Breakdown

**This post is very honest. It has unpleasant descriptions and language. Read if you want.**

Sometimes you just have moments of breakdown and you need to cry. I got super shaken up on my drive home from the bars today and was overwhelmed with the sensation of needing to cry and scream and break something—wanting to shout ethnocentric nonsense about how people here just aren’t doing it right!

The day started out normal—good even. I was happy; I was ready to spend time with my friend from the bars. Team prayer, ministry staff prayer, lunch with the roomie, and off to the bars I go. When I arrived, my friend wasn’t there. I called; no answer. So I waited and got to know some of the other girls who I had seen time and again but had never interacted with beyond “Sabai dii mai? Sabai dii kha.” Divine appointments—I wouldn’t have spent the time with those girls otherwise, but they need love, too. An hour passes, my friend comes. She eats, and then I think we’re ready to go. Then a customer walks in, and she grabs him up right away…. For another hour I wait while they sit together, kissing, stroking, giggling…. I’m leaving the details out. I wait, knowing that I gave her my word that today was our day, so no matter what, I will wait.

Meanwhile, two young English men walk in, and drink beers with another bar girl. By this time I’ve decided to be productive and am writing in my Little Book of Thankfulness things that I can give glory to God for… like this: the opportunity to sit in a bar and pray while so much immorality happens around me, and this one: that though I feel clueless, I do not serve a clueless God. I pray, and I write, and I watch, and pray some more. Then, one of the young men comes over—Mitch is his name. He asks me what I’m doing… I tell him I’m waiting for a friend, and motion over to the couple locked in embrace. He doubts me. I tell him again: “I’m waiting for her, she is my friend, and we’re going to go hang out.”

Then he looks at my little book, and asks about it. I tell him that I’m writing down things that I am thankful for. Very curious now, he asks if he could see it and I hand it over, rather hesitantly, as no eyes but mine and the Lord’s have read any of it yet. He reads the first several entries, and flips through the pages, 10 or so now, full of things that I have been thankful for over the past few months. Then he looks at me and at my friend again, bewildered. “Why are you here, waiting for her?” He is so confused. My reply is simple: “I believe that a lot of what these girls experience is not real love, so I come here to show them real love. I’ve been shown what genuine love looks like, so I think I can show them, too.” Based on the writings in my book, I obviously believe in the love of God. He is still looking at me in shock. “But why her when she is wrapped around some 60 year old man who probably has a family back home?” At this the man looks at us— overhearing the disgust in Mitch’s voice—offended. “I believe he’s just as broken as she is,” I answer, looking back at Mitch. “He’s looking for love and fulfillment, but he’ll never find what he needs here.” I’m sincere, and Mitch knows it. He’s never encountered something like this before… he doesn’t know what to do with me. He’s touched though—I can see it in his eyes—and as he stands to leave he shakes my hand with both of his, thanks me for sharing, and leaves the bar with his friend, handing a 1000 baht bill to the girl he had been sitting with. “For your kids,” he says, and looks at me before turning out into the sunshine.

So, I’ve been at the bar for two and a half hours now, and finally, 60 year old offended man decides he’s had enough loving for the afternoon and my friend ushers him outside with an assuring “See you tomorrow, na”. I’m still waiting. Five minutes later she has changed and is ready for me. Off to the waterfall and to dinner we go. We talk, we laugh, we take photos. She tells me she is tired of working at the bar and wants to find another job. My heart rejoices, but I wonder what I have to offer her. I silently pray that God would keep revealing to her the emptiness of the life she is living and that I would be able to help her find the true meaning of life. I drop her off again at the bar where she forces a glass of coke down my throat before I’m allowed to leave. “Come see me when you’re free, nong sao.” I promise her that I will.

On the drive home I contemplate the day and feel a mixture of emotions. I’m angry that this society is such that prostitution is just so natural. Damn it. I want freedom for these girls, but the whole of society must change if freedom from prostitution is ever going to come. I think about Mitch, and pray for God to use our interaction to get him thinking. I pray that God would reveal that his 1000 baht will never save him or the bar girl from the lives they are trapped in. Then, I witness a motorbike accident. Through the vehicles in front of me I hear a baby’s scream and see something fly. “Oh my God,” is all I can say and as traffic moves I see the baby in his mother’s arms, crying, but seemingly uninjured. The object that flew was a helmet, which was probably stowed in the front basket of the motorbike and not on someone’s head. The father is picking up the bike and moving it out of the road. No one is hurt, it seems.

Now I’m irate, and this is where the ethnocentric thoughts start flying. “Why would you take a baby on a motorbike? That is not safe. That baby needs to be in a car seat, in a car, somewhere safe. What’s wrong with you people? Why aren’t you wearing helmets? Come on, are you asking for an early death?! Do something right!” I drive on and a pickup truck passes me on my right. Two men sitting in the back are staring at me with naughty smirks, looking me down as if I’m meat, as if I’m something to be eaten and enjoyed and used for their own pleasure. I look straight ahead with a scowl on my face, hating them in my mind. Again, the thoughts run wild... “See! This is what is wrong with this society! Men are evil pleasure seekers who treat women as objects to be enjoyed and thrown aside! This is why there is prostitution. This is why… this is why… this is why…”

 I just want to cry about the brokenness of this world, but the tears are trapped somewhere behind my eyes. Oh Jesus, help.