It was a Monday morning in the middle of July in Battambang, Cambodia. I was riding in the back of a truck on my way to pick up the preschool kids from the street. I had gone with my contact a handful of times for the past two weeks. The sun was just coming up. The air was crisp and fresh, the calm before the heat wave. In many ways, it seemed just like every other morning.
However, it wasn’t. This morning was different. This morning was special. This morning, we were also picking up a new group of preschool kids. They had recently been accepted into the program for the new school year. For the past few months, there were only 5 preschoolers. Starting this week, the preschool was going from 5 to 10, doubling in size, a 100% increase.
We turned down a single-lane dirt road off of the main road. Makeshift houses and shanties line both sides of it. We had only been on the road for a few hundred feet when I saw Sarah for the first time: a little girl, no more than 5, holding a broom. She stared, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as we slowly drove passed. We came to a stop a couple houses down the road. By this point, she had purposefully positioned herself in the middle of the road, the same expression etched onto her face, eyes fixated on the truck and its occupants. It was almost as if she was holding her breath, her whole world now moving in slow motion.
Then suddenly, as if someone had pushed the “resume” button, a smile bigger than her whole face broke out. Squealing with excitement, she threw her broom down on the ground with as much force as any 5 year old could muster and bolted down the street towards the truck. A single thought was running through her mind:
Today is the day!
Months and months of waiting had finally paid off. The single, greatest dream of her life up until this very moment was becoming a reality. For months, she had watched this same truck drive by, morning after morning. For months, she had seen her friends get picked up while she had been left behind. For months, she had been asking, “Is today the day I can go too?”
That morning, the answer was finally, “Yes!” We lifted her up into the bed of the truck. She sat tall. I remember her face was glowing the whole time as we rode back to the center. It was Christmas morning in her world. The greatest gift she could hope for was just given to her.
Sarah, along with all the other kids in the program, live on the street with family, friends, and/or relatives. They are poor. They are untouchable. They are overlooked. They are forgotten. The kids spend their evenings begging on the streets for either money or scraps of food. It’s a life they come from and so many of them are destined for the same. They are rarely given an opportunity for anything different.
That’s where this organization comes in. Crossing Cambodia spends 6 days a week giving a group of street kids something beyond what they could hope for for themselves. Each morning, a group of kids, ages 2-11, get picked up from the streets. They are brought to the center. After a bath and a full meal, they put on their uniforms and are given the chance to go to school, a gift not typically offered to street kids. At the center, they are taken care of more than just physically; they are taken care of mentally and spiritually as well. These kids are LOVED.
For these kids, getting accepted into the program changes the entire course of their future. They can hope and dream of a life different than all they have ever known or seen. They have a chance at something better than life on the street. At such a young age, I’m not sure all the kids fully realize yet the implications of being in the program. But as I watched Sarah for the rest of that day, I was certain she knew something wonderful was happening.
I got to spend just 5 days with Sarah. My team had already spent 2.5 weeks with the original bunch of preschoolers, and our 7th month on the World Race was coming to an end. On our last day, we celebrated by having a face-painting party. Sarah was beyond delighted. I remember her staring at her reflection in a mirror, that same smile from the first day monopolizing her face, competing for attention with the bright colors painted on her cheeks.
I’d like to believe that as she looked in the mirror, she saw a princess looking back at her. At 5 years old, she is learning that she’s worth more. She is loved. She is precious. She is smart.
As I said goodbye that afternoon, I thought it would be the last time I would have an opportunity to see that little girl. All that was true until last Saturday, when I rode through the front gates of Crossing Cambodia for the first time in 16 months…
(To be continued…)
