While I was in Chang Mai a few things came easily, like eating Thai food. Greeting the lovely Thai with a bow. Working alongside a new homeowner spreading mortar between bricks.

One thing that did not come easily was prayer.

Perhaps one of the reasons was there was no time for it. We were going from the break of dawn until we collapsed into bed. I thought of Jesus. I missed him. I tried to feel Him in the air, in the mountains…in my body, but I couldn’t.

All the while, I watched my Muslim friends pray behind the storage shed every day. They made the time. And the space. As I watched them, envious of their ability to stop and pray in the middle of their work day–I began to notice that our practices–in time and space–to cultivate the presence of God–are crucial to the fueling of the soul.

My practices in Chang Mai were non-existent.

I noticed as the days passed I was feeling more dark, and more separated from my connection to God. I missed my piano, my chair, and my walks in the woods where I experience God’s presence.

I tried to pray here and there…to practice the presence of the Lord when I could, amidst the busy-ness… but to no avail.
By the end of our trip, I was sure God simply didn’t live in Chang Mai.

Until our last day.

As a final hurrah, my husband and I decided to go on a hike in the mountains. We traveled a trail that was very steep and treacherous at times complete with brambles and skinny ledges. We were guided by a small strong man named Bon, who wore flip flops. He blazed the trail like a gazelle while we panted and struggled to keep up. The hike lasted close to five hours. Towards the end of the journey, our legs were burning and jello-like.

As were coming back down the mountain, we passed another group that had been trekking for three days. They had picked up a stray dog that had become a part of their group.

As we passed, they stopped us and asked us if we would look after the dog. They were heading toward a village that eats dogs.

But of course, our guide agrees. This is the way we do things; trekking up and down mountains, passing dogs from one group to the next.

So the other group kept walking and left the dog with us. With no leash, of course. Our guide called the dog, Come! But it sat and laid down. We tried coaxing the dog with cookies. No go. The dog kept turning round to look for the old pack, oblivious to the danger that lay before him. After more pulling and prodding and more bribing, our guide stooped down and picked up the dog.

And he carried that dog down the mountain like a baby.

When I think about it, I smile.

I just couldn’t seem to get to Him during that trip.
Instead, he came to me, in the form of a small Thai mountain man.

Looking back now I can see how savior-like our little mountain guide was that day. Leading us on the narrow path, bringing us from the darkness of the jungle into the light of day…and rescuing that dog from danger.

And I thought God didn’t live in Chang Mai.

One year ago, Aunt Lois came to visit on her way back from her annual harvesting party. When she came, she filled up my kitchen with bundles of fry pies, vegetables, and frozen creamed corn.

During that weekend visit, we ate the fry pies. She took most of the vegetables home with her to Florida. But the frozen creamed corn stayed in the freezer. Throughout the year I would pull out a packet of the cream corn from the freezer from time to time. I would add it to soup. Corn bread. Creamed Corn at Thanksgiving.

I didn’t think much of the creamed corn.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I sauteed onions and garlic in a pan. I poured in the chicken stock, cumin and chiles. I paused when I reached in my freezer for a packet of the frozen creamed corn, because I knew it was the last.

I opened that packet, and squeezed in the mashed corn and all of its juices into the simmering pot, and stirred.

And the corn became a part my dinner, for the last time.

And for Lois, and her bundles of produce, and the creamed corn that I would not see in this lifetime…and for all of the bundles of gifts that she bestowed on her loved ones–past and present; I cried.

Because I knew this would be the best creamed corn chowder I would ever make.

I wonder,
and I wait.
The walls are still bare
In places.
Windows uncovered.
Boxes yet unpacked.
I keep waiting
for something
but I
just don’t know what
or
if it will
ever, ever
come.
Someone said
they saw me with a back-pack on.
Well.
Maybe its time
now.
One year later…
To switch to a purse.

Fill me.
Wash over me.
Rain down.

Water makes a lasting impression. Just take a look at a shell, a rock in a river, the sand on the shores of the sea.

Beautifully etched, carved. Smooth and rippled.

Spiritual water — Living Water…

The essence of Life;

Heals, Restores
Fills, Flows

and carves and swirls and smooths

Leaving a lasting impression that remains

Beautiful
and even
more beautiful over time.

Fill me.
Wash over me.
Rain down on me.

I would like to see what the inside of your soul looks like.

Like the permanent watermarks
of the Grand Canyon
Your soul has the everlasting imprint of water

Fill me.
Wash over me.
Rain down.
Flood over me.

You might have uttered these words once, or you may pray them every day…

And though the human eye cannot see the watermarks on the inside,

Imprinted, You are.

Watermarked.

Whether etched like sand by the flow of the tide,
or carved like a canyon by years of flood…

I know
the inside of your soul

must be
exquisite

I used to think Jesus would climb inside your skin if you asked him to.

This is when I was young.

Eventually, I grew up and traded this god-inhabiting-the-body idea for a more lofty one: a person who converts becomes filled with the Spirit.

This idea was much easier to assimilate into my increasingly complex, doubt-filled mind.

Then there was Sam.

Yesterday, there was no abstract thought process to grab on to explain what I saw.

Yesterday I experienced Sam, converted.

Yesterday I saw a transformed man.

A true and documentable case of a person transplant.

Yesterday, Sam told me He asked Jesus to climb inside his skin.

And He did.