Ashes

I am sitting on my bed in the motel in Chiang Mai, four hours from the orphanage, when my phone rings. It is Sara. With panic in her voice she says a strong wind is blowing a brush fire toward the orphanage.

[Since arriving in northern Thailand I have not seen the sky once. It was always covered in a cloud like it was about to rain. I asked about this and learned that Thai farmers burn their fields to clear them. In agricultural northern Thailand this means everything. When we drove to the orphanage a few days ago, as far as I could see was the black ash where fire had been. Even in the mountains there were small wildfires, still burning, right up to the road. This is an ironic practice when at times the Thai government outlaws street vendors from cooking meat to reduce pollution. All on the road to the orphanage warning people not to start fires.]

“It is 1000 meters away, unstoppable,” she said, clearly distracted. I asked about who was there helping the kids. “They are on the road, they have everything in their hands.” There was silence.

“Sara?”

I heard her crying quietly.

“Why them?” she asked. “They have been through so much.”

I asked American questions about starting backfires and calling firefighters. This was not America. There was one woman trying to keep the children away from the oncoming fire, realizing it was going to destroy the orphanage, with any help at least hours away.

She asked me to pray, said she would update me and hung up. I sat there on the edge of my bed again, suddenly in a very different frame of mind than before. My mind started racing: maybe I could call someone important in the states who could call the Thai Ambassador who could call some department head who could order some team to go stop the fire. Maybe I could hire a driver and go there myself. I started imagining what I would do when I got there and realized I would be halfway there by the time the buildings would be ash. After ten minutes of this thinking, I lay on the bed and asked God to stop the fire.

My cell phone beeped that there was a text message. I opened it. It was from Sara: “500 meters”
Sometimes you pray because you think you should. But sometimes you talk to God because you have to, and you are confronted with what you actually think is going on when you pray.
I called Sara and asked if she wanted me to come do whatever I could. She said it wouldn’t help—it was coming too fast. She said the children were on the road, praying for rain.
There was nothing I could do except the same.

Five minutes later I got a text from Sara: “Its starting 2 sprinkle!” My first thought was to not get excited, to be wary. But I couldn’t help it. I walked out onto the street and looked up into the grey sky and grinned.

Thirty minutes later, another text: “Raining now, all fires r down! Ptl.”

Writing this now I just realized what Ptl means—Praise the Lord. Yes.

If the fires hadn’t stopped and the orphanage huts were destroyed, it would have been tragic. Especially so because the orphans had already had to flee their first orphanage. Those old structures were occupied by the DKBA (the Buddhist militia that fights for Burma) for months before being burnt down, the land mined to keep anyone from coming back. I was told an alternate version of the story two days ago—the DKBA had occupied the buildings but a stray brush fire had destroyed them. Above the burned remains of the orphanage flies a DKBA flag. While it is intended to establish ownership, it actually gives a much more accurate picture of the situation than they intended. Violence won a piece of land but is exposed for the emptiness it is: a bright waving flag above a pile of ashes.