In 1974 I was in the middle of my LDS mission in Thailand. I worked for two years prior to going to save enough money to be eligible for my call from President Spencer W. Kimball. I had no idea where I would be sent; I only knew I wanted to go. Needed to go. Not to prove anything, but because a love stronger than anything I had ever experienced before had gently led me to that decision. So I did birthday parties as a clown, and then, by good fortune, I was teamed with master clown Steve Smith at Ringling Brothers for a season as advance clown for the show. At a very good salary. When I left the show to become a full-fledged missionary, Smith said huskily: "Tork, just remember that my regard for you is like heat rash -- it'll never be gone unless you learn to shower more often!"
Much of my time in Thailand was spent in and around Bangkok.
The city sidewalks there, when not inundated by floods and garbage, were awash with mendicants.
Country women, their small withered breasts hanging out, sitting sideways and holding a silent infant, followed me with their eyes; their lips and teeth stained a lurid red with betel nut. Blind men blew discordantly on tin whistles. Old ladies, their shriveled faces as sad and remote as an Appalachian applehead doll, holding out an ornately designed tin bowl, mouthing soundless entreaties.
There were, of course, innumerable street urchins, clad only in long tattered t-shirts like Hearst's The Yellow Kid. Their constant cry upon sighting a farang such as myself or my companion was "Hey you, one baht!"
Thai Church members told me that the begging was all a racket -- the Chinese mafia put those poor supplicants out every morning and picked them up after the foot traffic stopped around midnight, keeping most of the money collected and giving the wretched beggars just enough to live on in unimaginable squalor. It was well known, the Thai members informed me, that anyone in real need had only to appeal to the nearest Buddhist temple and the monks there would be glad to see to their wants.
For several weeks in the Pratuu Naam area of Bangkok my companion and I went business tracting -- that is, we went into office buildings, and, floor by floor, office by office, confronted officious secretaries to demand to see the boss right away. We had a very important message to deliver. We got in to see the boss surprisingly often (because there was a rumor extant that the Mormon missionaries were actually working for the CIA) and would then deliver a ten minute explanation of the Family Home Evening program, leave a pamphlet explaining it in more detail. We gave nothing but the dust of our heels to the huffy secretaries.
Each day during that period we walked past one particular beggar, who was spectacularly crippled. He looked like a contortionist frozen in the most agonizing part of his act. His fingers were splayed like the roots of a fallen tree. He was covered in scabs. He lay on his stomach as his arms and legs spasmed continuously, assuming impossible angles. He drooled constantly. His eyes did not focus.
He lay on a thin and filthy bamboo mat, in the direct sunlight.
Everyone averted their eyes from him, including me. But he was sketched in my mind by peripheral glances, and I began to obsess about him.
A scripture from the Book of Acts kept recurring to me: "Then Peter said Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I thee . . . "
I wanted very much to be able to do the same thing for that poor cripple, frying like an egg on the scorching sidewalk. It was a prideful longing to do something spectacular that would make the careless Thais sit up and take notice of the LDS Church. I cared nothing for the glory of God, but only for my own chance to get back into the spotlight.
One morning my companion and I went to the Chemical Bank before beginning our business tracting, in order to draw money out of our savings accounts to pay the monthly household bills. This included rent and the maid.
And so we each carried 5-thousand baht in our pockets as we began that day's proselyting.
As we approached the writhing cripple on his stomach I fell a few steps back from my companion. When I reached the beggar I quickly bent down and put all of my 5-thousand baht in his pink plastic bowl. Then caught up with my companion. I never even looked directly at the beggar.
Believe me, this was not my Mother Theresa moment. All I felt was anger and resentment, as if that cripple were emotionally blackmailing me.
I was relieved and guilty at the same time. I had done something, but it was not a miracle, and, according to the Thai members I had talked to, it was probably a complete waste of my own money.
5-thousand baht was a lot of money back then. I had to sell my leather briefcase, my wristwatch and my camera in order to have enough to pay my share of the bills.
I never saw that crippled man again. The next day I was stung by a small scorpion as I was putting on my shoes and had to be rushed to the hospital with a severe allergic reaction. I was in the hospital for several weeks, trying not to ogle the beguiling nurses and my reading material restricted to the Book of Mormon in its incomplete Thai version. When I recovered I was transferred to a different part of Bangkok.
Now that I'm older and don't care a fig about getting any wiser, I can write about what happened back in Bangkok without trying to pin a meaning onto it. Or if you insist on one: "Look up at the tropical sky to go blind and fall into a Bangkok sewer."
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