stories of travel, medical missions, and more
Feet slip slightly on leaf-topped trails
Hiding muddy walking paths
Where skittish birds and creatures laugh along
With my own heart
Being cut apart
To be filled with a jungle of joy
Air smells sweet
But also of death and rebirth
Of consumption and thirst
Life unending
And turning
Still learning of new things
Yet memory not failing the old
Catch the perfume of a life in flowers
Dying plants in the wandering hours
And stories seldom told
anthony forrest
A few moments in my life stand out like turning points. Not in any kind of big way, like major life trauma or distress. These points have simply made me think about life in a way in which I never had before. I call these moments “looking glass” moments. Alice discovered so much behind the looking glass. She stood staring into a mirror that reflected her own image. But she had the courage to step through and see a whole new universe of existence, full of new experiences. Imagine if Alice never stepped through the glass. Or if she never followed that white rabbit. I don’t know about you, but my childhood would have been incomplete without opium smoking caterpillars and clearly mentally unstable wearers of hats.
In the end, it was Alice’s decision to step through the mirror that gave her new experiences and introduced her to a new world.
One such moment happened on a January Thursday in Chiang Rai, Thailand. Myself and two friends arose early in search of coffee. To our delight, the prevalence of coffee bars in Thailand is only outmatched by the quality thereof. I sat on a small metal chair in the cool of a Thai morning, sipping a cappuccino.
The sun rose on our morning coffee and Buddhist monks appeared silently, collecting food offerings from store owners who bowed low in reverence. Attached to our little coffee bar was a noodle shop attended by a smiling, old woman. She placed a carton of soup on the ground and bowed. As the monks passed me by, my senses were overcome by the smell of morning noodles. With pointing and grunting, or perhaps hungry eyes, I communicated my lack of noodles. Soon the old woman placed a bowl in front of me. I gave it a quick stir with a large spoon and chopsticks.
I took a sip and the dark, savory broth filled every pore of my soul. I’m sure my eyes dilated and new neural pathways opened giving me access to more of my brain. I wielded the chopsticks like ancient swords, consuming noodles and soup with a cathartic passion. As I ate, I saw several pieces of meat which were foreign to me.
“What’s this?” I asked a friend. I lifted a piece of the meat with chopsticks. Some discussion took place between the old woman and those who spoke Thai.
Hesitant eyes looked my way.
“Blood,” they said.
I was floored. But not because I was repulsed. I was surprised because my first instinct was not to push the bowl away from me.
I was shocked.
“How can this be so good?” I gasped, out loud.
If a bowl of noodles with a meat made of blood in the north of Thailand can so easily open my senses and break down the walls of my comfort zone, what else have I been missing?
Perhaps much.
But to answer that question properly, we will need to go to Malaysia and meet a man named Pak Omar. He will have more answers for us.
anthony forrest
*this series will publish each week through the end of January
To know Him we must be like Him
Born humbly into a new life
Into an old animal shed
A clean, yet humble livestock barn
Perfect beginnings for a life Christ-led
From fleshly beds of discontent
To beds of straw we now lay
Simple beds of contentment and joy
As our Saviour laid on that first Christmas day
Trading old lives of confusion and strife
For new lives of simplicity
Turning from sin, and looking ahead
With goals of Christlike purity
‘Who may ascend into the hill of the Lord?
‘And who may stand in His holy place?’*
Clean hands, pure hearts
Seek ye fully His holy face!
Wrapped in cloths of truth
Laid in a manger of grace
Quietly animals low
Born again into His perfect grace
To know Him we must be like Him
anthony forrest
*Psalm 24:3-4
I slung my well-worn backpack over my shoulder and stepped onto the escalator that leads down to the baggage claim and public transportation area of the Minneapolis/St Paul Airport. The good news was that my flight had arrived early. The bad news was that my next flight wasn’t for another six hours. An early arrival was far from helpful today.
Last step of the escalator glided to the bottom floor of the airport. I walked off and into the direction of the light rail train stop. If I ever have a long layover at MSP, I’ll typically take the train to the Mall of America and Ikea. But let’s be honest. The only reason I go to the mall is because the train terminates there. I walk through it on my way to Ikea and those tasty little meatballs and stunning pre-fab furniture. It’s a great way to blow an afternoon before the final leg of a trip.
But as I strode past the luggage claim carrousels, a man pulling a roller-bag caught my eye. He wore a black overcoat and halted at a baby grand piano not far in front of me. Certain airports strive for interesting and fun ways to create atmosphere and culture. And MSP has several pianos. Sometimes a busker sits and plays, attempting to sell albums, and sometimes the pianos lie vacant. Such was not the case today.
I walked past him, not wanting to become the audience and, to be honest, not really caring too much about whether I heard him play. But I soon froze where I stood as he struck out the first notes of “O Holy Night.”
I turned and found a seat. He clearly knew what he was doing with the piano. He played and improvised on the old, old tune and extracted from it every ounce of Christmas. No sheet music sat in front of him. But off to his left side stood a phone, recording a video.
His music warmed the soul of this weary traveler. So when he finished, I clapped and walked over to introduce myself. He was an expat living in Quito, Ecuador. The medical work he did kept him busy in South America doing pro bono surgeries for children in need. This, the very embodiment of the post-haunting Scrooge, was on his way to Colorado for Christmas with his family. His adult daughter was on the other end of that video call, listening to her father play her favorite Christmas hymn.
Not every person celebrates Christmas. And not every person confesses Christianity. But for those of us that do both, Christmas gives us an opportunity to come together in common purpose: to live in kindness, love others, and spread a song of hope found in a Savior born to save. For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn and each soul captured by the appearance of the Christ has felt its worth. That leaves us with nothing to do but to fall on our knees in awe of such a holy night.
Merry Christmas,
anthony forrest
In a field far away
Near the place where a king
Came to earth in the form of a child
The keepers of sheep
Awoke from their sleep
To the cry that salvation was nigh
Don’t be afraid, for look, I proclaim
Good news and joy have come down
So together we’ll sing
Praise to the King
And glory to God on high
What a marvelous day
When the anthem was raised
And the angels lit up the sky
In joyful release
The sang of a peace
And a Savior for you and I
Oh, Come!
Let us go to the place
And see the face
Of the One, the Gift, the Word
Who has lifted the lame
Brought life to the dead
Oh, come!
Haven’t you heard?
annthony forrest
We are greeted with clasping hands and a generous smile.
It is hard to know who said “shalom” first. But we all do at some point during introductions.
The man quickly catches a boy by the shoulder.
The little black-haired boy looks up at his father, who had stopped him in his play. The boy gazes up at his father, listening to the instructions. But in a couple of seconds, the boy runs off like a shot, out the door and down the alleyway.
Our host (also shop owner) eagerly leads the four of us to four tiny plastic chairs of differing colors. Color seems to be the theme running through Jerusalem. Brightly ornate scarves hang about us. Several languages color the air. And a dozen or more ethnic groups create a culture more colorful than any other on this earth.
And now I see the little Arab boy, running in his shorts and sandals, carrying something. He holds what looks like a platter suspended by three ropes tied at the top and held in his hand. On that platter are five small and clear glasses of green tea, whole leaves. The lad moves effortlessly through a nearby crowd. He enters the store and his father serves us.
It’s delicious and sweet—this tea, this place, this moment, everything. And all the uncomprehended Hebrew has me hypnotized. But I refocus and notice that our friends stand and begin moving into another room.
We are here with an objective.
We are here to find Christmas.
Presently, the shop owner and giver of delightful tea rummages through piles of olive wood carvings. First, he produces the hand-crafted manger; then Mary, now Joseph, baby Jesus, shepherds, wise men three, sheep, camels, ect.
It’s all here. He tells us, as is visible by the various models nearby, that he has crafted hundreds of Nativity scenes. He appears quite proud of his creation.
He should be proud.
His hands craft the very throne of the Majestic One. Olive wood is lowly enough to be hand-crafted and beautiful enough for a King; which, to me, seems just right.
Tis a King’s tale.
anthony forrest
I fall backward
From walks
And talks
And laughing with friends
From seeing new things
I fall to the end
Of a day well-traveled
And company shared
With former strangers
And lovers of life
Beyond compare
So
Backward I fall
From a day well-led
I welcome this night
And fall back onto bed
anthony forrest
Both my wife and I grew up in small towns, I in the west and she in the north. We both remember dirt roads, corner stores, small communities, smaller buildings, and limited diversity. Though we live in a small town now, our lives are heavily peppered with city influences.
Traveling to cities over the years has grown on us. And though they may have their similarities, each city is different.
Our faces hit the sunlight as we climbed up and out of the hole in the ground. With subway stations every quarter mile or so, getting around is easy. All around us rose sky-scraping towers. And the streets were paved with the purest of golds—street food. At first blush, it looks like any other city, until, right in the middle of it all, a clearing in the concrete jungle reveals the Kabuki-za Theater.
No, this is not New York, Chicago, London, or Paris.
This is Tokyo.
Some cities claim to mix old and new. But no place achieves such a pure blend as Tokyo. To your left: Yodobashi Camera, selling technology that most Americans won’t see for years. To your right: a Shinto shrine that is older than most sovereign nations.
And the blend is seamless.
From the subway station we step onto the famous Ginza and up to the old theater. We wait in line to buy our tickets, just for one act. Our attention spans are far too short for five hours of theater. Nearly a hundred of us filed into the doors and up the elevator, onto the fourth-floor mezzanine of the theater.
A curtain hangs below. It depicts Mount Fuji—the Rising Sun in the background. The play begins; the curtain is drawn. The actors below dance and portray an ancient story from the olden-time, the time of the Samurai. Their movements are lavishly exaggerated. And the milky-white face paint can be seen easily from my seat in the balcony. Drums beat. Three-stringed tones of the shamisen call. The audience shouts strange encouragements to their entertainers on the stage.
Yet not too far away, on the busy street below, taxis take businessmen to airports. Women walk into Louis Vuitton Stores. And sitters in booths try to convince passersby to change their cell phone plan.
Seamless and new.
Timeless and old.
This is Tokyo.
anthony forrest
Blue light hue rains gently as fog
Heavy with dew
Ambient warm light
Not bright
Glows down on sitters reading books and screens
Forward gazing faces
Of wanderers going paces
Await their arrival
Before nightfall
They’ll be in far distant lands
anthony forrest
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