I didn’t want to tell this story. I didn’t want to write down what I saw that day. But as I spent time with the Father this morning, he convicted my heart in a way I’ve never felt. I’ve been crying in the middle of a busy cafe and wrestling with why he wants me to share something so ugly.
Death is not a new part of my life. I’ve known death many times and in many different ways. I still mourn those I’ve lost, who have left this life. But there is something very different about seeing death. People die in our life and we mourn and adjust to life without them in it. Here, in Cambodia, they see death. They see it happen on their streets, in their homes, and so many are still in recovery from the tragedy of Khmer Rouge (please, read more about this here: http://endgenocide.org/learn/past-genocides/the-cambodian-genocide/).
The other day, I saw death and it rocked me. The way I process, especially hard things, is through writing. I started to write about this day and the more I wrote the more it turned into a prose piece. I studied poetry in college, but have had real writer’s block since being on the race and have produced very few full pieces of poetry. I don’t love that this is the first piece I’ve finished – and I don’t know if it is even finished – but I simply feel led to share this here.
A couple days ago, I saw a dead man on the road. There was an accident. We are driving from the village. “My heart is so full of joy.” I had said just 10 minutes before. The sweet smiles of children still dancing around my thoughts. We see the bustle and strain for more. I wish I hadn’t. A man, his age undeterminable. He lie on the road, legs crossed. If he had been sitting in a chair, it would have looked casual. Like he was just talking about the weather or smoking a cigarette. But he is not in a chair, he is on the road. The closer I look, the more I see. There is nothing casual about his legs. For his left is facing a direction it shouldn’t. My mind registers this for only a moment, I see more. His head. Or where his head should be, where I look for his face, a way to identify. The way his children know to call out aupouk – father. But I don’t see his face. The skull is split, not just split, crushed. What I truly see, I don’t know how – or want to – describe. But the image, is here forever. The nameless, faceless man is now in my heart as I mourn for those left behind, for his soul and where it may be.
A couple days ago, I saw a dead man on the road. His faceless death burns in my spirit. No man should die without knowing his Father. Father of the nations, did he know you? I have been sent out so more may know. More may hear the truth. This faceless death breaks my heart for all the souls we have not reached. For all the days I didn’t tell someone of your good name.
“Then I saw another angel flying in midair, and he had the eternal gospel to proclaim to those who live on the earth – to every nation, tribe, language and people. He said in a loud voice, “Fear God and give him glory, because the hour if his judgment has come. Worship him who made the heavens, the earth, the sea and the springs of water.”
Revelations 14:6-7
with love,
Lina
