Where I’m from we hope for snow at the Christmas season. It’s pretty but cold and I can easily do without it. Sunshine and heat are a much better gift. But the nights on the border in December are still cool. In my ignorance, I thought Thailand is always warm. Though flip-flops suffice, a sweater is also needed. Sayama bought a sea-foam green button-up one for me with thick old-school seams. She purchased a similar one of brighter green for herself. Sisters.

As the holidays rolled around, it marked three and a half months that Sayama had been patiently tutoring me in Burmese. English is not a tonal language and to curl my tongue around unfamiliar sounds was a bit grueling at the beginning. But the months of repetition had paid off. I could finally sound out the circular script even if I had little clue to the meaning.

“Come with us! We will all ride in the church car. You will see places you can’t see at other times.” I like adventure but I sensed this one would leave a deep mark on my heart. The car arrived in front of the Safe House where Sayama worked. We climbed into the already crowded seats with our almost matching outfits. Even the back end held half a dozen teenagers. The group quietly welcomed me, the only foreigner to join. The others came from various ethnic groups in Burma – Chin, Karen, Shan, Burmese and Kachin. They were united by the bond of love for the Savior.

The Christmas carols looked beautiful in Burmese but I knew it wouldn’t sound very eloquent if I tried to sing them. “Don’t be afraid. Just follow along with us.” Apartments, Thai-style homes, country-side dwellings and even a gem factory right on the banks of the Moei River – we drove late into the night stopping frequently to spread our mingled sounds of holiday joy. Little flash lights lit the pages. Halfway through the evening, the others had the carols memorized but I still floundered. The flopping of my voice out of familiar vocal waters would be stilled by the next stop as the waves of awakening washed over me.

The associate pastor pulled up to the iron-gated compound. No sign declared what resided inside but most knew anyway. The Burmese guard opened the gate in the cover of darkness. Have you ever wondered how your shirt whose label reads “Made in Thailand” was really created?

One huge cement room. Row after row of sewing machines. Women and girls crammed in every available seat. Dim high-hung fluorescent tubes lit the interior. Stifling heat stirred by a few randomly placed electric fans. The buzz of bobbins drowned out any human sounds. Hands pushed fabric through at record speed, spitting out perfect seams.

We had to move quickly so as not to disturb their work. To draw attention for very longer would bring the notice of the bosses. If we were caught, we’d get kicked out but the workers would be punished. How? Fined, beat, rations withheld, more work…raped. Hands stopped, eyes rose, ears listened. Our voices rang out with two songs. I was still struggling with the words; my eyes remained on the pocket wrinkled paper in front of me. But then I looked up and saw her.

Her eyes pierced my soul. She communicated through her trickling tears that she couldn’t believe that someone who would or could buy the name-brand shirt would choose to enter her world…if only for a span of fifteen minutes. Isn’t this the message of Christ? He entered our world and connected with our painful situation. And this is why we celebrate this holiday.

I was undone the rest of the night after seeing these “workers” and their living conditions. The cinderblock wall kept hidden from the outside what was really a pathetic cover for slave labor. Tiny slot shacks to shelter whole families. Food had to be purchased within the compound at the employer’s inflated rate. They toiled for twelve hour shifts, six to seven days a week for extremely low wages. Looking into those tear-filled eyes, my mind raced with questions. Had the boss taken her identification papers? Was she free to go back to Burma if she chose? Had he already raped her, shamed her from ever being able to go back to her village? Now that I have seen, I am responsible.

What I can’t bear, somehow God does. The broken-hearted are close to His. It is where I have to stay or be washed away with the evil one human can inflict on another. If the Bible is true, and I believe it is, Jesus came to this ragged, beat-up earth to give us abundant life and freedom. Do my actions, decisions, words sow this truth? Or do they stitch seams of sorrow around the throat of others and my own soul?