#TIMESUP

I watched Oprah Winfrey’s Golden Globe speech once yesterday, then three times today. I cried, got goosebumps, and cried a little more. I cry easily, so that's no real feat, but the goosebumps usually only come when Justin Trudeau starts talking gender equality.

Last year, most of us were overwhelmed by the honesty of the brave, powerful women who spoke out the words, “me too.” Some of us silently stood in solidarity alongside of them and simply heard, some of us wept for what we’d learnt about the women we loved and what they had endured, some of us echoed “me too” deep within our souls, and some of us were the very women to speak. The very women who walked into the light, bearing all of the pain of a past inflicted upon them by gender injustice, sexual harassment, and violence. The women who called out to one another, and birthed a collective voice from those two words.

Well, if #metoo was the way we found our voices, #timesup is our war cry.

Those who have harassed, exploited, inflicted emotional, physical, and sexual violence upon women; their time is up. That same courageous collective voice who told their stories and shook off stigma and shame for the sake of others, is saying enough is enough.

There is hope. There is gumption enough to propel us so far forward, and it is found in the stories that we’ve heard over the last weeks and months. I work for an organisation called Hagar International that works alongside women and children who have been trafficked, abused, and enslaved, and I can assure you, the resilience and courage of the people I have met and the things they have told me can and will change the world. My friend Yeang is one of those people. Yeang is bold about pursuing her dreams, she’s fun and she’s bright, and she’s also a survivor. When Yeang told me her story, and asked me to share it in hope that it might change something for someone, I asked her what she’d say to other survivors, she told me, “this is not the end of your story, there is more for your life.” There is more for her life, and there is more for our world. 

Oprah herself believes the same things as my girl Yeang, in proclaiming that there is a new day on the horizon, and we get to be a part of it, if we choose. So choose. Join me in standing with Yeang, or in standing with your colleague whose been fending off awkward unwanted sexual advances from her superior, or with your sister who drank too much at an orientation week party and wound up with someone she didn’t want in her room.

If you’re a man, there’s a chance you might be feeling a little defensive. I’m here to tell you that you don’t need to feel that way. Nobody’s bringing pitchforks to this party. We love you, and we really want you on our team. This movement says that you are not wired to harass or assault. So stand with the women in your life. Look out for them. Let other men know that the days of locker room chat are done. Accept that cat-calling never was and never will be cute or a compliment.

The time is well and truly up. Let’s remove the word slut from our vocabulary. Let’s never blame anything on what someone wore again. Let’s be kind to one another. Let’s speak up when we see gender injustice in our workplaces, in our homes, in our communities, and our greater world. Let’s support organisations that are actively fighting gender injustice. Let’s acknowledge our privilege and the position of ignorance it sometimes puts us in, and let’s choose to know. Let’s choose to see beyond what we never deserved.  Let’s tell perpetrators of discrimination, harassment, and assault, their #timesup.  

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To the over-excited woman in fat pants and an ill fitting tee at Phnom Penh Airport

It's been three months and ten days since I've written anything here. It's been a trip to China, to Singapore, to home, and back again. There have been too many thoughts, and too many feelings, and for the first time, a fear that transparency would feel like weakness. It's not, just so you know, so prepare yourself for a typical amount of honesty on my behalf. 

Home was great, and the worst, and the best, and the most beautiful. Here's what I'd say to myself right before I got on the plane.

To the over-excited woman in fat pants and an ill-fitting tee at Phnom Penh airport, 

Firstly, full credit to you, you wore the right kind of plane clothes, because in approximately 12 hours, you'll be sick on them. Wet wipes are a good idea to travel with, you're lucky that the woman in front of you on your flight from KL to Gold Coast already packed them. You're quite savvy, but she's savvier (not to be confused with a saviour although somewhat similar given the circumstances).

It's going to feel great for the first 48 hours. You'll take a lot of pictures. You'll say things like "wow, carpet!" and "using a debit card is so cool." You'll make a silent vow to yourself that you'll only wear turtlenecks for the entire duration of your trip and that whenever possible, you'll have a duvet thrown over you. You'll break both promises to yourself within a matter of days. 

You'll be in the honeymoon phase of homecoming and that's ok. Stay there for a while if you can. Soon, you'll have an insignificant argument that makes you cry. You might not be able to stop crying once you start. That's ok too, because your Mum is always willing to stay awake with you 'til the early hours. 

You are about to ache for all you've seen and felt over the last six months. That's ok. Your body might bear some of the brunt of it too. That's ok. 

You'll get to share the stories that have changed your life with so many people. You'll get that fiery feeling when you talk about the work that you do. You'll remember every day why you left this place and what you did it for. You'll see how far you've come. 

You'll also get to angry-dance with your best friends to classic girl pop. You'll go to the beach in jeans with your soulmate gal pal. You'll eat all your favourite foods, including the two donuts waiting for you in arrivals (actual donuts, not just Annie and Sam being affectionately referred to as donuts). You'll go for walks in crisp morning air just like you've thought about for the last six months. Your dogs will behave, just as you had hoped, like you are a soldier coming home from war (because who hasn't got sucked into that youtube vortex before?). You'll have a couple of late night conversations that make you feel a whole lot less alone. All of these will involve cookies. You'll be with almost all of your favourite people for three weeks straight. 

People are going to pray for you and encourage you and share in your struggle and celebrate in your successes. They're going to look you in the eye and share their hearts with you. They'll tell you they're proud of you, and they'll really mean it. 

Two of your best friends are going to marry each other three weeks in and you're going to have a great day with the greatest people. You're going to get a wee bit weepy at the end when you realise you're getting back on the plane the next day in your ugly plane clothes. Also, the election doesn't go quite how you wanted it to. 

Here's how it ends: you get on the plane. You go back. You'll sit in Gold Coast airport and feel like you can't get on the plane. You can, and you do. You are capable of more than you thought. 

It's going to be great going home, and it's going to be hard coming back. And none of that means that you're in the wrong place, it just makes you really human. You've got some stuff to work out, but you've got good people to help you get there. It might not look how you thought it would, but that's ok. You're doing ok.

Love,

You-who-made-it-back-after-all

My people. 

My people. 

Cambodia, pt.2

Eight months ago, I left the office at 3pm, went home, got into bed, watched Gilmore Girls and cried.  

Four months ago, I left New Zealand at 12pm, landed in Cambodia, got into bed, watched New Girl and cried.

Three weeks ago, I was working late, when I got into bed, watched a 20-minute message from Danielle Strickland and cried. 

The first time, I was heartbroken and soon-to-be unemployed. The second time, I was in shock that I’d managed to make such a drastic life change and was concerned about how I was going to go outside ever again. The third time, I was sure that I was supposed to re-commit to living here in Cambodia for another six months at least. Two weeks ago, I accepted a full-time real job with Hagar International as their Communications Officer. Basically, the biggest part of my job is seeking out the stories of our clients, listening, and sharing them with our supporters, aka. my dream job. 

If you know me (even vaguely), you won’t be surprised at all the crying. I cry when I’m happy, I cry when I’m sad, I cry when Stuart Little gets in his little red car and leaves his family, I cry whenever I hear Landslide (it doesn’t even have to be the original version, holla Dixie Chicks). I even cried the other day when I was telling my manager to take care of her unborn baby by making sure she doesn’t get too stressed.  I love a good cry. But something in my tears has changed as of late, and I think it’s because something in me has too.

Somewhere along the way, my tears have started to water a little something better in me. Somewhere, probably within Toul Tompoung, Phnom Penh, I became more willing to say yes to the unknown, to trust. I started feeling more like myself than I have in the longest time. God is healing me in places that I didn’t even know hurt. I have found hope in the most hopeless situations I have ever encountered. I am deeply passionate about what I get to do every single day. I’ve met people who make me believe that even in the age of Donald Trump, we are inherently good, and that means that the world is going to be ok. It turns out that comfortable isn’t really what we’re called into.

So here’s to at least another six months of my heart being broken every day by what I see. To some more questionable illnesses that will likely impact my insides long term. To learning and growing and changing and gaining weight and missing home and wishing I was more than I am so I could do more with what I have. Here’s to another six months of coming to terms with things that I never thought I could (mostly Geckos being involved in my day-to-day life). Here’s to sowing into change in a way that moves me and makes me better. Hello to you, Cambodia part two.

P.S. I’m working from home three weeks in September so c u then.

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Lols with best m8 Ra. 

Meet Pat

Pat's a skinny guy. I have the same adidas slides as him, and he wears a dress shirt most of the time untucked. On the day I met Pat, he was wearing fake Chanel and smile with some spaces between his teeth.

A friend had a friend who had friends who could take me and my friends up Bokor Mountain on the back of their motorbikes. Enter Pat: my moto driver for the day. 

He walked right up to me, stuck his hand out, told me his name and asked for mine. Pat's got great english, even though they didn't teach it when he was at school. I started off with some small talk, just to break the ice while I scooched super close to him as to ensure I didn't fall off to meet my death, and I didn't quite realise what small talk could mean. I asked Pat if he'd lived in Kampot his whole life. Since he was young, he said, but he was born in Phnom Penh. Then, when Pat was three, he was forced to leave by the Khmer Rouge. 

I dropped it there. I've seen so many tears fall so far since I've been here when questions around the genocide arise. It's never right to push, no matter how many books you've read or how much thought you've given it, it's never right to ask questions without permission or relationship. I've learnt that much. 

So I asked Pat the names of his kids and how old they were. He's got two boys, one is eight and the other just a few months old. Work's been quiet recently, which means it's been tough for Pat. Trying to support a family on a couple of dollars a day made by moto driving isn't particularly easy. He's got to make sure he's around too, his wife doesn't like it when he's not doing his bit with the baby. 

I asked him if his family was around to help. He told me they weren't. I, being stupid and having something of a failing in my short-term memory, asked him why. They were killed by Pol Pot. Then Pat started to talk some more. We'd climbed a solid windy few kilometres up Bokor at this point, so it was mostly me, Pat, and some pretty eerie clouds. 

His parents were killed when he was three. Pat's brother-in-law saved him, and brought him with him to Kampot. Pat lost his hero when his brother-in-law refused to serve in Pol Pot's army. He was killed, and that left Pat and a few of his siblings to be placed in a workers camp for children. His brothers and sisters would go off to work in the day, and three year old Pat would be left hidden in a hammock. As he got older, he'd forage for food. He'd find raw food sometimes, and they'd eat it as is. They couldn't risk the soldiers seeing the smoke from their fire. They'd be dead in a few minutes if they did. But avoiding smoke couldn't save Pat's brothers and sisters. Between them, they died of exhaustion or they were killed by soldiers for their weakness. 

Pat felt hope for the first time when he was seven. The regime ended. He went off to school, and then he finished and became a Tuk Tuk driver. Pat's been in the business much longer than I've been alive. He's safe, he knows how to take good care of people. He laughs even when he's telling me a sad story. He's brave. 

More than anything, Pat's impressive to me because he's still here. Still standing (or sitting on his moto).

So, if you ever find yourself in Kampot province Cambodia, I've got a name and a number for you. Pat's got some stories to tell and some places to show you. 

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Pat having a chat at the abandoned casino.

24.

Today is your 24th birthday.

We should be heading out for food and making laugh-cry jokes about getting older and not having even any small parts of our lives together. You'd literally double over in your chair and silent laugh while I ate too much and we'd remember the time I stomped cake into your carpet at your eighth birthday party. Your mum was so mad.

But I'm in Thailand, trying to keep busy and remember you at the same time. And you're in heaven.

We planned our lives together, you and I. You were going to have a whole bunch of kids, some would marry mine, the others would annoy them. You joked about how my big behind would come in handy for my kids to sit on.

You are as much a part of me now as you were then. It looks a whole lot different than we imagined it would, but I carry you with me every day. At first, you were heavy. Too heavy to get out of bed. Too heavy to get dressed. And that was ok for a while, I needed to feel the full weight of losing you first. I needed to figure out what it looked like to hold fifteen years worth of memories instead of watching them walk beside me and grow older. Slowly but surely, you became lighter to carry. Full of the things we'd always laughed about. Of the Fridays we hopped around fast food joints having loud arguments in different accents, of the morning's when my Dad would drop us off at Kindergarten and push us in the big blue swing. I started to live again because I loved you, little by little I came back. I came to terms with the tension of joy and heartbreak sitting right next to one another. I resolved to always love as fully as I'd been able to love you when we met. Three year olds know how to love people best.

Now, I make jokes that make people feel uncomfortable about my dead best friend. I think you'd laugh at those, you always were a fan of somewhat awkward humour. I love it when I get to talk about you. I'm so proud of your life. I like to think you'd be proud of me too.

On your 24th birthday, I ate what I wanted because I thought you'd tell me to. I looked through my favourite pictures of us. I saw the sights of another strange city. I missed you like crazy. Happy 24th my beautiful best friend, May 6th will always be one to celebrate.

12 year old us. 

12 year old us. 

Month two: ten more lessons

11. Do not wear your backpack on your front when knowingly carrying a leaky water bottle. It will end badly. Not only will it make your moto driver very uncomfortable and confused, you'll be even more embarrassing and noticeable than usual. 

12. Just because you're no longer living in a country with a huge hole in the ozone above it, doesn't mean you should skip out on sunscreen. Your nose need not match your chubby wee cheeks. 

13. Stay generous. It's easy to get caught up in how inexpensive everything is- don't. Give how you can when you can.

14. Only sleep with air conditioning when you have to, or find yourself googling the symptoms of strep throat and developing a fear you'll get rheumatic fever and have heart failure and die in a matter of weeks. It's just your poorly cleaned air conditioning system. 

15. There are ways of getting your favourite chocolate. My most favourite is broadcasting it to everyone I speak to so that if they ever see it, they immediately associate it with me and feel so moved by my love for it that they purchase it. (Hi Siobhan, thanks for the Whittakers).

16. The ants in your bed will eventually go away for no apparent reason. Enjoy it while it lasts, chances are it won't. 

17. You might never get used to the heat. That's ok. You're still living and breathing and walking to work so you're actually an impressive individual anyway (currently thanking myself for the complement).

18. You have to let the hard stuff propel you forward. 

19. Learn your left, right, and straight in Khmer. It will make your life 100% easier. 

20. Avoid all water when barefoot, unless you find Hansel and Gretel inspiring and you need a little help finding your way back to where you came from. 

The view from my balcony first thing in the morning, before the street really wakes up. 

The view from my balcony first thing in the morning, before the street really wakes up. 

Meet Ingrid

Two weeks ago, I ate dumplings in China. I actually ate a lot of things, which I know you'll be glad to hear because you're likely worried that I'm fading away in the Cambodian heat eating just rice and beans (I'm not, but whatever works for you in regards to your mental picture of my life is totally ok. Be blessed in your creative thinking).

I also hung out with my Auntie and her husband and my tweenage cousins. Tweenagers are fun. They're not teenagers so they still think that you're quite cool but they're developing a real sense of sass that is unique to their life stage and doesn't always make sense. Just delightful. 

Anyway, the reason that I ate a lot of things is because my Auntie is best and mummied a 23 year old for five days straight (srsly, she's a saint). Naturally, I want to tell you all about her.

Her name is Ingrid, and she kind of sounds like my Mum when she talks sometimes, but she's got certain expressions that look a lot more like my Granny. She's so kind, but like most women who often get put in a box for being 'nice', she's so many things at any given time. She's an amazing Mum, she's bad ass and brave, she's a dedicated wife, she's creative, she's a real calming presence. She's a whole lot of great. 

She moved to China 24 years ago, she didn't speak the language, and arrived entirely alone. Facetime wasn't even alive, so she couldn't put her laptop on her belly and talk to her family from really unflattering angles. She didn't even have anyone to pick her up at the airport when she first arrived, she had to find her way all by herself. But she knew what God had asked of her, so she did it. 

From there, she learnt mandarin, Chinese sign, and started her own NGO. For longer than I've been alive, my Auntie Ingrid has been getting deaf people off the street, teaching them sign language and skills, and working alongside them to rebuild their lives.  She saw a need, decided to do something about it, and dedicated her life to it. Ingrid always has and always will be one of my heroes. 

So here's to ladies like Ingrid, who are kind and smart and courageous. I'm so glad to call her Auntie, and I'm so glad to call her friend. 

Ingrid and I outside her apartment. 

Ingrid and I outside her apartment. 

Feet

Some people will cringe at the title of this post. I know this, because I have this friend who harbours a deep and passionate hatred for feet. This used to really bother me in winter, because I think the most efficient way to warm toes when you've got poor circulation is to casually slip them underneath someone's legs while sitting on the couch. When I'd do this, my friend would generally make a threat about ending our friendship. She never did though, I think it's because I had pristine feet back then. Beautiful, consistently clean, tan-line free, sweet sweet feet. Either that or she liked me because I'm a solid 7.5/10 friend most days. 

Here, the soles of my feet are a 72% cocoa Whittakers Dark Ghana by the end of each day. I suspect they don't taste as good. They're covered in the dust of the day, much like my heart and my head are after a standard day in Cambodia. I have to be careful not to step in wet patches on the floor when I get home, or there will be a trail up the eight flights of stairs it takes to get to my room. 

So I get up to my bathroom, and I turn on the tap. I rinse my feet off, try to get just the right amount of soap involved so I don't slip on the tiles, and I pat them dry with a towel. All this to say that I have a new appreciation for washing my feet. And for all that it means for me here. Want to know why? Well you're here now, and you've wasted at least two minutes reading the above rambles about things you probably don't enjoy focussing on, so you may as well see these thoughts through to the end. 

In the lead up to Easter, as I watched the dirt of the day circle down the drain, I started to think about what it meant when Jesus washed his disciples feet. I went to a Christian school, and we talked a lot about servant leadership. But I think I took the concept for granted, because my feet were always clean and I didn't ask so many questions back then.

Because what I've come to see when I wash my feet, is the premise for my whole faith and what it means for my life; that Jesus came to wash away the muck. That he's present in the menial and messy moments of each day. That he calls us to roll our sleeves up, take soapy water, and seek to serve the people that we usually just walk past. That first, we have to find ourselves on our knees. It couldn't be clearer that we're called into lives of sacrifice for the sake of others.

I'm so thankful for a God that takes my dirty feet and turns them into something that stays with me. I never realised things that smelt less than ideal could be quite so spiritual. So I'm taking that challenge and doing my best to run with it (I didn't even mean to write run in a punny sense but having it done it by accident I'm very proud of my subconscious,  please join with me in celebrating this). I don't think the challenge will ever be easy, and it certainly won't be clear or clean cut, But I think what you find at the end of washing someone's feet is a sense of understanding where they've walked better than ever. That you find a fresh revelation of grace and what it looks like to see something that has stuck to someone's very soles, be washed away. And that you know, you're right where you're supposed to be, right where Jesus told you to be way back when. 

It's too weird to post a picture of just my feet. Here's a generic blurry shot of my trying to cross the road candidly in my hood. 

It's too weird to post a picture of just my feet. Here's a generic blurry shot of my trying to cross the road candidly in my hood. 

Month one: ten lessons

To mark my one month Cambo-versary last Friday, I've decided to make a list of then things I've learnt thus far. I might a monthly habit of this, so here goes: 

1. I am likely a linguistic genius, exhibit A: 'mhm', 'Aah!' and nodding or shaking ones head enthusiastically are the most useful parts of language here. (Not a linguistic genius in the slightest, I am definitely the slowest in my Khmer class and I tend to be a real baby when I'm coming last).

2. Water, water, water. sleep. In the words of John Mayer, wake up shake it off and repeat. He didn't mean it this way, but I do. If you are to live here, it's best to carry a 1.5 litre water bottle with you at all times if you don't want to shrivel up into a little tiny raisin with no energy that cannot be revived and therefore is left on the street. Also now you are a raisin which is a terribly, terribly unfortunate reality.

3. People are kind if you are honest. 

4. It doesn't really matter how smart you are about where you eat or how much hand sanitiser you use, you're going to get sick. 

5. When you do get sick, don't be a silly kind of sick. Go to your Doctor, or be plagued by your sickness for much longer and risk getting all kinds of sicker.

6. The mornings are the best time of day to be out of the house. 5.50am to be exact. The streets are quiet, it's cooler, and people are doing exercise that is either pointless or comical so either way, it's soothing or it makes you laugh. A real win for all involved.

7. Get street smart. Stay street smart. Abandon all inhibitions re: fanny packs and wearing your bag on your front. You look very bad anyway, it's 35 degrees and your hair no longer does what it's told. You cannot discipline your hair, this is bad news. 

8. Most days, it's important to look for the good things because the bad are all too visible. Choose to. Ignore the rats and the verbal harassment wherever possible, and do your best to smell the laundromats. 

9. You need to decide when Facetime will be your friend. It provides a very real possibility that you'll feel better and also that you'll feel worse. Homesickness is natural. Sometimes it will show, sometimes it won't. Choose your moments or wind up weeping listening to Home (preferably the Westlife version, which is a controversial move because most people prefer Buble but trust me, the Westlife version).

10. God is always good, always present, and always working. Let Him do his thing, yours is much less important. 

Me hanging out with my m8 the Mekong.

Me hanging out with my m8 the Mekong.

The Kids of the Coconut

Local kids walking to Coconut School.

Local kids walking to Coconut School.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yesterday I went to Silk Island with some work friends. It's a ten minute ferry across the the Mekong that takes you to a place that actually feels pretty far from the City. It's green, I only needed to use one hand to count the amount of times we were harassed, and when we sat down for lunch, there was silence. We even made a friend on the ferry. She wanted the friendship to move a little faster than we were willing to go, I'm usually a big fan of fast friends and general over investment in people I know very little, but it felt like a bit much to have five minutes with her and then meet her family. 

There was only one place on the Island that I actually really wanted to go to. Don't get me wrong, there is something fascinating about the process of growing and spinning silk, and something even more fascinating about the man explaining it to you who appears to have an obsession with caterpillars falling in love and then making love with 'no coffee breaks'. And there's something really irritating and mesmerising about watching women weave together tiny threads to make something so much bigger with so much patience. But there's also a little school on Silk Island, made almost entirely of old iced coffee cups, bottle tops and tyres. It's also free for local kids to go there. 

In a country with no recycling, where rubbish disposal systems are as simple as dropping it on the street, where the only water that's safe to drink comes from a plastic bottle in some way shape or form, Coconut school's ideas are counter-cultural to say the least. But the concept isn't, the concept of taking something used and broken and seeing it through a redemptive process is something Cambodians have had to become accustomed to. Just like the ladies that weave the silk on the Island, the people here seem to have an understanding of what it means to patiently pursue something bigger. But environmentally, we've all got our part to play. We've got a lot to learn from the kids of Coconut School.

They don't just learn in the recycled materials, they learn out of them. Kids at Coconut school are taught recycling as a subject, alongside English. Somewhere, in a tiny town on Silk Island, social change is starting with children who get recycling. People who are faced with the challenges of poverty on a daily basis are making decisions to better their environment and the future of the communities that they live in. In the same week that Donald Trump decided to do his worst to climate friendly policies, there are kids going to school just to learn about how they can better their environment. It rained all day on Saturday, and every time I've mentioned that to a local, they've said something along the lines of 'it didn't used to be like this at this time of year, but with climate change, it is'. In Donald Trump vs. Coconut school, I'm rooting for the little guys. 

 

To Coco Pops and Change

This morning, I panicked because I found a bug in my bra. It wasn’t a bug. It was a teeny tiny Coco pop. Which had ended up there because I had been shovelling Coco pops straight out of the box with my hand. So, it’s fair to say that there are high highs and low lows to my days here (Coco pops induce a real sugar high, and finding one in your undergarments really does make you question what kind of a person you are becoming).

Here's the thing about being here, alone, and doing what I'm doing- I think a whole lot about who I'm becoming. For example, I sleep with three fans on my face. This does not necessarily mean that I wake up looking like I'm in a early 00's music video, although sometimes, I do. Do I now qualify for low cut flares? Is that who I am now? Hopefully not. I am also living out 12 year old Lydia's dreams, sleeping in a mosquito net. This one doesn't quite have the princess vibe, but definitely the you-won't-contract-mosquito-borne-diseases-in-your-sleep vibe, which is actually quite good. So I guess I've met one expectation of 12 year old me (one out of approximately one million isn't so bad). 

I don't know about you, but I didn't really see myself here as a 16 year old. Honestly, I didn't even really see myself here as a 22 year old two months ago. But I'm so glad I am. Because in the moments of loneliness, in the ones where I'm staring down the biggest slavery crisis our world has ever seen, and even in the menial, I'm becoming something quite different. And becoming something quite different to what you expected is a painful process. It's one of grief, of letting go of what you thought your life would look like and clinging on to the hope that you were made for something your little brain couldn't even wrap it's head around. 

Before I left my dreamy home (hands up if you're homesick), I was at  a breaking point. A breaking point that turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to me, but a breaking point none the less. One weekend, I got a text that kind of tipped me over the edge. I was reading C.S. Lewis that afternoon, between periods of angry dancing to girlbands and just crying. I came across this quote,

"Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”

The next day, I went to one of my best friend's place. I asked her Mum to pray for me. She did, and then she had a prophetic picture. It was of God building a house, my house. She had no idea what I'd been reading the day before. I let go, and decided that I'd just do whatever God had next for me, no more planning, no more trying to figure it all out myself. That day, I had my final interview with Hagar International. Four days later, I was offered the role that I'm in now. 

I am more convinced than I have ever been before that he is pulling together pieces of me that I didn't even know that I had. That 12 year old Lydia certainly wasn't aware of. That 22 year old two months ago Lydia didn't see coming. It's being shaped by the significant, and the menial, and the moments in between. Whether you're living in Phnom Penh, finding Coco Pops in your bra, or behaving like a perfectly reasonable adult somewhere in Auckland City, you are becoming something. And everything that you're doing is all weaving together to make you that something. Choosing to make yourself vulnerable so that God can change you the way he wants to, that's what I'm learning is the most important part. We don't tend to grow too much when we're too comfortable where we are. 

So here's to the Coco Pops in the bra, three fans on the face, geckos in the bed (a story for next time) moments. The ones that make us think about who we are and what we're becoming. Today, I'm thankful for the growing pains and for what they'll eventually grow me into. 

The view from my office balcony, Phnom Penh.  

The view from my office balcony, Phnom Penh.  

Then Sings My Soul

Yesterday I saw a lady breastfeeding her three-year old while riding on the back of a scooter on a highway. I was so stressed that the three-year old was going to fall off that I became even sweatier than I already was which, really, is more impressive than it is anything else when you're trying to make sure your legs and shoulders are always covered in 35 degree heat. There's a reason why I'm not posting pictures of myself here; sweat patches are permanent, my facial expression is almost always confused, and I consistently shine like the top of the Chrysler building (Annie the Musical anyone?). 

Yesterday, I also spent some time in a slum where survivors of abuse and trafficking now run programmes for vulnerable children. That in itself would've been enough to become humbled and have hope in the spaces that I'm seeing and working in. 

I went to the Church service there in the afternoon. Most of it was in Khmer, so making faces at the little boy in front of me became my main occupation. It was hot, I don't know the language (yet, I'm staying optimistic that I possess great linguistic genius that I am yet to discover).

They started singing How Great Thou Art in Khmer. I started to sing too, except mostly just confidently made up sounds. Then I looked up at the woman in front of me. I realised that she was the first older woman I'd seen in Cambodia. I looked at her friends, they were around the same age. I thought back to my conversation with my housemate Lana the night before, when she'd mentioned the reason we didn't see old people around much. I realised that the women standing in front of me, hands raised in worship, beaming, were survivors of a horrific genocide. 

It's hard to know how to follow that sentence. I don't think I can articulate full well what that moment presented me with. It was an assurance, a brilliant and blessed assurance, that He is Great and good and everything powerful. That His character far outweighs circumstance. That he's so present in the places that ache. That he heals those very places, deeply and fully.

I have a feeling that the next six months are going to give me that revelation a thousand times over. How Great Thou Art, How Great Thou Art. 

 

Just before the slum, on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. 

Just before the slum, on the outskirts of Phnom Penh. 

Welcome to Bambi Baby

Hi, Hello, Hey,

I’m pretending that we’re having a conversation, and this is how it's going: 

(I tried to hug when you walked into the room, whether or not that was uncomfortable for you determines the tone of voice you’ll read this in. If it was an unwelcome advance; I’m sorry, I just love a good cuddle and personal boundaries aren't my strong suit but I'm working on it I swear.)

You: Why is your blog called Bambi Baby? Aren’t you moving to Cambodia to do anti trafficking work? Shouldn’t you have a more serious name? Perhaps a bible verse reference? Or maybe something about how white middle-class people can save the world just because of their entirely undeserved privilege? Surely you could've at least come up with an obscure reference to a cool word in another language that you don’t actually speak?

Me: Thanks for asking (insert your name here), I’ve been waiting for this opportunity to arise so that I could clear up any confusion that might arise between me and the Bambi Baby website that sells baby furniture at what I can only assume is a remarkable discount (I don't have any babies for which to buy furniture, sorry Mum, maybe one day when I'm done comparing myself to a cartoon deer.)

Here’s the thing: I like a lot of things about Bambi. I like that Bambi really loves his Mum. I like that Bambi makes friends that are different to him. I like that he’s curious. I like that he comes to understand who his father is, and that eventually, that’s what leads him to lead others home. I'd like to be more like Bambi in a whole lot of ways.

I like the scene where Thumper shows Bambi how he can glide across the ice, and then he tries to get Bambi to do it too. Bambi is so awkward. His legs flail and his little eyebrows get furrowed and for a minute he just lies there. Then, Thumper helps him up, and says “Kinda wobbly, aren’t ya?”

I don’t think I’ve ever related more to a cartoon character in my life.

So Bambi falls again, Thumper helps him up again. Rinse, do your shower dance, slip, repeat. I’ve been Bambi and my best friends have been Thumper so many times. In fact, if you’re reading this, you’ve probably been Thumper for me or at least observed this moment on multiple occasions.

I’m about to do something that makes my knees even wobblier than they are naturally (which is really quite impressive of the challenge I’m taking on because metaphorically and literally speaking my legs are largely unstable). But I’m doing it because I know who my Father is and I know what he’s leading me into. I trust in him to keep me safe, and to give me the courage to try again when I flail and my eyebrows get furrowed and for a minute, I just lie there. I believe that he'll bring Thumpers into my life to push me to stand. 

Bambi Baby is about the blunders and the bounce backs that are likely to take place over the course of this new journey I've wound up on. I want to share with you in the everyday magic and breaking of moving to Cambodia, on my own, to stand up for something I’ve always known I should’ve. I’d love to share with you why I’m passionate about what I’m doing as well as what the breakfast vibes are like in Phnom Penh. I’d like to tell you stories that move you as well as ones that make you feel very embarrassed for me.

You: Ok, thanks Lydia, that’s good to know. Next time say it in less words.

Me: I really appreciate your constructive feedback, thanks. I love you (still working on the personal boundaries thing), talk soon.