Hello, all!
Despite a season of silence here, we still send out occasional email updates–and we just did today! If you don’t receive these but would like to, please email us at thespurlocks@thehousecollective.org.
Thank you!
silence.
We’ve just returned from an extended trip to America. It was both long and long-awaited: after years of adoption processes, visa stresses, Covid chaos, and just generally being very, very trapped—we were free. And we were let loose in all that “freedom” means in America right now.
There are so many things I want to remember. There were so many firsts. We watched Oak’s English language blossom; we watched him meet grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, and come to call them all by name. We watched him learn American culture; he became a little American kiddo. We watched him experience snow for the first time and learn to love it—even if that was mostly for the fact it was edible. We watched him experience roller coasters and Thanksgiving and Christmas lights and water fountains and sunroofs.
We were welcomed so warmly. We walked into my college roommate Mallory’s home, where they had created a little AirBnb for us that brought tears to my eyes. We walked into home after home of our family members, where they opened up their tables, toys, clothes to us—anything we needed. We borrowed my parents car for three months!
I never want to forget it: the generosity, the warmth. (And also the cold. Wow. 🥶)
And then—afraid surprise positive Covid tests and changed plans and delayed flights—we finally made it back to Thailand, with a seven day quarantine on the beach. If you’re going to do jet lag + quarantine with a five year old, the beach is a wonderful place for it. It’s beautiful, and open at 5am.
Tomorrow, we make the drive to Mae Sot. Home.
We’ll be greeted by friends and neighbors. Messes and chaos, too. Our house has been well-used for classes and bread and bible studies while we’ve been away. Things have gone missing and drama has unfolded. But there is also growth: another baptism awaits us. Book clubs that moved online will be back in person. Meals will be shared.
We return with open arms: waiting to see what our role is on our little street. Waiting, too, for baby girl to make her way to us, hopefully soon.
In all of these things: there is much to say, and I usually have plenty of words. I also have so many wonderful pictures of our little boy both enjoying America and enjoying our return to Thailand; pictures that part of me wants to share and part of me just wants them not all over the Internet.
But here is my dilemma in this space: I don’t think we need another voice that sounds like mine. I felt this way for a season, but now I feel it more strongly; more permanently, perhaps. I don’t want to simply document my life overseas, my family, my neighborhood from my perspective alone. I’m not sure how to capture Oak’s life and story in a way that loves him well and protects him, in the wide world of the internet. I’m not sure how to share stories of my friends without their capacity to fully read and grasp what is being said. And after visiting, I’m not even sure I can write as an American anymore…but I am not anything else, either.
It seems this space is just calling for a season of silence.
(Which, I suppose it’s been silent for quite some time anyway. Leave it to me to inconclusively, officially establish silence.)
So for now, thank you for this space.
Thank you for both reading the words, and also accepting the silences.
Thank you for accepting the ways I’ve both changed and changed my mind.
Thank you for celebrating and mourning here.
Thank you for hoping with me.
every yoke.
This week we invited the youth and friends to come over to make #protestart. Honestly, we all feel pretty helpless for the situation just over the river. It feels so close, so painful, so personal: and yet none of us can get there. To friends or family, to places we love, to help.
So when I saw that @raise3fingers was doing a push for protest art, I thought we could try. We could at least contribute what we have or what we are; what we hope for and wait for.
So a group of non-artists gathered around to make art.
And as I watched “Save Myanmar” be written over and over, and as I wrote “Save Myanmar” on my arm; I thought of America. I thought, “Oh, save America, too.”
Because we’re still watching the unfolding of the Chauvin trial. We just heard about another mass shooting. We just saw #dauntewright murdered before our eyes.
Oh, Lord, save America, too.
And for a moment, I wasn’t sure where to place my allegiance. Where to place my prayers. Where to place my posts and my words.
But I can love both. I can love Myanmar, pray for Myanmar, and hope for Myanmar. I can ask you to care about Myanmar.
But I can also love America, pray for America, and hope for America. I can ask you to care about America, too.
I believe in a God big enough to love both and all. Every pain that we’ve all felt in 2020 and 2021–from sickness, from loss, from murders, from injustice, from broken systems, from death, from cruelty–every pain, He can carry. And He does.
In Isaiah 58, “Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?”
Every yoke, friends. The wickedness and the oppression stretches near and far, but this is the fast He has chosen.
Let’s break every yoke. Let’s fight for all the oppressed. Let’s loose the bonds of wickedness everywhere.
dear world,
It’s horrific.
So many people have written to ask about Myanmar: what’s really happening?
It’s just absolutely horrendous, friends.
Myanmar has been faithful moving toward democracy and working toward free and fair elections in 2010, 2015 and again in 2020. At midnight, the day before they were scheduled to take office, all the top government officials—newly elected and incumbents—were arrested, detained. Again.
(Do you know the history? This happened already. In 1947, all the top government leaders were assassinated as a newly independent government was forming. This led to decades of civil war and coups and arrests and illegitimate detentions. And then, in recent history, they’ve been moving forward. We were seeing the the hope of democracy. But now this.)
Since these arrests on 1 February 2021, peaceful protestors have taken to the streets in a beautiful testimony of the power of people, of voice, and of determination. Thousands upon thousands of people have entered the streets, all over the country, in the cities, in the most rural areas of Myanmar. And around the world, in refugee camps and in countries where they’ve repatriated as refugees.
(Because this isn’t the first time this has happened. There are still refugee camps all along our border and others from the years of civil war.)
And in response to the most peaceful, creative, beautiful protests I’ve ever seen, the military is responding in violence.
Men, women, and children are being shot, in the streets and in their homes. Children, babies. Every day in cruel ways.
Unlawful arrests are in the thousands; murders are in the hundreds. Refugees are pouring over the border in the thousands.
Again.
Air raids have begun. The military is bombing across the country.
And while the bloodiest day of the coup was happening on Saturday, the military dictator was having a party, and used drones to make an image of himself in the sky.
It’s unbelievable. But it’s happening.
Friends here are asking when the US or the UN will step in, and I’m not sure what to say. Because I’m not sure they will. I’ve read about the Holocaust. The Civil Rights Movement. The genocide in Rwanda.
We—as a world—are too good at looking back to see that we should have done something. We see that it was atrocious; that we should have known.
But now we know.
But we also have a video of George Floyd’s death, and I’m still waiting with bated breath as his trial unfolds. We boast equality, and yet I’m scared to bring my AAPI son and our mixed family to visit right now.
I’m not sure what is right in each situation that surrounds us. The brokenness is the world feels too great for me to present a solution.
But, Church, can we pray? Can we be faithful people who pray against violence in every land and every culture and every color of skin?
And friends, can we give? Can we send money for those losing loved ones, for those starving, for those standing up for injustice in Myanmar? Can we send money to organizations fighting for justice and equality?
And community, can we love each other well?
Can we let ourselves be broken that we might all be made whole?
_____________
If you’d like follow along with the situation in Myanmar, here are some people I follow on Instagram.
@thethtar_thet is poignant and honest.
@patrickslh takes stunning photographs.
@mohingamatters gives daily updates.
@br_randall gives updates and practical ways to get involved.
If you’d like to give to those within the country, I’d recommend mutualaidmyanmar.org.
immigration: part two.
Some posts require a part two, and this would be one of them. Thank you for all who prayed and checked on us in our visa mess.
I am so thankful to be able to say that–as of Thursday–Stephen & I each hold a one year visa. For our family, this gives us one more year in the Kingdom of Thailand together. This visa is renewable in-country so that–in theory–we shouldn’t be back in this predicament again. We also now have the time and ability to pursue a US visa in the future.
In short, it’s sorted.
In long, it was so unbelievably stressful. And expensive. And difficult.
This isn’t really the (public) place to go into details, but it felt like a miracle. It was truly terrifying some days to look at our bleak options and look at the ridiculously slim chances we were hoping on.
But. BUT. We serve a God of miracles. We’re okay. And we’re here, together. We realize that isn’t everyone’s story.
So we’re thankful. ♥️
bones.
We moved into this neighborhood eleven years ago now. The kids that were five and six are now sixteen and seventeen. The ones we watched get married are bringing home second and third kids. The ones who had kids have grandkids.
In the short version, we worked for an organization that wanted to change the big picture, while we saw the need—and maybe our place—in the small picture right in front of us. We wanted to invest here, so we started building.
We built our relationships slowly. In another language, over some tragedies and Memory games, over meals and community meetings. It was weird and nontraditional, to say the least.
And then somewhere along the way, we wondered if we were even the right people for this anyway. We wanted to see more local leadership, and we wondered if we were just in the way. And maybe I just felt like I’d been building for years but wasn’t sure what I was looking at.
I was ready to step back: back into my passport country, back into English, back into an adoption system that would tell me the next step in the process.
But in the most unexpected way, it felt like God said we were placed. We were in position for something. I’m not speaking to philosophy or ideology here, just my own story: while we might not be local or the best for the job or the ones you’d pick out in a crowd, we were placed now. We were in position. We did know the language. We did know the families. We did know the unknowns. We’d started building something that we should continue. It felt like God just said to stay put. Keep building. Wait.
So after that visit to the States, we still went back. With mixed feelings, yes; but we did.
______________
I’ve had Ezekiel 37 on my mind for years, woven throughout this story. I’ve had different people speak to me about it; to share about our community and reference it. I memorized it earlier this year, meditating on the poetry of it.
“Oh, Lord God, you know.” (v.3)
It’s been a long decade of meditating and ruminating.
And then this year—amidst all that 2020 brought us!—there was a rattling.
It’s hard to put it into words. It was dreams, shared by a teenager in tears. It was in conversations, some very, very hard. It was in tears. It was in actual miracles. (Clearly I’m a skeptic. I’m using “actual miracles” so that I believe it, too.)
And then this.
In December, I was sitting on the steps of our church waiting for Stephen to return for the second trip home. This particular Sunday was the first of the month: we had brought bread for communion and flowers for the church from Flour & Flowers. The Reinforcers had run sound and managed the new projector recently installed. The Sunday school teachers fell through unexpectedly at the last minute. With ten or so kids from our community attending and dropping coins all over the tile floors, Stephen and I gathered all the kids outside for a pick up Sunday school lesson.
I was tired as I sat there.
“I’m getting baptized. I’m taking the class and then I’ll get baptized next month.”
“What?”
“Baptized. You know? I’m getting baptized next month. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. And this is what I’m going to do. It’s true. It’s what I believe.”
Later in the week, as we did our Honest Advent by Scott Erickson (recommended!), we read this,
“It’s a surprise that life can come through barren places.
It’s a surprise that meek nobodies partake in divine plans.”
This is how I felt in that moment. I’ve been looking at this desert for a number of years. Sometimes the endless English classes and market runs; friends telling me of the problems in their marriages and families; language learning and impromptu Sunday school in my second language: it feels like endless desert sometimes. It feels like dry bones. It feels like God is asking me, “Can these bones live?”
And often I’m replying–with a sigh or groan–“Oh, Lord God, YOU KNOW.”
Subtext: Oh, Lord God, you know if this is worth anything. Oh, Lord God, you know if we are building anything.
And then life pops up. And I’m sitting in front of a fifteen-year-old that we’ve known since he was five. He’s walked in and out of that door hundred and hundreds of times. We’ve watched his face get rounder and then thinner over and over again. We’ve had conversations about who the Buddhist god is and who our God is. We’ve watched him draw on his hands while sitting in Bible study some weeks and eagerly join the discussion in others.
And now he’s telling me he’s choosing to blaze the path in his very Buddhist family. He’s pondered it, he’s considered what he sees. And he believes.
Because there is a divine plan here, and we as nobodies get to be a part of it. We get to sit on the steps in the middle of a desert and see the the life pop through. We are watching dry bones take on sinews and flesh and breathe life, because we serve a God who does that. He is Emmanuel, here with us in the desert and among the dry bones.
Creating life.
immigration.
{Insert cliche statement about this year and all it’s been.}
I’ll just say that my sons two favorite role play games currently are:
Playing Covid // He blocks your way, takes your temperature and tells you if it’s okay or not; then gives you hand sanitizer.
Playing Immigration // He takes any nearby notebook and flips through page by page with dramatic, loud stamping on each page. Then hands it back, asks for money, and says “Thank you” respectfully in Thai.
We have spent a lot of time at Immigration this year, going nearly every month. And pretty much every time, they aren’t sure if we’ll get another extension; or what the situation will be when we’re back. We wait and hope and pray and consider our options.
And due to the continuing health situation worldwide, they usually extend it at the bottom of the ninth, and we get another stamp.
Plus a bright red stamp stating this is an exception.
It’s been stressful throughout, but took some new, extra stressful turns last month.
At our last appointment we were given sixty days and told this was our last extension; they were done. No more red exemption stamps.
Sixty days to figure out a plan.
In sixty days, two of us are kicked out of this country to get a new visa, but our passports aren’t very welcomed worldwide currently (so we can’t hop to nearby country as we usually do). So, we are likely needing to return to the US to apply for a new visa, quarantining on both sides of the trip—one side being government run and expensive. This also requires they actually give us the new visa once stateside, which always felt unsure before covid and visa restrictions!
Oh, and one of us, in sixty days, can still live here. And yet can’t actually travel to the one place the other two would need to go.
So, in sixty days, in the midst of an international pandemic, we can either try to get two people special permission to stay in Thailand, or one person special permission to go to America.
________________
We started with the Embassy, which was as helpful as I feared they might be. They said they can do nothing, even as we are two Americans with a Thai son. (My movie experience did not give me a realistic perspective of the US Embassy.)
They did send us information for how to apply for a visa for America, so we are considering that as a back up for if we are kicked out. We’d like to have this on hand. However, it takes a whole lot of paperwork and an interview in Bangkok. And we need to ensure that we apply for the correct one that doesn’t later make citizenship more difficult.
…So we wrote our lawyer in America to ask about more details.
Meanwhile, we are looking at what the paperwork includes; and considering our options. Most of the processes take 6 months to one year; we don’t have that and would need a special exception. Due to Covid and current inter-provincial restrictions, we’d need permission to travel to Bangkok. It also is a much greater risk of exposure, as we’d be traveling into red zones. But this is only through January; so do we wait to February? That is a delay, but we needed special permission anyway…
So while we wait to hear from our US lawyer and wait to see how Covid and restrictions play out, we work on things from the Thai side.
We spoke with friends in Thailand, who recommended other friends. This person asks for paperwork, then talks to that person; that person asks for paperwork. Then someone asks for a different item of paperwork, and I go searching. And really, we just wait to see if anyone who knows the system or knows the language or knows the options gets in touch with us. I respond to messages throughout the days answering questions and sending more info. I stay up at night, gathering the documents together.
And now we’ve hired a lawyer. We have an office staff who helps with visas, and she does speak the language and helps us understand the process. But she, too, is learning the process. It turns out it’s not always easy to understand for the people utilizing it, even if you do know the language.
So for the past few days I’ve been working with lawyers on both sides of the world, while I watch a clock ticking down. {39 days.}
It’s given me a new perspective on immigration in America.
We work with refugees and migrants here; and we’ve been immigrants for a decade. We are a mixed culture and country family. It’s not surprising that I believe in open borders and a generous immigration policy.
But still, this month I understand more of how immigrants feel in America; how my friends feel. I understand more of what I believe about the immigration process and immigration reform.
I understand more of how the DACA students feel, waiting daily as laws change and update. But it isn’t just a law to them. It’s their life. The life they know and live.
The children with citizenship and parents without; the fear of being deported as a partial unit. The fear for one and not the other. I feel a little closer to them today.
I understand the stress of not knowing exactly what I’m aiming for; or how to appease the powers that be. Some days thinking maybe language would be the thing that would help me; frustrated at myself for not studying enough. But other days realizing communication isn’t actually the problem. Still more days thinking that while I study “jump” and “medicine” I might be quite far away from language becoming helpful in the immigration office.
We share the feeling of wanting to stay somewhere so badly: of feeling at home and feeling known in a place, but then also feeling like they really don’t want us at all. Do they not see that I am trying to contribute? I am giving everything I have to make this home and be a contributing part of this society.
We know the fear of being kicked out of the life we know: for me, the only life I know as a married woman; the only life I know as a mom. The place where my work and my books and my memories are. The place where my community and my friends are.
But beyond the life I personally know; the fear of my being separated from my son, because we hold two different passports. “They would never do that,” I think. He’s my son!
Oh, but they do do that.
Whoever “they” is.
It happened so many times in the past few years in America; hundreds of children, including families they are struggling to reunify. Did you know sometimes they resorted to using DNA to match families because the records were destroyed?
I don’t have the same DNA as my son.
________________
I caught myself this week in a paradox.
I have great respect for our US immigration lawyer. He does a lot of work in the refugee community we used to work in, and I’m so thankful he’s helping people to stay and figure out their processes. I’m thankful our money is going to support him to help more people. I’m thankful he’s helping us maneuver the US immigration process.
But then this week, I found myself skeptical of our lawyer here; does he just want us to give him more money? Does he understand we don’t have endless resources?
I caught myself feeling a respect for immigration lawyers in America, helping people to stay; but then am skeptical of lawyers here just wanting to make money.
But perhaps he just wants us to be able to stay, too.
Perhaps my eyes are stained by stereotypes.
________________
And so we wait. I have no conclusion as of yet. Just 39 days to see where God takes us.
Literally where. We have no idea.
I don’t love it, this not knowing. But I’m also choosing to be thankful that each challenge gives me a better understanding of others’ challenges.
the end of an era.
In the midst of so many other big things, we bought a car! While I never would have thought we’d be a two-car family in Thailand, there are many things about my life I never would have thought.
While our Toyota SUV is perfect for the community–large enough to fit in lots of people, closed in the back to keep everyone safer, old enough to handle blood and vomit and fish stink, tough enough to carry 500 kilos of rice…It’s perfect in so many ways. However, to make long trips out of Mae Sot, it needed some significant repairs. And pouring huge amounts of money in an older, fish-smelling car felt a little unwise.
But as Covid pushed up the cost of in-country flights and we are limited to staying in Thailand for the foreseeable future: we were starting to feel trapped. After renting a car for a trip a few weeks ago, we began to consider what a family car might look like for us. In the end, we decided that we couldn’t really afford to buy a new community-useful car, but we could afford a family-useful car while keeping this community car running.
Enter a new-to-us 2004 Honda Civic that we now use for our family of three!
And with that, we couldn’t really find a need to have a community car, a family car, AND a motorbike. And since we very, very rarely find us going anywhere without a child or community members; even more rarely without large amounts of rice or flour.
We said goodbye to our motorbike of ten years.
And we were sadder about it than we expected!
{Oak helped our sadness by deciding the very day we drove it to the new owners to wear his superhero cape and mask everywhere we went. 🥰}
It really does feel like the end of an era. We bought this motorbike new when we moved and drove every one of its 34,650 kilometers right here in Mae Sot. 😳
We bought community Christmas presents on it for a few years.
We took instruments to home church on it more times than I could count.
We carried 25 kilogram bags of flour on it, in additional to all our groceries for years.
We took visitors for fun rides around the city.
We drove it as a family of three.
And he can really rock a helmet more than most.
Years ago when we bought it, it was the best way to experience a new city. We smelled all the smells, so that we still to refer to “the cotton candy corner.” We felt all the heat and rain and wind right on us everywhere we went, learning to sit in the shade during stoplights.
It represents so much of making life here in Mae Sot our home: conquering fears, adjusting, becoming us–here, in this context.
And while it’s the end of an era, I kind of hope we can go back to it some day…whether that’s teaching our kids to drive one if we’re still living in Asia (!) or if that’s making our lives in America work with one car and a moto.
I really have no idea.
I’m just kind sad to see it go! But I’m also realizing this is just another version of the mom haircut. It was inevitable as we grow beyond twenty-somethings moving to a faraway country and making it up as they go.
Now we’re thirty-somethings raising a family in a faraway country and making it up as we go.
Somehow that’s a little bit different and has us saying goodbye to our motorbike.
It’s been real, it’s been fun. It’s been really, really fun.
celebrate!
And this called for celebration!
The following Sunday, we planned an ice cream party to bring together most everyone we know in town: friends from the neighborhood, friends from church, friends from Oak’s school, friends from our expatriate community. All the friends, and all the celebrating.
To make it even better, this turned out to be Thai Mother’s Day, and we celebrated it that morning at church.
And then we threw the most chaotic ice cream party! Thankfully, we asked a friend to come and take pictures. I am so, so thankful, because it was a blur of joy and smiles.
We hired the youth to come and help host, and they did amazing. They even showed up in black bottoms and white tops, because they are stellar.
And even when it got like this in the first few minutes, Pyint Soe just ran his fingers through his hair and kept going for two more hours.
They love Oak so well, and I love them for it.
I am so thankful for how these photos capture a blend of cultures, lives, and stories, all coming together to celebrate our son.
We planned to leave town that evening for a few days to celebrate as a family. Stephen laughed out loud when the hotel called around 4pm asking when we’d be checking in. At that moment, we were both drenched in sweat, Oak was covered in ice cream and dirt, a few hundred people filled our home, and we had a few hours drive ahead of us.
We live full. 🥰
officially ours.
Not that there are too many things competing, but this is our best news of 2020. It’s also one of the few things worth shouting on this blog!
As of 7 August 2020, HE’S OFFICIALLY OURS.
There was the day we thought it was going to be official. So we got dressed up and made a thing of it.
It wasn’t.
But then it WAS. And we can’t hardly believe it. We had two dear Thai friends wait with us for hours–with their kids, too–so they could be our witnesses.
And then in a very anticlimactic moment, we were handed two officially stamped and officially dull-looking documents.
And just like that, we’re officially a family.
We submitted our application 1,931 days ago.
We brought him home 448 days ago.
He calls us mom and dad; we call him son. It’s a beautiful thing.
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