I climb the dark steps, leaving last week’s adventures in the shadows of our open-air kitchen below—the miracle, the motorcycle wipeout, the messy tasks of learning Thai and teaching English. I climb the steps and settle onto my perch on the hardwood of the balcony floor. A tangled mass of green fills the space in front of our house, and across the dirt road, roofs poke into the dark eastern sky. I look out eagerly and am not disappointed. There it is again, as always—the telltale streak of salmon pink brushed across the palette of gray blue, the promise of a new day.

Our little spot on the planet has been turning toward this moment all night long, turning toward the light. As the color on the horizon intensifies into a glowing orange, I cannot help but worship. “Holy, holy, is the Lamb . . .” I sing, and I know that all creation must join in. The scene blurs as I imagine what it would mean to have the people beneath the surrounding rooftops worshipping with me, as I imagine Khon Kaen touched by the healing rays of the Son of righteousness, aware of His presence as I am right now, and the way I was when I called out for Him last Saturday night.

We were dead asleep when the howling began, a blood-chilling noise that has an eerie resemblance to human wailing. It begins with a bit of barking and crescendos until every dog in the area belts it out fortissimo, then it gradually diminishes to a stray bark here or there. Instinctively, this recurring disturbance draws warfare prayers from me, but not last night. “Please be here, Jesus.” I’m not sure why I prayed such a simple prayer, unless it was the lingering message of the text in Philippians I had reflected on before going to bed: “The Lord is near.” After years of overlooking this sentence for the many powerful texts surrounding it, I finally caught the significance of it and was deeply moved as I experienced His nearness.

“Please be here, Jesus,” was all I prayed. Immediately, there was absolute silence outside, so sudden that I am certain some dogs stopped mid-howl. The quiet continued, and I stared into the darkness, experiencing what it must have felt like to see a stormy sea go suddenly still and better understanding the disciple’s awe of the power of their Lord’s presence.

It was this same Presence that calmed Dr. O., our Thai teacher, when she was overcome with anxiety before the birth of her son. “I had tried everything,” she said, “and then a Christian friend came and put her arms around me and prayed. Immediately I felt at peace.” As she finished her story, she began to weep.

“That is wonderful that you could feel God’s presence,” Ricardo said gently, aware that such a display of emotion is rare here.

Dr. O. had exposure to Christianity and Christians while studying abroad. In our next lesson, she asked me to pull out the NKJV Bible from the bottom shelf of her corner bookcase, asking if it was the same Bible we used. After our conversation, I reached to put it back. “No,” she said, and placed it on her desk. It is a wonderful place to turn to in search of peace and light.

That is where I turned on Monday as Gabriel helped me pick up the motorcycle after our wreck. He was fine, but my dress was torn, and scrapes and bumps worked their way up my left side, starting with a gash over my left ankle. I pushed the motorcycle to the gas station where Ricardo and Daniel were filling up the other motorcycle. “I’m okay,” I said. And then, suddenly, I wasn’t. I lost the strength in my left wrist, my elbow ached terribly, and I felt like I would pass out. Anxiety washed over me, and I felt powerless to resist it. “Thou wilt give him perfect peace . . .” It was the best way I could think of to fight that horrible feeling. I sat down on the curb, lost my stomach contents, and felt much better, even up to driving to the hospital for a tetanus shot and clean up.

I made it just in time for my grade 1 English class where I was reminded that Jesus’ presence isn’t always so tangible. Often, I just choose to believe He is there, stretching my faith to visualize Him seated on the floor with those wiggly children, believing on faith alone that He is there, loving them and working to fulfill His purpose for their lives. It isn’t easy to learn a new language, to sit still, to ignore the distractions. I can certainly sympathize with my students. There is nothing romantic about the daily grind of getting one’s brain to add another file to the language folder.

The power of His presence doesn’t always mean immediate results or an easy way out. But it does mean we are not alone and that with time, with constant turning to Him, the day will break.

I can see the sun now. Its brilliant rays reach over the rooftops to where I am sitting and shatter the shadows. It speaks to the promise that Jesus will complete the work He has started in Thailand, and that nothing can prevent the Morning that is fast approaching.

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