I’m use to cornfields. Although Bloomington, Illinois certainly isn’t country, it is surrounded by miles and miles of black earth, tilled till tassels pop up. Corns' supposed to be “knee high by 4thof July” but usually is well up to my waste by then. And as the start of 2nd quarter of the new school year begins, the mazes, haunted houses, and pumpkin patches draw crowds at the season change.
It’s harvest time. And the moons are breath taking. Orange, red, yellow, pink. Harvest is a time when the all the farmers come out to reap all the hard work they sewed for the last year. Sweat, dirt, early mornings, late nights, spray, water, turn, de-tassel, down payment—a whole lot of effort in, all for hopes of that juicy crop at the end of the finish line to feed the family, pay the bills, purchase supplies for next year, upgrade, and hopefully make a profit on the top.
The whole process of harvesting has been on my mind this week.
Its been a hard week.
We have a good friend who with all looks of it is moving to Hong Kong pretty much against her will. It’s out of desperation really…these women working in the bars and her going. The Northeastern Part of Thailand called, “Isan,” is where most of them come from. Women here are expected to be the primary breadwinners. Men tend to have the expectation of laziness, although that’s not always the case.
So a woman is expected to support at least herself, her children, her parents, and then maybe her sisters, brothers, and their children.
Here in Phuket, a lot of revenue is generated from all the tourism. There are lots of opportunities. And when you’re poor and you have multiple mouths to feed, you go and do what needs to be done for the people you love.
So the women move south. Their first idea probably isn’t to get into the bar scene and prostitution, but if they don’t speak good English, have good business savvy, or have training to hone their skills, then it’s where they end up.
200 women working on any-given night on a quarter mile stretch.
Saying bye to "N" the other day, even though I barely know her, brought a sobering rush of reality that ended up coming out my tear ducts. She held my hand as we walked to the bus stop, showed me how to say things in Thai as we perused the shops on Bangla before dropping her at her bar.
I realized what Jesus meant when he said, “The fields are ripe for harvest, but the workers are few.” 99% of people in Thailand don’t know Jesus. They bank their lives upon good luck charms and offer Cokes to statues made of stone, but they know no hope beyond the grave—they know no anchor for today. "N" does not know what it means to trust in a God who owns “the cattle on a thousand hills”—that money isn’t a problem for him. That he is a God who delights in giving good gifts to his children.
I think of how I love "N." I think of how Austen loves "N." And I realize how I wish that I could know all the girls on Bangla Road like that.
These women aren’t just another number or an idea. They are real people. They aren’t stupid or getting what they want. They are desperate. They are beautiful.
They are ready.
“The fields are ripe for harvest, but the workers are few.”
These women are ready to know Jesus as savior and lord. They are ready to be vindicated from the injustices that run rampant in our imploding world. They are crying out for a friend that truly loves them and doesn’t rape them for a mere $50.
My whole life I prayed that God wouldn’t send me overseas…that he wouldn’t make me a missionary. I made excuses. “I’m not called.” “It’s not my gift.” “Language, money, time—all barriers.” Anything to wiggle my way out of Matthew 28 where Jesus basically says,
Go tell the whole world about me. Show them what it’s like to stay close to me and what real love looks like—one that never uses, abuses, or betrays. One that is so deep, I paid life for life that everyone would know Freedom.
We’re all missionaries. Wherever you are—dentist, lawyer, cashier, sales, insurance, phones, food, kids, home, United States, Thailand, or India. If you have said, “yes” to Jesus, you have something very special—Freedom. And the world needs it. "N" needs it. The man in the cubical across from yours needs it. The girl in your study group for Psych needs it. The orphans in India need it. Even those who traffic my friends need it.
“The fields are ripe for the harvest, but the workers are few.”
Where are you?
(Pictured above is a giant poster advertising for a club on Bangla Road. It’s ironic, because it is a perfect depiction of the oppression of the women here)
