It was my shift to stay overnight at the kids Safe House. Seven former street kids occupied this rental home on the Thai-Burma border. Two staff were live-in but each one needed a day off once a week. One gal had the night off and I was to stay with Sayama.

The evening was normal. As I hand washed the cheap cartoon appliqué bowls, the oldest girl helped me. She babbled in Burmese and I understood one in six words. She laughed and frowned when I responded incorrectly. Dishes drying on the rack, the kids settled in the living room to practice their lessons. Sayama strummed the old out-of-tune guitar mingling her sweet voice with the cords in worship to Pah-yah-tha-kin (God).

With kids tucked in their bunks and windows open to let out the stifling house air, we staff found ourselves alone. Darkness falls early in the tropics making it feel much later than it really is. We quietly sang a few more songs. Sayama made the Burmese flow like liquid. I stumbled to read the circular script but loved every minute of the challenge. This was worship.

She closed the rumpled songbook slowly and yawned. The floor fan whirred, spinning the moisture-laden air over our sweaty faces. She looked at me with little sister eyes. She used to be a staunch Buddhist. Though Chin, she grew up near Yangon far from the rugged mountains of Chin State, Burma. Eager to learn English, her father allowed her to attend a Bible school. She gained English and Jesus.

“P’Angie, sometimes I still get scared at night. Sometimes the spirits come in my dreams. I don’t like to be alone. Can I sleep next to you?” Now you’ve got to understand I wasn’t trying to be mean or over-spiritual but I had no sisters growing up. No one slept near me for 29 years. I assured her Jesus’ spirit is stronger and that there was nothing to fear. After prayer, she flopped contentedly onto her floor mat. My borrowed bottom bunk stuck me in the back with skewed springs. The floor looked more comfortable.

The fluorescent ceiling light had an eerie flickering glow even after being switched off. Dogs howled and growled outside the cinderblock compound walls. Disoriented roosters crowed a false dawn and crickets buzzed off and on. There must have been a gecko in the room. Its chirp echoed off the cement walls.

Sleep escaped my tired eyes but Sayama breathed heavy with it. I laid on my back staring at the dim glow above marveling at how different each of our lives can be. She mumbled something and rolled over. My thoughts drifted to her story. Her mom passed away when she was young. Her father had remarried her aunt who was closer to her age than her father’s.

Snapping back to the present, the springs sunk down. She had crawled up onto the bunk. Whether asleep or awake she rattled something off in Burmese. I replied in English, “It’s okay Sayama; I’m here”. Though I called her teacher (sayama), she was only 19. She curled up in the sheet and sighed deeply. The spirits had fled leaving her with God’s peace.

So this is what it’s like to have a little sister. I felt protective and proud. What a strong girl to turn on the spiritual night of her country’s and family’s belief in Buddhism. Though the faith seemed a flickering glow, it was as strong as the blazing daytime sun that left the night heavy with warmth.

Another wonderful post by Angie!