I bought myself a pineapple in December.

Without thinking, plunked it in the basket.

It wasn’t on sale.

It wasn’t particularly colorful

or fragrant.

It was mostly unripe—

Bright green, like bamboo,

With a foreshadowing of yellow.

creation made co-heir,

questioning

how do I speak of glory

in this foreign land?

I grew up with what I called a wannabe “white savior complex,” also known as, “model minority.” My parents were saved by missionaries during the Khmer Rouge. I grew up seeing missionaries as my heroes and decided at the age of18, I would do such. My naïve pride expected me to teach the little Cambodian children English and guide them to Christ. I didn’t realize the injustice I was perpetuating by repeating the message I was taught that “Look at me! God brought me here to bring you salvation and you need to prevent your sins from my teaching.” Halfway through that “mission” trip, I ended up mistaking my homesickness by looking down at the others.

Where is our thrill of hopeWe have already been downtroddenWeeping on our kneesWe are weary, Lord