The brakes squeal as the bus stops in front of us. We grab the metal stair rail and hoist ourselves aboard the already crowded bus, trying to get far enough in that the door can shut behind our small backpacks. The bus lurches forward as we cling to the rails. Bodies shift, and we manage to move up an additional step to the main floor of the bus. The conductor weaves her way through the mass, stopping to click her change box beside Don. “Two to Rachetewi,” he tells her. She takes his money and tears off two tickets.
After several short lurches, we stand still in the traffic, waiting for a train to cross in front of us. Motorcycles weave their way in and out among the other vehicles, avoiding scrapes by millimeters. Many are motorcycle taxis driven by fearless orange-vested drivers determined to deliver their passengers as quickly as possible. Behind them perch suited professionals, the women usually seated side-saddle. At the light for the rail crossing, they arrange themselves into a pack ready to zip forward as soon as the last rail car has passed.
The traffic begins to move, and we lurch forward once more. A buzzer sounds, telling the driver that a passenger wishes to exit at the next stop. As we approach the stop, traffic grinds to a halt once more, and the driver simply opens the door where we sit. Several passengers exit, and new passengers come weaving through the stalled traffic to board.
Seated somewhat in front of me is a slight Thai woman with a large purse on her lap. She pulls out a length of ribbon and cuts several more of the same length. She arranges them and, taking the end of one, twists and tucks and twists and tucks, forming a fancy bow like we might put on a Christmas present. As she twists and tucks, I wonder: what is her heart wrapped up in? Does she know the hope that strengthens my heart? Oh, that I could speak her language so that I could offer that hope to her.
Three seats back sits a beautiful woman in a lovely lilac blouse, her head covered with an abaya. She smiles at me, and I wonder. She likely knows about Jesus (most Muslims do), but does she know Him as her Savior? Who will lead her to be a follower of Jesus the Messiah?
To my left through the crowd, I catch a glimpse of a young man in a tee shirt holding an iPod. His ears are plugged with ear buds. What is he hearing? What is he thinking? Would he listen if I could talk to him? How will he get the message that Jesus loves him and offers so much more than he could imagine?
The bus lurches forward again. We are nearing our stop. I begin to worm my way toward the door. We will barely be on time this morning for our Thai language class. We will have to walk fast. We round the corner, and the bus stops. We step carefully down onto the cobbled sidewalk. Up the stairs to the pedestrian walkway we go—54 steps up, across the busy road, and 54 down the other side. I follow Don as he navigates the narrow passageway between venders’ carts. The venders offer us fried something on a stick. Smoke rises from things roasting over coals. We dodge a motorcycle coming up the sidewalk, cross a narrow alley and finally arrive at the compound that houses our school. Today we will again practice phonetics, cawing like crows and trying to distinguish the ph sound from the p and b. We will try again to distinguish between rising and high tones. Someday we hope to be able to meet these people we encounter each day. Please join us in praying that one day we will be able to invite them to meet with one of our friends who can introduce them to our best friend, Jesus.
