me.

I am ready to cherish, 

I long to hold your treasure
I desire to be ever entwined

with your vine, with your Life;

I am a young donkey colt, tie me to your tendril
and let me live.

A day at your door is better than a life spent in any other tent. 

Stretch out your garment over me
I seek to be hidden, 

I am lit in a small place, 

I glimpse into heaven

in the silence as we fall down before you

with the hymn of the angels. 

Holy, holy, holy.

A Bus in Yangon

There are many things circling in my head about the past three weeks. New sights new smells, and new experiences external and Internally.  So I begin here with the bus.
It all started one wintry day in Vancouver.  I had been visiting a friend who lived on the other side of the city from my home. We had spent the afternoon talking and eating and enjoyed each others company so much that I hadn't realized how late it was getting, but the snow that had started to fall gently earlier was now coming down and piling up on the sidewalks and street. We said our goodbye at the bus-stop for nearly 2 hours since every bus that passed by flashed their lit up sign saying "Sorry Full". When i finally got on I found a seat and sat comfortably pondering the conversations with a friend.
Several years later I am standing on a bus Around four in the afternoon in Yangon. No room to sit the and the isle is full and the smell of sweat hangs on everyone as they make their way home from work and a busy day.  I am reminded of the time the buses passed me up because they were full. I was glad to be on the bus and not passed up; I smile at the heat that is present instead of snow.  We stop and a couple people exit and 4 people get on.  We are motioned by the door keeper (a well built man with tattoos covering his arm chewing beetle nut) as he barked out in a loud voice with words I gathered meant 'scoot toward the back of the bus'. We drive on, and the next stop one person gets off and 6 get on. Further down 6 on 2 off, we start to move on but slow for the 5 boys that are running for the bus. Scoot further back we are told, but how can i when there is no where to move? Yet non the less we maneuver  around and the people at the stop are accommodated into the tight space. 4 on one off, 5 on two off, 6 on one off. We continue in this fashion turning no one a way for over an hour. "Thamine Lan So" we had told the door keeper that was our stop, when we got on. Now he hollered out those words and motioned for us to come to the door. After over an hour of accommodating people and very few exiting we could only imagine what he was meaning for us to do as we stood wedged in to the others on the bus. What followed was to me the strangest and a new sensation for me (or t least new to my memory). I now know the feeling  from the perspective of a new born, of being pushed and pulled out of the birthing canal.  No one stepped out of the way, because there was no where to go. It would be like asking an internal organ to step aside so the baby can stretch inside the womb. but each person did there part to contract like a muscle that inched us toward the open door. The whole time the door keeper like a midwife, kept motioning us forward and reaching over heads to help pull at least our arm through the crowd.(All on a moving bus might I add.)  Relatively sooner than I had anticipated we arrived at the front door. Many were smiling around us at our inexperienced achievement of this task. Monica was just a step ahead of me and as the bus came to a stop she proceeded to start to exit the bus. This evidently was not the moment for such actions for a wave went over the crowd  and though in reality it may have only been 6 men and the midwife (door keeper) Lunged after her to keep her on the bus, it certainly felt like half the bus responded to her. After a few awkward moments as we stood with them babbling to each other in Burmese and smiling at us we were then gestured with great ado that now was the time to exit. We thanked them, were waved at as the bus drove on and we laughed at the whole experience.
          A few days later we were headed into the downtown area and were enjoying that the mid morning hours provided us with a bus with plenty of room. A seat for everyone! And more for those we might pick up along the way. How pleasant I thought to myself, this is good to keep in mind as I travel to and fro in the future. I sit in the back seat observing all the interactions especially the door keeper and the money collector as they look a bit bored, but liven themselves with swapping funny stories. then wander the isle counting people. both men do this a couple times and then go up to the driver as we  are waiting at a stop light.  Suddenly they turn around and shout out something in Burmese, which causes the 20 so people on the bus to start mumbling as they grab their belongings and exit the bus.  A bit bewildered My friend and I gather ourselves as well and follow everyone off. Was the bus broken down? They hurried last of us off the bus as the light changed green and the bus sped away. Not broken. "Welcome to Burma!" Said a taller Burmese man in English. He told us there would be another bus coming that would take us where we wanted to go, and pointed to a different numbered bus a bit  down the rode. Why did we have to get off?  He smiled, "the bus was too empty." and we hoped on the the next bus--standing room only.
So my dear Vancouver, and all other public buses, I'm letting you know a fact that Asians know that is a unknown secret on snowy winter days in the west.  Bus cannot be too full, it it can be too empty.

I sit in unknowing

I sit in Unknowing.
I sat down to write some of my thoughts from the past weeks, but in searching for any words the only words that come are "unknown". 

We have established a routine, part of which is studying language every morning from nine to noon. 

Yet there is an ever present feeling of unknown even in this. 

I can study all morning "Da beh lout leh?" (how much is it?) and practice my fruits and numbers;

 In the Afternoon when I go to the market to buy for dinner, it is a world of unknowing again; since the language used in the market is not the language I studied all morning.  

We meet together every Saturday as a team, opening up topics for conversation that will eventually help us solidify who we are as a team and what we are called to be, do, and live. But for now, at the end of these days, we sit with more questions than when we began..."how will all that fit together?" we hold that question openly as we end our meeting. 

We have established praying four times spaced out in each day, yet this is by far the place to gain a sense  of knowing.  There is great joy, there is silence, there is peace, and openness, but "knowing"...How is stillness and prayer, helping anything? How does my moving here to unfamiliarity draw me deeper into the way of whole life.
In all this I find unknowing is ok, and in the times of prayer and silence, I recognize an assurance of the hope, that Life will spring forth in the desert. 

so I gladly sit... 

I sit in the unknowing.