“Don, the washing machine isn’t working!” Janella said.
Normally I do the laundry, and when we’re away from home, this usually involves hand washing the clothes in a hotel sink. So when we are home, I greatly appreciate our washing machine. As Janella and I looked at our two-year-old washer, it was clear that something was preventing the water from filling it. The supply line had good pressure. A careful inspection of the machine revealed no clear way to open up its inner workings to probe deeper. Now what? Back in Canada, I would simply have called Erling Grovet, and all would be fixed in no time.
Now my inability to speak, read or write Thai was a real liability. I drove up to APIU, the Adventist University close to where we live, hoping someone in plant services could come or at least tell me where to take the machine. Well, the appliance guy was away for Christmas break, so I went to the purchasing department and asked where I might go in Muak Lek to get a washing machine repaired. With oral directions, a carefully drawn map and the name of a shop written in Thai, I optimistically headed into our local village with the broken washing machine in the back of our truck.
After four stops to show various people the map and the Thai characters for the repair shop, I finally found a place with a bunch of old refrigerators out front. I managed to back the truck into a tiny space in the front of the shop, and a young girl came out, took one look and began talking to me in Thai accentuated with lots of gestures. Finally I caught one key Thai word I understood—mai dai. It means “cannot.” I have heard it way too many times before.
I showed her my map, and she pointed to a different place across the tracks on the main street. I navigated the truck past the refrigerators and back through town and discovered a hardware store in the general vicinity of where she had pointed on the map. Without trying to speak, I motioned someone from the shop to come and look in the back of the truck. “Mai dai.” I presented my map again, and they ignored it and pointed across the street. This time I arrived at a TV repair shop. Another “Mai Dai,” but this time I was shown a new location on my map. I drove back across the tracks to near where I started my search.
Now I spotted a place with many old washing machines out front. I squeezed past the machines to get into the shop. A lady came out from the living quarters in the back, and I motioned her to look in the truck. Finally I receive the magical “Dai,” (“Can”). She helped me unload the machine. Soon her husband arrived, and I told him there was “mai naam,” which I hoped meant “no water.” He got the picture, and I think told me to come back tomorrow. This was progress!
The next day I returned and, with the help of a conference call with the shop owner and a friend fluent in Thai and English, I paid the astounding bill of 240 baht ($6.85) and left with my repaired machine. In North America, this repair would have cost at least 10 times that amount, and I would have missed the adventure of exploring Muak Lek.
I appreciate that the Thai people are so helpful. I also recognize that to be helped or to be helpful, I need to be able to speak their language, understand their culture, and go to where the people are. AFM requires all our career missionaries to study the language and culture of their target people group. We cannot expect people who have no exposure to the gospel to come to our churches. They have no knowledge of what the gospel has to offer. We must discover their needs, learn how to speak with them at the heart level, and live among them to demonstrate loving service in practical ways. Is this not what Jesus did for us?
Are you saying “mai dai” to the Holy Spirit’s promptings? Moses initially responded that way, and Jonah emphatically so. Or are you like Mary, Abraham, Isaiah or Jeremiah? Say the word God is longing to hear: “Dai!”
