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Thanks for letting me bring my beer to church
| November 25th, 2009 | No Comments » |
“Thanks for letting me bring my beer into church, man!” The man looked around at us with misty eyes of gratitude thanking us as he left. This night was proving to be a confirmation of a vision God gave long time ago. Though I had never figured a bottle of beer as part of the equation, what took place was exactly what I had hoped for.
Years ago, God gave me a vision of a center in the red light area of Bangkok. Exactly what that would look like I didn’t know but I had images and ideas. One of those images was a coffee shop with live music played by visiting musicians. The coffee shop would be a place where men visiting the area would be welcome. Yes, – the demand side. We have worked with the women for years and maintain that as our focus. However, we have also come to feel God’s heart for the men who find themselves in the area and are often very broken, lonely, and trapped. Many have been burned by the church and turned away in bitterness. Many have failed in broken relationships and feel doomed to fail time and time again. Some are sex addicts who hate themselves but cannot see the way out. Others are on a journey seeking they don’t know what, and hoping for an experience to give them some revelation of that which they seek. These men come from every nation, every language, and every religion. They are old, young, rich, poor, social elite and social outcast, dogmatically religious, embracing all religion, or in total rejection of all religion. Brokenness, loneliness, and despair are not picky and find their way into the hearts of all types of men. The vision I had was a coffee shop that would welcome these men and give them a place to be heard and to find hope.
God provided the building in the red light area last December. That in itself was a miracle and the first confirmation that this vision was not one I had made up in my imagination but close to God’s heart and part of His agenda.
This past week a team of men from Michigan, Colorado, and Kansas, came to launch the remodeling and building improvements. They worked hard for several days and we began to see glimpses of the vision becoming reality. Their last night here we gathered in the empty room of the future coffee shop. Several on the team were professional musicians and that night, John, on the guitar and Ferl with an improvised drum set, sat facing the street and began to play. The open door was an invitation with no explanation. People walking by paused and did a double-take. A representation of the world walked by: foreign men with Thai prostitutes, European travelers, Uzbek and Russian streetwalkers, Middle Eastern businessmen, and Thai vendors who set down their heavy baskets and waved at us through the window.
The music was passionate, vibrant and yet soothing as it called out to the weary travelers. Many paused, but then went on their way – Until he came. He popped his head around the doorframe cautiously and we beckoned him in. “Can I bring my beer?” he asked. We nodded; the music continued. He entered and stood watching the musicians. As he listened, the music began to reach in beneath the hardened surface. His eyes were red from drinking but the expression in his face softened as he listened. Someone asked, “Where are you from?” He said, “It’s not where I’m from but where I’m going that matters.” He took a couple photos and then showed the picture of his 3 week old son on the back of his camera. John, the guitarist asked, “Can I pray for your son?” “Yeah, sure.” John prayed for the baby and then for the baby’s father. “Thanks.” The man’s eyes were wet and tender. He looked around at us all. “Thank you,” he said again. He lingered a bit more and then as he turned to go, he said, “Thanks for letting me bring my beer into church.”
What gave him the idea this was church? The music the guitarist played would steal any show. We all just sat around, some singing, some chatting, some dancing; mostly just watching the passers by, delighted at their reactions and enjoying the moment. We had no agenda other than to play music, to be present, and to welcome those who found their way in. The man came in with his beer and left feeling good like he had been in church. An open door and excellent music invited him; a listening ear welcomed him; a thoughtful prayer for his newborn son ministered to him. He came in just as he was; curious, cautious, and beer in hand. We may never know his story, why he was here, or where he was going. But, for that brief moment, we saw a glimpse of God’s heart reaching out to this man and to all the men who will come in to the coffee shop in the future. “Come in for coffee; stay for church. Come as you are but don’t leave the same.”
Divine Connections Part 3 – Annie Dieselberg
| September 11th, 2009 | No Comments » |
Part 3
After two divine encounters, the night was still young and we headed to a show bar. This bar is a hard one to visit because of all the nudity and sex shows taking place through the night. Last visit we met a woman who was new and unhappy and we were drawn to return to her. Fortunately, we found the woman we knew fairly quickly and got caught up in a conversation. When we focus on the women in conversation, the background fades and is less daunting. Beng wasn’t so lucky. The man sitting to her side was “entertaining” a woman by exposing himself. Disgusted and somewhat nauseated, Beng turned her back to them and faced the shows.
I know two of the girls who do the sex shows – lesbian shows. My heart aches when they perform. One I’ve known since she was 15 – dropped out of school to support her siblings’ education. I prayed for the infant daughter of the second when she was critically ill. Sweet young women, dedicated to supporting their families. I look to the stage just long enough to smile at their eyes but not enough to dismantle the invisible masks they wear and cause them to feel embarrassed. They feel lucky because doing the shows means a lot of money without being forced to have sex with the men. It is a choice I am grateful I have never had to make.
The woman sitting with me only makes half what the other girls make because she keeps her bikini on when she dances. After trying for three weeks she really doesn’t like it. She would like to work as a maid or with kids. Her husband of 10 years became so abusive she ran away and reported him to the police. He is still out of jail though and she is careful to stay away from his networks. Now she is stuck with this job to get by. I know we are full at NightLight. I know we don’t have the funds or the space to keep hiring women, but, in faith, I write down our number for her and tell her that she can come by and apply for work if interested. Grateful, she rolled it up and stuck it in her high boots. We gave her a hug, paid our bills and left.
Going down the stairs I feel drops of rain drizzling down. Not enough for an umbrella and not enough to wash away the sadness. Not enough to deter the customers. Sex shows are addictive and even rain doesn’t deter an addict. Money is addictive, especially when your family depends on it and you have no other way of paying your bills. Desperation forces women out to meet the demands of desperate men. An exchange is made for a fantasy that eludes reality and more often than not turns into a nightmare. The rain is only enough to draw attention to the somber and heavy burdens beneath the fluttering neon signs.
The night is still young for those seeking to exchange brokenness for fantasy. The night has been long for the light bearers though. Darkness retreats in the light but dawn is still a long ways away and we are weary. We have met our divine appointments. For a few moments we saw the light interrupt the night’s agenda. A little bit of hope. I glance across the way and see Tom sitting outside the bar conspicuous in his bright yellow jacket. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot master it. His bright yellow jacket is a sign of hope. A few more hours and the darkness will retreat again giving way to the agenda of light.
Divine Connections Part 2 – Annie Dieselberg
| September 2nd, 2009 | No Comments » |
Part 2
Waiting for God’s prompting we passed one bar after another. “C” bar came my mind. As we went through the curtain I looked up and saw ladyboys dancing. The bar had just been changed to an all ladyboys bar. I must have been mistaken and heard God wrong. As we turned and walked out, I stared with disapproval at the policeman sitting comfortably at the entrance in his usual position. Emily called and I turned to see “Tom” sitting outside. I had prayed with Tom in a different bar back in January. Tom, one of the mamasans, is a large man dressed in a yellow jacket wearing make-up and earrings. Tom is a very sweet and gentle person who feels like a woman trapped in a man’s body. I struggle to choose the appropriate pronoun. I find it difficult to call him her, but when I call her him I feel like I am rejecting the identity he has chosen. Tom tells us that he/she is bored with this work. “It is all about sex,” Tom tells us. Tom wants relationships that build from friendship as opposed to relationships that start with sex and are all about sex. Tom said it feels dirty. “I’m tired of it but the owner likes me,” Tom said. “How much do you get paid?” I asked. “12,000 baht a month,” Tom said. “But if I had a good job that paid 8000 baht I’d take it to feel better.”
“I believe in God, you know.” Tom had told me that in January. Tom went to a Catholic school growing up and a Christian-sponsored high school. Nikki, another team member, said she had Tom on her mind tonight when we passed the old bar and had regretted not stopping. “God brought us here to you tonight,” I told Tom. “6th sense,” Tom asked? “No, God.” I told Tom how we ask God to lead us to the person God wants us to talk with. I said, “God had you on His mind tonight. All these people working here and God brought us to you.” Tom looked pleased. I asked how I could pray. Tom said he doesn’t like the way he is; in between sexes. He wants to be complete as a woman. He has felt more female since preschool. I held Tom’s hands and prayed that “Tom” would find his true identity in Christ and know God’s love with confidence. I prayed God would provide a better job and reveal the good plans God has for Tom’s life. Tom thanked me and asked for my number. He wants to surprise me and come to church some Sunday. Tom wanted to know if dress was casual. “Yes,” I answered, wondering if he would be wearing the long dangly earrings and make-up. I hope he comes. I hope she comes. I hope the first people he/she meets are those who will welcome Tom as he/she is. I’m fairly confident this church will be welcoming. The pastor has told me before that Tom would be welcome. Thailand has many transvestites and transsexuals working in many sectors so there are many opportunities to know and love them. Of course, there are still many who avoid knowing them because it is easier to judge and exclude when you don’t know and love someone. Thai society though is generally more accepting of those who call themselves “ladyboys.” Tom has many skills and will be a great asset to an organization like ours some day. My mind envisions the possibilities. Only God knows.
Divine Connections Part 1 – Annie Dieselberg
| August 25th, 2009 | No Comments » |
Part 1
Friday night’s outreach started out on the wrong foot – literally. A team member tripped over a wire strung across the sidewalk and fell flat on her face. She was determined to continue but when she started feeling intense pain one of us took her back to her room. Heading to the red light area I began to cross the main street when a huge pink tour bus made a sudden illegal u-turn and came charging toward us barely missing the woman behind me. “Oh God, get us back in sync with your plans. I’m not sure what is going on here,” I prayed.
We reached the main entertainment plaza and I heard my name. Turning around, I saw “Gomer.” The white fluffy party dress and faux-pearls around her neck didn’t hide her weariness. We hugged her as a mother does a child, drawing her into a safe space. She said she had been in the hospital for three days getting treatment for mental illness. She stopped talking and reached into her big pink handbag. I waited, expecting to see the doctor’s report but instead she pulled out a mask and put it on her face. Assuring us it wasn’t the H1N1 flu, she continued her story. She was sore from shots and her stomach was in pain. “You need to go home and rest,” I told her. She said, “Oh, I won’t have sex tonight. I can’t. The doctor told me not to.” She was hoping for customers who would pay her 500 baht ($15) just to be a companion and talk. She had no place to go. No room. She would sleep on the street but she needed money to get her social medical card renewed.
Sounds easy enough; take her in. Put her up in the shelter. But Gomer has been coming and going for three years. The last time we took her back she went out, got drunk and returned the next morning with the customer. When told the customer could not enter the shelter, she left with him. There is no full-time house mother and there are children in the shelter. Who would look after her? Emily tried calling the volunteers who help us to shelter victims. No answer. Gomer has been gang-raped before on the street and I didn’t want her sleeping there in this condition. Finally Emily got through so we waited with her until she was safely picked up. A Thai vendor was watching curiously. She walked up to Gomer and asked her, “What’s wrong?’ Muffled by the face mask, Gomer answered, “Psychologically I’m not doing well.” That convinced the Thai lady that she should warn us off of getting involved. As Gomer left with the volunteer we explained to the lady, “Yes we know she drinks alcohol; yes, we know she sleeps with men every night; yes, we know she has some psychological problems. We have known her for years. We love her very much. She is our sister – our daughter, and we will keep on loving her for as long as it takes.” She nodded not quite sure what to think. Gomer was in good hands and safe for another night and our work was just beginning.
1440 Minutes – Annie Dieselberg
| August 9th, 2009 | No Comments » |
women in the bar district of bangkok“For every day that our work is delayed, a woman, child or juvenile is forced to suffer in the chain of human trafficking for an additional 1440 minutes. Therefore we must work as quickly as possible, working in terms of minutes not days.” This statement written on the wall at the Anti-Trafficking Department in Bangkok has convicted me. I complain a lot that there is not enough time in a day to do what I need to get done. I forget the luxury I have to choose and yet too often, the things that eat up the 1440 minutes are not the things of significance, but rather those that make my life more organized, comfortable and manageable. 1440 seems inadequate and insignificant in my busy schedule.
A victim of trafficking and sexual exploitation does not own her minutes. They do not belong to her to manage. A few minutes can be hell or a moment of escape through alcohol but the endless1440 minutes day after day are not hers to choose.
Last night the outreach team went to a bar we had been to many times. Women were dancing on the stage trying hard to look sexy for the few customers scattered around the bar. One young woman reminded me of an eleven year old in heels and a bikini trying to be an adult. The sexy poses seemed out of place in her seemingly undeveloped body. She was working hard to entertain a man. Her minutes were already owned by the man groping her.
We bought drinks for 4 other women, buying their minutes to speak to them. “One” was already tipsy and had a dazed “I’m not really here” look on her face. She asked me if I liked the sexy show. I struggled with how to answer this question. I don’t want them to feel ashamed and yet the truth is no, I don’t. I paused and I told her, “Thai women are beautiful but I don’t come to see the show. I come to make friends. I want to give honor to women.” She grinned and she gave me a big thumbs-up. She said, “Women are better than men. Men have dark hearts.” “Not all men,” I told her. I have a husband and he is a good man. He gives honor to women.” Another enthusiastic thumbs-up. I added, “But men who come here and pay for women are acting selfishly.” She nodded enthusiastically, thrilled that I understood but then told me that she had one American who was nice. “It is easy to be nice while on vacation and spend lots of money but what is he like back home?” I asked. She nodded. She wants to go to massage school. She got up to dance but her eyes increasingly dulled by the alcohol stared at me off and on throwing her off balance. I tried to look back with hope and acceptance but the alcohol was doing its job of erasing these minutes from reality and she was switching to the seducer.
Om had a feisty personality. She wasn’t used to doing the sexy dancing and doesn’t like it. She had been in a bar where she rode a mechanical bull while in a bikini to entertain the men. She explained that the men didn’t like her as much because she is big and it is harder for her to get money. She’s been doing this for three years since leaving computer classes. She is hoping to finish the classes but is afraid she has forgotten a lot already. At 20, she has a lot of potential. But the minutes turn to days and then to years and her time is slipping away. I encouraged her to do it so she can have a better life than this. She asked me to bless her. I gave her hug and a prayer asking God to bless her and show her the way out so that she can finish her schooling and live a better life than this. She grinned and waied me in the Thai way of expressing gratitude.
On the street, two African women stood waiting for customers. My co-worker asked, “How are you?” “Not good,” one answered, “I don’t have a Bible.” I laughed as “E” pulled one out of her bag and handed it to her. Word gets around. The African women always ask for a Bible. “Thank you, you have given the best gift of all,” she said. “Pray for me. My boyfriend is in jail on drug charges.” I prayed for her, the other woman and the man in jail and gave them hugs.
“Syl” another African stood near the street. I almost missed her. Her sadness made her almost invisible in the consuming darkness. I took her hand. She looked around nervously. “Are you being watched?” I asked. No answer. I reminded her I had given my number and told her “When you feel safe call me. We can help. You don’t have to stay in this. There is a way out.” I hugged her. As I began to move away, she grabbed my hand. A longing, a grip, a reluctance to let go of those few minutes in which she is a human and not a commodity. She was afraid to talk. A deep sadness made me linger. “Call me.”
A few minutes. That’s all we really have with them on outreach. Just a few minutes to bring hope, restore vision and dreams, and remind them of their value and humanity. But just a few minutes is enough for a hug. Just a few minutes is hope in the midst of hopelessness, a word to reclaim their true identity, a light in the darkness. A few minutes is just enough time for the door of freedom to crack open. 1440 minutes. It can feel like eternity to a victim. A few minutes on the other hand can intercept darkness and bring hope to the rest of those 1440 minutes. When darkness engulfs the women they will have hope because they have seen the door to freedom. Given a few more minutes of our time and they just might find courage to walk through the door to freedom. 1440 minutes. Its nothing or its endless. What we do with it makes all the difference
