Daow Luang and Medicine made from Gold.

I was giggling to myself as I laid in bed last night thinking about how crazy my dinner conversation tonight would have been if it would have happened in America, yet how normal it is here.

Our friend Ae and her husband Joe recently decided to kill and eat their dog named Daow Luang because he wasn't listening to them very well, didn't seem to love them very much, and ate one neighbor's chicken a day despite the spankings he was given. I loved their little pooch, and he would spend lots of time in front of my house, so you can imagine my hesitation to take part in eating him.

Daow Luang was made into a stir fry dish with lemongrass, garlic, and other herbs. I normally will participate in eating dog, but this was the first dog that I actually knew and loved that was offered for me to eat. I told them I will eat dogs, but not poor little Daow Luang.

Last night they still had some left over Daow Luang, so they brought him over on a dish and Ae, Joe, and Rusty participated. The conversations went onto other funny topics about how I need to brush my hair every day because you can get very sick if you don't brush your hair (something about circulation in your scalp), and that I should stop washing my hair right before I go to bed, because you can get sick from sleeping with wet hair. And also that using fans at night is not good for you, and can give you a cold (even when it's 95 degrees and humid). I giggled and told Ae that I haven't used a brush for a year, and I haven't gotten sick. Also that I usually wash my hair every night before crawling into bed, and that I sleep with my fan on to block out the sound of Rusty's snoring. And that I've been okay thus far.

We both laughed about it for a bit, and she said that's what she has always heard.

I also had a random visitor stop over last night from Burma while we were eating dinner.  He heard that I was a nurse, and had some special medicine from a doctor in Burma that he needed me to inject into him. He wanted me to inject it into his shoulder, his lower back, and three other locations. I asked what the medicine was, and he said it is water with gold in it, and that he paid $100 for this tiny vile of it (one month's wages). I told him that I was scared for two reasons...1) I don't even know what I am injecting, or if there is bacteria in it, the side effects, the amount to inject. 2) I'm not trained to give injections just anywhere on the body.

He kept trying to persuade me and over and over, and finally I had to tell him I couldn't do it. That I had other pain medication I could give him, but that I didn't feel comfortable doing this. He understood, but drove away disappointed on his motorbike to find another willing soul to inject this magical medicine in his body.

Before going to bed found another scorpion in the shower drain.  This is scorpion number 6 that we've killed in the last few weeks.

What a funny night.

i just don't buy it.

I posted this yesterday, then took it down thinking it was kind of a downer on Mother's Day. I had a few e-mails arrive in my inbox of people wanting to respond to it, so decided to repost it.

I often waver to post thoughts on grief, or my faith journey for a variety of reasons. Sometimes I wonder if people will worry about me, sigh with boredom, or wonder when I will ever get back to my old self. The problem with my grief, is that it comes and goes and comes and goes and the cycle never quite fully retreats. It has affected every area of my life causing almost everything to come into question. Everything feels messy. Emotions are magnified. Marriage holds on by threads, faith gets confusing, and the future seems uncertain. Time continues to pass and it feels easier...little by little. There are chunks of time when it feels like you are functional again and able to enjoy things and have fun. And then you have a day full of reminders...but this again passes and the cycle continues. Through this journey, my relationships and friendships have deepened in  ways I am very grateful for. My relationship with God looks different now than it did 1.5 years ago. I've lost a confidence that "things will work out" or that my deepest prayers will be answered. I haven't lost the confidence that He will sustain me in the hardest of moments, I just worry what those will be, and am thankful that I can't see my own future.

We recently watched the movie "Rabbit Hole" starring Nicole Kidman. The movie about a couple whose son dies in a car accident, and how their world turns upside down. Here is a quote from the film that stuck out to me, talking about the pain of losing a child...

Becca: "Does it ever go away?"

Nat:  "No, I don't think it does. Not for me it hasn't. It has gone on for eleven years...it changes though. 

Becca: "How?"

Nat: "I don't know... the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and... carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you... you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and - there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be aweful - not all the time. It's kinda... [deep breath] not that you'd like it exactly, but it's what you've got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh... it doesn't go away. Which is... 

Becca: Which is what? 
Nat: Fine, actually. 

I like that description...carrying the weight of the memory with you, and even when it feels heavy sometimes, that is what you have left and you will treasure even that.

Over this last year I've followed a two blogs of others (strangers) who have premature babies, who have delivered very early on, around 24 weeks. I've become as obsessed with checking in on these little tiny babies, their prognosis, and the ways the parents are processing the heartache that this journey can bring.

Honestly, a lot of watching the journey has been difficult, especially when the parents are Christians. The phrases that come out over and over like, "Praise God, He is hearing our prayers!" "God has a plan for our little one, and we know that he is going to heal him/her."

All of those phrases bring up lots of stuff inside of me that becomes hard to process. Initially I think thoughts like, "So...if He doesn't answer your prayers, does that mean that He doesn't care? Or He isn't listening? Or that He isn't good?" I am honestly thankful and happy to hear that their little ones are doing well and recovering against all odds, but something in their words makes me cringe. In the same way that something in me would cringe when people would make promises to me that God was going to heal Olive and that she was going to be the smartest little girl in her class. And then I think, how do they process Olive's death?

Some Christians would argue that perhaps I didn't have enough faith--that I didn't believe enough. It's true, I never had the sense that I thought 100% she would be healed in the future. I struggled between the tension of trying not to be in denial about her prognosis, but also realizing that miracles do still happen...and just the hope of a mother that everything will be okay. For some reason, I think God cared and loved Olive with more depth than to not intercede because her mother didn't have enough faith. I just don't buy it. I just don't. He's bigger than that. More complex. More loving.