Bangkok Airport, Second Time Around

I’m going home. Here I sit in the Bangkok Airport, almost exactly three weeks since I was here before, when I was on my way to Cambodia. It is still one of the most beautiful airports I have ever seen, with exotic flowers everywhere. It is clean. It has Starbucks, Subway, Burger King, and high-end stores of nearly every variety. It has bathrooms that look the way they do at home, function the way they do at home, and are clean. It is wonderful.  And I feel uncomfortable here. Nothing is the way it should be.

When I came through here the first time, I was weary from many hours on airplanes. I was coming out of a world just like this one, except for the exotic flowers, the currency, and the language. I was ready for adventure and on the cusp of a dream: going to Cambodia! This airport is designed to accommodate Western tastes and expectations, which are high. I loved it before, but now I just feel confused. What am I supposed to do with all the conflict I am feeling? This morning, I was dripping with sweat and bartering for deals in a market where freshly butchered meat was just on the other side of a booth that sold kramas and other Cambodian scarves. I walked where I needed to go, or I rode in a tuk-tuk. Life was simple, expectations low, and smiles everywhere. Here, the stores are all separated by walls. The prices are on labels, and no one says, “Ma’dam, ma’dam, you want something? You come in and look. I make deal for you.” In fact, no one notices me at all.

Here’s something odd. I am cold. I went into the bathroom and changed into the jeans I had put in my backpack for the trip. I hadn’t thought of wearing jeans in three weeks. I also took my hair down from the ponytail that it has been in almost every waking moment. I have had three weeks of no socks, no long pants, hair pulled up off my neck every day, no hairdryer. (Ugh – why blow hot air at yourself when you’re sweating already?) Three weeks of sweat dripping or rain water dripping from me, depending on whether I had been outside in the sun or caught in a downpour. Three weeks of joyfully echoing the, “Hello! Hello!” I heard when walking by any group of children (some clothed and some not). Three weeks of hearing God whisper every day, “Just live love, Liz. Just live love.” This airport is no longer comfortable. Or maybe it’s too comfortable.

I just looked at my sandals. They are an image of what I feel. They are covered with a thin coating of mud from the path we walked every day to get to the church in Siem Reap. I have attempted to wash them several times, but the coating (a crust, really) remains. The red mud of Cambodia clings to my sandals, just like the memory of what I have seen in Cambodia clings to my heart. I knew I would be changed by this trip, but I didn’t know what that change would feel like. It hurts. It is an ache that longs for the hand of a dark skinned child, slipped into my pale hand. I know God will use the ache for his purposes. I pray that this ache always remains with me, and that I am obedient to the God who put it there.

I’m going home.