Why?

Lately, as I have been talking to a friend and lamenting the cold truth that I may not be going to SCF I have thought on this question much: Why do I want to go back? Why do I want to do missions? As I think on it, I see Memuyl and Simon and Mae and the kids at both the hostels and I see all of Grade 4. I see Thai and Singo Mae and Coco and NuNu. There is not a single story I can pinpoint and say "This! This is why!" It is a collection of all of them. It is the thought that these friends and kids could grow up and never hear the name of Jesus again. That they would never see the true love of their true Lover again. (Not saying that I am the only one who can do that.) I think about it and my heart aches, but it is more than that. It hangs on this fact: the greatest injustice in the world is never hearing the name of Jesus. Never knowing the truth of this Man.
I have been working on this piece for about two weeks now and I think I am finally done.  Enjoy. (: and feel free to give constructive criticism.

You know that saying, “Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all”?

It is a bunch of nonsense.

The pain of loving only to loose; the pain of knowing before the game even begins that you will be a loser. The loser.

The single second it takes to realize that your heart had been stolen and the thief did not care. And it might not even be that they did not care; it could be simply they could not help it, as much as you could not. I know this because I met someone like that. More than one.

I remember the first time we met.

It was hot and humid and all I wanted to do was sleep after having none on the twelve- hour bus ride. We had just eaten and the money we had had left over we were going to spend on a treat, but we took you out to eat instead. You stole my heart in an instant.

From the very start, I loved.

Later that day, I met my other kids. They lived on the same street. We played together every day, usually a game of ling-chin-bon, monkey-in -the -middle.  They would teach me simple words and laugh at my mispronunciation of them. It was in these moments that I loved.

Then came goodbye.

Saying goodbye. I am sure that if I cried blood, I would have lost a pint. I would have needed a transfusion. Then a doctor to tell me I would survive. And perhaps I would have believed him, but more than likely not.

Normally, I do not cry at goodbye. But I loved them from the start.

I loved and lost.

Who said this was better?

Another bus; please God, no more. I cannot bear my own brokenness and we have only just begun.

There were so many and at the moment, I could hardly remember my own name.

They loved trying to say it though. They taught me a song in their native tongue and then in the country’s tongue. Two separate languages. And I loved them from the start.

Then we went into the mountain.

The whole way up I begged God. I did not want to love and lose. I did not want to be the loser again. No, I refuse.

But He beckoned to me,

Be My hands, be My feet.

Essentially, love.

And lose.

It was that first night. I was scared to death, not certain what they were saying, not understanding their games, so I danced. I was teaching the newest rendition of the chicken dance and laughing at their beautiful young faces when I fell in love.  After teaching, possibly eating dog meat, strange lights in the middle of the night, building a pond, bucket showers after a mud fight in the cooling temperatures, leaving was the hardest thing.

I had loved and lost more than I ever had before and, still, we were not done.

At the next house there were no kids, no children on the street to play with; we were too far away from the border for another urchin to steal my heart. Here, I would be safe. Here, I could survive.

Then, the unthinkable, we arrived at the school and Grade Four automatically had me. Had my heart.

Even in the very beginning, I knew I would be a loser again. And in that classroom,  between The Hare and the Tortoise and Maung Pau’s Egg, I loved and lost.

It is better to love and to lose than to have never loved at all.

Who would think that? Even better, who would say that?

I call nonsense. I scream nonsense.

Whoever said that had obviously not met my kids.

They did not have to live with the heartache. They did not have to live with the knowledge that they had loved and lost and might possibly never have again.

I call nonsense.

Then I think. What if God had said, as I am saying, not true. What if He had said: It is so much easier to simply not love. So much easier to not care. So much easier to forget about it all and move on. So much easier to leave this place and give them no hope.

It is better to love and to lose than to have never loved at all.
I cannot help but think this is true. That there is a solid, concrete foundation beneath this old saying.  That somewhere out in this vast world some other man or woman is saying the same thing.

Does not mean it hurts any less.

It is better, yes. It truly is better.

‘Cause as I think back, I would not give up a single moment. I would not take back a single smile, a single laugh. I would not retract a single hug or a single moment of broken conversations.  And though I would have loved to have cried less, I know that those tears fell for the first time because I had not only loved, but I had loved the least of these. I had loved the ones who could not or would not return that love. And now, after all of this, I understand just a little bit better the love of a beaten, broken Man on a cross.
Requiring nothing in return;

Saying simply,

I love you.

Also, I could not have finished this piece without help. So thank you. (You know who you are.)