Trash and beer cans are scattered down a little dirt road. ‘Houses’ are made of tarps, tin, and wood scraps, insufficient as shelter from rain, let alone a home for a family. Intoxicated men lay up and down the road in hammocks. All eyes are on us and a man asks why we are there.
A baby without pants waddles up and raises her hands to be picked up. Her belly is distended and her nose runny. Another baby, around the same age, appears with a hernia and deep scars hidden under his shirt. Before long, many kids have wandered into the streets ready for attention. They fight for our attention. One girl slaps the little baby and pulls her hair out of jealously. She’s roughly 5 years old and desperately wants to feel loved, even at the expense of the tiny one.
Another girl covered in deep bruises, only 8 years old, punches her friend if she tries to approach me. She desperately needs attention and has no problem fighting for it. Fists start flying, and we try our best to calm them.
Down the road, a frail old man in a wheelchair sits and stares.
Clothes are dirty and tattered and torn. Ribs peak through where baby fat should be. Wrists are tiny and teeth are rotten.
The men begin to gamble. They yell at us and the kids for being in their way.
A baby cries, stopping immediately as a hand is raised toward him.
Women hide away in their homes, playing cards and passing the time as their kids wander the street, entertaining themselves with rubber bands and rusted bikes and empty spray cans.
I feel hopeless and cry out to God. Where are you? It’s so dark here. These people need you.
A tiny angel walks up and starts to sing Jesus Loves Me. Somebody has come before us, and I pray somebody will follow when we’re gone.
I cry out to God again. These songs are a start, but they aren’t enough.
We can’t communicate. We don’t know Khmer. Lord, how can I help?
‘How does this make you feel?’
I turn around to see a man, no older than me, anxiously awaiting an answer. He is clean and well groomed with perfect English. He must not belong.
‘How do these people make you feel?’ he repeats.
‘So sad’ is all I can mutter.
He tells me about his life there in the slum, that he is working to get out. He wants a family, a wife and kids. He wants a home to call his own, away from this place. He tries to invite the men to work with him, he says, but they always reject him. They are content with this life.
He isn’t, though. Thank God he isn’t.
We eventually ask him if he knows Jesus, and he nods with uneasiness. He tells us that he used to learn about him when he was little, but has forgotten it all. He knows he can pray to God when he is scared. He wants us to bring him a bible.
I see the light peaking through the darkness.
We find a translator to translate a bible story. We act out David and Goliath, and ask the kids what some of the giants in their lives might be. I’m not sure what answer I’m expecting, but their response is like a kick to the gut. One by one they raise their hands:
No money.
No food.
Sickness.
I spend my evening on the roof alone weeping. I don’t understand why their lives look so tragically different from mine. I don’t understand, and I never will.
But God sees them. He fights for them. He loves them tenderly. I trust that he is still good, even when circumstances aren’t.
So every afternoon at 4, after all the ‘feel good’ ministry is done, I return to that little dirt road. My heart breaks a little more with every beat, but I gladly take on the pain.
What an honor that we get to bring light into the darkest places. That God sees us fit to do so despite our human nature. That no mistake will ever disqualify us from being loved and being used to share that love with those who need it most.
