Our friend Sarah is from the Hmong tribe in Thailand. One day our van arrives at a village in the mountains and Sarah proudly tells us we are at a Hmong village where we can see how she grew up.
Houses are built into the sides of hills, each one having several bird houses, something we found common in Thailand.
Sarah takes us to the house of Lesah Gaujariyakhul. Lesah was born in 1922 and stands just over four feet tall. She is a widow and her five children have passed away. With having no one to provide for her, she opens her home and sells cloth.
We enter her smoky, stale smelling home and I am fascinated by her life. Stacked against the wall are reeds, ready to be stripped by her bare, callused hands. Each fiber is spliced together to form a continuous thread.
The hemp is then woven into cloth.
I choose a piece of burlap to buy; not the colorful handiwork. It is hanging on the wall. “No!” says Sarah. “It is too much money and the quality is not good.”
Yet, how well can eighty nine year old eyes see? And how else can she make money to buy food?
I pay one hundred baht for the cloth ($3.00), which smells strongly of dirt and smoke. I ask to take her photo and she wants to change into her nice clothes first. She then demonstrates her trade.
With Sarah interpreting, I say, “I am going to put this in my house. When I see it I will think of you.” She nods, the years etched into the lines on her face.
“Are you a Christian?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers. “I am a Seventh Day Adventist from the church on the hill.”
“Then, when I see this cloth, I will pray for you,” I tell her.
She nods again. “Yes,” she said, and her face brakes out into a beautiful smile. For now, we are sisters.