As we walked past this temple, kids ran out to greet us, shouting "Hello! Hello!" An old Chinese man named Samlan followed them out into the street and invited us in. In halting English and with a huge smile he introduced us to "His God," a stern looking figure set upon an ornate altar. As a couple of the faithful set out sticks of incense and lit candles, Samlan brought us through the shrine, encouraging us to take photographs. "Keep a picture," he instructed, pointing at a huge misshapen mass of melted wax. "Very beautiful," he said and sighed. Fierce dragons and lovely lotuses adorned everything inside and out of the shrine. Samlan tried to explain who his God was, but it wasn't one we'd ever met before. According to Samlan, this God was relatively new to the field.
Inside the temple Samlan gave me a canister loaded with dozens of bamboo sticks. He demonstrated the proper technique so that I could shake the can and only one stick would fall out. I knelt on a cushion and shook the can as instructed. A stick labeled number 11 tumbled onto the floor. Samlan led me to wall covered with pads of paper that resembled dog-eared paperback novels, their covers unceremoniously removed. He tore off a sheet from pad 11 and gave it to me. "You read Thai?" he asked, showing me the scrawled script. "No," I admitted. "You read Chinese?" he asked hopefully, pointing to the detailed characters that lined one half of the page. "Nope." He smiled and handed me the slip of paper anyway. I keep it as a memento of playing the prayer lottery and how warm this place has been. Everywhere feels like home.