Big Ships Turn Slowly
The Story of Lumchai
I met a man this morning named Lumchai.
He is from Southeast Asia and told the story of his father dying when he was six. This would be challenging enough to a small boy, but it was made more traumatic by the families loss of support. His mother, unable to care for him and his sister alone, sent them to live with their grandfather in the jungle.
In the West, when we say “I grew up poor” or “I grew up with nothing,” we usually mean that we lived in a small house, our furniture was old, our car unreliable, or maybe we had to ride the bus.
When someone like Lumchai says he grew up poor, he means a house made of bamboo with a dirt floor and palm fronds for a roof. He means protein snacks were grubs and insects, that if he wanted fish, he had to catch it. If he wanted meat, he had to hunt. Fruit was abundant—so abundant, in fact, that he quickly grew tired of it. His few possessions were hand-me-downs from missionaries, just enough to spare him a lifetime in a loincloth.
His first job was cutting juvenile bamboo shoots. Because the shoots had to be harvested when they were still tender, the task required small, nimble bodies to move through dense forests of giant grass. It was not only physically demanding but dangerous. King cobras favored the detritus of fallen fronds and branches that piled up along the jungle floor.
Boys like Lumchai would crawl through the tall grass, slicing shoots as they went. Older men stood watch at the edges, scanning for movement beneath the clutter—any sign of a nest.
Lumchai never had to face a cobra himself, but he witnessed their devastating power.
One day, after leaving early, he returned to check on a young girl from the village who hadn’t come back. Walking along the path, he noticed a swollen black shape in a ditch. Looking closer, he found the girl. A snakebite had ended her life.
Still, jungle life had its moments. With no distractions, Lumchai became a tireless worker and an eager student of the world around him. He developed a sharp mind and a remarkable memory. In time, his mother remarried and he and sister were recalled to their former life.
He found it much changed with the biggest new challenge being the man who seemed like was replacing his father. In later years he would come to love this man and thank him for his support and affection. But there were years of anger and resentment before he was emotionally mature enough to accept this substitute.
Eventually, like many others, he made his way to the United States in search of a better life. And he admits—he found it. But not without cost.
His chosen profession as a truck driver took a brutal toll on his body. Years of bouncing over highways compressed his spine. His natural circadian rhythms were upended. When we speak, he constantly flinches in pain—his joints worn prematurely. He’s sixty-one, but I find it hard to believe he’s only seven years my senior. He reminds me more of my grandfather.
And I, in turn, must seem like a child to him—with my cherubic face and bright green Shrek socks.
Lumchai’s greatest obstacle came not from the jungle or the job, but from heartbreak. In his early forties, he fell in love with a woman who had a child from a previous relationship. He raised that boy as his own for a decade. But as often happens to those who spend long stretches on the road, he returned one day to find he was being replaced. She had met someone else.
The months that followed were the darkest of his life. Adding insult to injury, his mother died after a short painful fight against cancer.
Like many others, Lumchai turned to drugs and alcohol to numb the pain. He describes it as a mission—suicide by indulgence.
When that failed to take him fast enough, he tied his first noose—a skill taught to him years before by an old cowboy trucker.
But then the phone rang.
“I'm pregnant,” she said.
“Tell that to your new guy—we're done!” was his stunned reply.
The news didn’t pull him out. In fact, it drove him deeper. But when the child was born, there was no question—she was his. His spitting image.
The bond was instant. And that was the last day he turned to narcotics or alcohol.
He began the slow road back, trying to be the father he never had. And by all accounts, he's doing his best. The attorney general awarded half his income to the girl’s mother, as primary caregiver, which he finds difficult. He wants to provide more materially for his daughter’s future.
But when I point out that she already has something more valuable—a father who loves her and is involved in her life—he agrees. I encourage him to consider the importance of spiritual legacy as well. That the path to real meaning isn’t paved with possessions, but rooted in deeper truth.
He tells me he has a church and loves it, but still wrestles with questions like:
”Why are we here?“
“What happens when we die?”
”Why does God let us suffer?”
I tell him he will get those answers—and not just opinions, but satisfying truths from God’s Word. That piques his interest. He’s eager to learn.
But Lumchai is a talker. We spent an entire morning together and only scratched the surface. Which is fine. Big ships turn slowly.
After meeting his maybe-girlfriend neighbor and exchanging farewells, we head to our next appointment. He goes off in search of lunch. We’ll return next week to see how the seeds we planted are growing—and maybe even tackle the next question.
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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