Faith, Hope And NOLA

“If there was no New Orleans, America would just be a bunch of free people dying of boredom.” — Judy Deck
There is the United States of America.
There is the South.
There is Louisiana.
And then there is New Orleans.
May Seventh, Seventeen-Eighteen.
La Nouvelle-Orléans.
Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville and
The French Mississippi Company.
My life. My love. My city. My home.
I was born in San Jose, California. But I came alive in New Orleans.
Her story cannot be forgotten, and her voice must never be silenced.
She struts and sings, dances and screams for help.
Purple, green and gold, my love is beautiful and bold
and she’s drowning on August Twenty-Ninth, Two-Thousand and Five.
She’s drowning on August Thirtieth.
She’s drowning on August Thirty-First.
She’s drowning on September First, Second and Third
because there is no FEMA, no food, and no President for “refugees.”
Hurricane Katrina slams into the Gulf Coast, and
houses in the Lower Ninth Ward are inundated with over nine feet of water
and levees break
and the roof of the Superdome tears open
and Interstates Ten and Ninety fall into the ocean.
My heart is broken and her streets are flooding.
Eighty percent of my heart is underwater and I don’t know what to do.
They’re dying because they’re trapped in the attic.
Because the walls were supposed to hold.
New Orleans wails and mourns
and prevails and scorns those who wish her dead,
who wish to forget her and bury her under the waters.
The world could not go on without New Orleans, kicking and screaming since that wonderful seventh of May.
And those who’ve fallen in love with the city know that, and so we rebuild.
We play for keeps and we play for resurrection.
In my dreams it’s raining, and the waves are rushing
Lake Pontchatrain steel blue crush.
Then I see black Moses with trumpet armed, my Fat Tuesday miracle.
Suit black as night wrapped tight
the spirit of fiery New Orleans might fight and might right these wrongs;
might take, might make this broken city strong. Again.
You hope and you pray and you realize God loves New Orleans.
God didn’t flood the Lower Ninth Ward.
You’re mixing up God and the Corps of Engineers.
You set your hands on the heart of this city and you tell God
“Open my eyes—“
And He crushes you.
Miss Linda Lewis finds her brother dead in his home. She was under the false assumption that he’d evacuated. Her van has no middle seat because she took it out to make room for her belongings and Katrina washed it away. She drives through Orleans Parish and we are years beyond the storm and it looks it happened yesterday. “We ain’t back,” she says. “Not even close.”
Mister Warren is old and homeless. His eyes are bloodshot and he sleeps all day. He loves Motown; The Temptations, Smokey Robinson, The Supremes.
Tomorrow he sleeps against a park statue that looks like a hand. He sleeps there because he didn’t make it to the shelter in time and they ran out of beds.
Stephen Gonzales’ family has lived in St. Bernard Parish for two-hundred and thirty-seven years. He takes care of his feeble wife and escapes his house after it floods in a matter of minutes. In the twelve months after the storm, his wife loses strength and dies of a broken heart.
Lucas Russ laments his friends, gone because rent has tripled, because most everyone packed into a bus in September of two-thousand-and-five was given a one-way ticket and they didn’t know where they were going, and they weren’t told how to get back. His friends don’t know how to get back to the city they love. They don’t see houses in which to live, schools in which to send their children, or jobs in which to work.
“The only way to get back into New Orleans is to die. They can’t feed you, clothe you or house you, but they can damn sure bury you.”
“I wonder how man can build a spaceship and walk on the moon, but he can’t fix the levees.”
“Ain’t nothing changing but the time on their watch.”
“It’s hard…It’s hard…”
And now you throw up your hands, and with it all the love and hate and rage and confusion and despair and wonder and awe and fury inside of you.
Eloi, Eloi, lama sabacthani, you asshole? What did they ever do to you?
You are in the wind you are in the whisper, but right now I feel that neither is doing much good. And I’m sorry…but actually, I’m not.
I’m angry that things are still like this. I’m angry things have not changed.
In my dreams the Lower Ninth Ward is the Red Sea,
giant jazz-blasting away water and past.
In my dreams there is resurrection and healing.
And in this hopeless moment, I feel the wind.
In this darkest hour, I hear the music.
And I hear His whisper. I hear His love.
A Love Supreme at all costs.
It swoons and sorrows and rises and beats back the night.
God’s love and Christ himself buddy, bringing the Saints who come marching in.
Hot heat in the hot hall,
small hall smoke-filled sweat beads
sink down purple green and gold light
moonlight packed in
to-night
for the Preservation Jazz,
for the four on the floor, St. Peter Street Serenaders Preservation Jazz.
To preserve and protect
to reflect the shining light of the all night so right so tight New Orleans,
REnew REvive REstore
for man is more than wind and water.
Man is greater than hurricane weather,
and whether or not you believe it
you and I will build this home together
and we will sleep in its bed
and rest our collective head on its pillow
and we will have to think about what we’ve done together.
And music is made together.
The trumpet machine-gunning
on the skins a drum-drumming,
the piano keys dancing
ebony ivory tossing back sharps and flats
crescendo crashing smashing into a beautiful New with
bass line heart-thumping
and the voices of the saints be calling us home.
The saints go march
go round and call out and shout out and belt out and break out
and bust out and bust down barriers,
treble and bass, economy and race,
whatever lines lie between you and me
they lie to us
about who we ought to trust and these lines
these lies
they push us apart.
But when we step through the doors of the Preservation…
we.
are.
Together.
Because Together is what we are called to be.
We are St. James Infirmed,
and in the sweltering night the healing will come.
The music will come and save our souls.
God won’t you bless the Preservation…
I love this city at all costs and at all potential for criticism.
I will show you a city the likes of which you have never seen.
It is the greatest show on earth, the greatest tragic, x-on-the-door, feet-on-the-shore-mississippi-satchel-mouth-heart-as-big-as-the-crescent-moon show on earth.
Watch because something’s happening. New Orleans is turning a corner. Because people care enough to love the city and love the people and love what it means to be New Orleanian. This is the love that wraps around the whole world and teaches the rookies how to second-line.
Jesus Christ is my mighty-mighty Mardi Gras Chief,
united-as-one-Lake-Pontchatrain-son.
New Orleans, Louisiana. Bonjour, mon ami. Where y’at, baby?
Now recruiting for the New Orleans Five-Oh-Four Armored Division.
Must know how to:
Play trombone, drums, trumpet, clarinet, tuba, saxophone and guitar.
Cook Gumbo, Étoufée, Crawfish, Catfish, Crayfish, Shrimp, Lobster, Po-Boy, Atchafalaya, Muffulettas.
Sing, dance, smoke, drink, pray, love, love, love and never give up.
My life. My love. My city. My home. Laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times roll and roll and evermore roll. God Bless New Orleans.

“(It’s) chaotic, for sure. The driving is a pretty good picture of how everything around there works. Just about every one of your senses are overloaded. The noises, colors, heat, smells, and spices,” she said.

Viducich, who is from Hillsboro, Ore., recently spent a month in the Bengali city of Kolkata with Youth With A Mission team from California. The team worked all over the city, with Life Connection, Kings Kids, Light of Hope, and the Mother Teresa Homes. Amid the chaos of this volatile city, Viducich also found beauty and hospitality.

“The people there are so hospitable there,” she said. “The first day we were there, a few of us were in the market and a woman befriended us. She later invited us into her home, her church, and just shared her life with us. She also gave us some insight into the city.”

Viducich used her Nikon D50 SLR to document the many layers of India and walked away with a collection of photographs that touched on the many stories and faces she encountered along the way.

“I love photographing things that tell a story. People, objects, textures – I’m pretty much down with all of it,” she said.

“The concept that photography can be a tool – a method of transferring information, ideas and truths – is fascinating to me and challenges me every time I pick up a camera.”

Below is a slideshow of Viducich’s work. To read commentary about each photograph, click the white talk bubble on the left hand side.

Directly east of India, sharing The Bay of Bengal, Myanmar is one of the poorest nations in Asia and has the highest recorded numbers of active child soldiers. Children in armed conflict, the lack of education and closure from the outside world are all results of military rule. However, this nation’s devotion to Buddhism has placed an immense value on humility and respect for others. Never have I had so many doors opened for me and umbrellas held over my head by strangers. In urban areas, especially the capital city, effects of the Tatmadaw rule seem almost invisible, but if you stay long enough you will begin to notice the deep oppression hidden in the hearts of those who are being ruled.

I was struck by how soft-spoken the Myanmar people were. The more I spoke with them, the more I learned that these quiet words and gestures weren’t all out of respect, but rather a sad result of many years of oppression. Uprisings against the Tatmadaw since the 1980’s have been crushed with an iron fist, leaving citizens disillusioned, displaced and hopeless. It seems as though many of the people do not believe they have voices or have forgotten that their voices are valuable. The people of Myanmar are thirsty for freedom and have the humility to listen, creating fertile soil for those who go to share Christ.

Although there is much suffering, Myanmar is called ‘The Golden Land.’ One look at the thousands of luminous golden pagodas that are sprinkled all over this nation and you will understand why this name has been given. I believe that the naming goes much deeper – God himself has crowned Myanmar with this title, and He is going about making it happen. I would play a game as we walked the cracked city walkways – smiling as wide as possible as at many people as possible. I loved doing this because the joy would instantly suffuse the golden faces around me. I could not out-smile the people of Myanmar.

These people are an expression of God that longs to meet its full potential. Jesus dances and cries over the Myanmar people as they quietly live with their loud stories in their hovels, temples and streets. I learned many lessons of deep love and grace during our time in Yangon. One of the most distinct was when I was sitting next to a Buddhist monk. God spoke to my heart that he was just as madly in love with the Buddhist monk worshipping Buddha as he is if the monk turned and worshipped Jesus.

During a long conversation over tea with new friends in Myanmar, we began to discuss just how much this kind of grace and acceptance is needed, especially among the church. All three of our friends had become believers in recent years and after hearing about this need they almost laughed. They questioned how one could know Christ and not know grace. As we described the dismal repercussions of legalism that seem so prevalent in the Western church, we realized just how well these believers grasped and understood the entire point of the Gospel. I left that conversation incredibly encouraged to share the truth written inside of me knowing that my brothers and sisters across the world claim it as their freedom as well. Aslan is truly on the move the world over.

The neon green chairs are the first thing you notice when you walk into Maew’s salon just off Walking Street, along with the diminutive, smiling Thai woman who offers up the radioactive seats to anyone who comes in the door.

The whole salon buzzes under fluorescent lights, in green, pink and orange. Maew moves like a blur through her domain, which makes it all a bit dizzying. When asked about her color choice, she laughs.

“Right now I am living in a garden of God,” she said. “That’s why I chose these colors. God planted me in this place, and I am growing strong.”
Maew’s life has not always been this bright. At one point, she was one of the thousands of women working as a prostitute on the streets of Pattaya, Thailand.

“I was working on Walking Street, not even able to buy food,” she said. “I was in a very bad situation.”

Jessica Mock, a missionary working with Bridges to the Nations, summed up the hairdresser’s life as a prostitute.

“How can I describe her? She was crazy, dirty, stinky, smelly, crazy in the head,” Jessica said. “Some of the women working as prostitutes try to take care of themselves. Maew was beyond that point.”

An encounter with Rahab Center, a Christian ministry in Pattaya, brought about the drastic change one sees today.

“They invited me to learn how to work in a beauty salon. Honestly, I didn’t like doing it, but I was desperate to do anything so I would have money for food,” she said.

“Then one day some pastors from the church came to the salon, and while I was talking to them, I felt something warm in my heart. These people were different than other people I had met in the bar.”

After getting more salon and Bible training with Tamar Center, another ministry in Pattaya that reaches out to prostitutes, Maew went to work at a salon.

She became a mother figure for many of the girls that came to her to get their hair done before hitting Walking Street. It took some time, but she started to enjoy the work, and she had a vision of starting her own salon.
“After working for a while, I decided I wanted to own my own business, so I started raising money,” Maew said.

The circumstances surrounding her acquisition of the salon were a miracle orchestrated by God, Maew said.

“At first, the owner wanted to sell the business for 150,000 baht ($4,400 US), and I only had 50,000 ($1,400),” she said.

Maew approached Bridges to the Nations for a loan.

“Then when she talked to the owner again, I guess he lowered his price,” Jessica said. “She had enough money on her own, so we committed to help her buy some new things and fix it up instead.”

That’s where the neon green chairs come in.

“At first I was like ‘Oh good Lord,’” Jessica said, laughing. “But I really wanted to bless her in a way that was going work for her, not fit me with my Western ways of wanting everything be toned down and earthy.

“Maew told me she heard from the Lord that the salon needed to represent renewal, rebirth and new life. So I said, ‘You go girl, bright green it is!’”
The salon has become part business, part ministry for Maew, since it sits in an alleyway right next to Walking Street, where most of the prostitutes work.

“She’s such a mom to all those girls,” Jessica said. “She is so sensitive to what spiritual state they are in, and will take a different approach with each one. Sometimes it’s just ‘God bless you, God loves you,’ and other times, she takes a direct approach sharing the gospel.”

“My personality is not very wide open,” Maew said. “It’s not always easy to speak or to help or to give people money because I grew up in a family where there was no love or generosity. I give thanks to the Lord because he changed me into a kind and generous person.

“I am here in this place because I understand these girls and where they come from. Every person that comes in here is a broken heart, and I used to be just like that. I want to see them change, to shine with God’s love.”
Just like Maew and her neon green chairs.

Maew works in close association with Tamar Center, Bridges to the Nations’ Pattaya Project and True Friend Fellowship, a church which opens its doors to prostitutes and ethnic minorities in Thailand. You can learn more by visiting the links.

All day long, I see girls wearing close to nothing, clamoring for the attention of every passing foreign man. They will do anything to sell themselves in an attempt to make enough money to get by and to have enough to send home to their parents (and often their children) back in their home villages. Often, it’s not what the girls do to get attention that’s shocking to me, but the foreigners who come to Pattaya that think it’s suddenly OK to completely abandon all sense of morality. It’s not uncommon to see an 80-year-old man wearing a string Speedo publicly. Many women seem to think it’s OK to go topless at the beach (which, incidentally, is completely inappropriate to the normal Thai person, and shows a lack of respect for their culture.) Suddenly, your average bearded European man becomes like a kid in a candy shop. You can almost picture them wearing little suspendered trousers, high socks and loafers, with wide eyes and drooling mouths as they peruse the goods at hand. OK, some of them really do dress like that.

Just in case you were starting to think that my life in Thailand must be totally miserable, I will say that there is another side to Pattaya. There are places where there is peace, quiet, refuge from the crazy, and amazing cinnamon rolls. One of my favorite places to hang out in Pattaya is Tamar Center, a branch of Youth With A Mission Thailand. Without going into details that you can research on your own, I will say that the Tamar Center’s bakery has to be one of their most successful and wonderful businesses that they have started as an means of providing alternative work for women who previously worked in bars (the front for most prostitution in Thailand.)

Pii Kak, who runs the bakery, is a good friend and highly respected maker of cinnamon rolls (along with cakes, cookies, pies, and every other baked good imaginable.) She can barely keep up with all of the orders they have, and that’s a good problem. That means that they are able to employ multiple women who are working on building job skills outside of the prostitution industry. They’re able to enjoy a work environment where they can be loved and respected for who they are, and not for what their bodies have to offer.

Every time I walk in the doors of Tamar, I feel it. God. Love. Peace. And refuge from the gaping stares of Speedo-wearing old men. Amazingly enough, there’s even love enough to go around to all of the men who frequent the Tamar Coffee Shop and Bakery (but only for those who are fully clothed). Frequently, as I’m sipping on an iced cappuccino and eying the carrot cake in the glass case, I end up talking to a tourist who is there to get his kicks, but, coming up short, has found and rested at the Tamar Bakery because peace, quiet, and a bit of normalcy emanates from the doors. “It’s just good,” they say. And most of them have no idea that it is not “just good.” God meets with them whether they know it or not, through the amazing and transformed women who work at the Tamar Center, through those of us who hang out there, and through the peaceful atmosphere. God is present, God is working, and God is pursuing their hearts.

God loves those men, in their desperate search for love and in their emptiness. I pray that every time they come up dry and still searching for fulfillment in Pattaya, that they find themselves wandering into a place like the Tamar Center, and encounter the One who forever loves and fulfills.

For more information on the Tamar Center (and where to get the best cinnamon roll in Pattaya), go to:
http://www.ywamthai.org/pattaya/tamar.html

Jessica Mock is a missionary based in Pattaya, Thailand. She is a worship leader, makes amazing curry and crochets copious amounts of beanies. You can read her blog here.