On the race so far, I’ve held many things in my hands. Crayons. Boxes of penicillin. Babies. Potatoes. Paint brushes. Eye sight charts. Other hands. Flowers. More frozen yogurt than one can imagine. Bus tickets. My Bible.
I’ve held children as they cry and as they giggle. I’ve held lice shampoo bottles and bug spray. I’ve held English lessons and grocery bags and coffee cups.
But I’ve held other things too. Unfulfilled expectations. Disappointment. Past struggles. Exhaustion. Doubt. Things I’ve found much more difficult to set down.
Coming into Cambodia, I was not thrilled. I painted this picture in my head of a sort of wasteland. A place filled with despair and darkness and very little Jesus. In typical Harper fashion, I held tightly to my low expectations in one hand, while the other held up my false excitement for the world to see. I heard my Jesus calling me to be joyful. To prepare my heart to see Cambodia as he does. But I was too scared to let go. Too afraid that if I did, I would then be grasping at the wind.
When we arrived here in Battambang, I was floored. In lieu of the desperation I was expecting, I saw place filled with bright stars and smiling faces. Where I thought there would be loneliness, I was so eagerly welcomed home to family. Our first day I was greeted by endless tiny hugs and voices eager to sing and the most beautiful faces. It was entirely breathtaking.
Every day has been like that since. I paint murals at a childcare center in the mornings. I come home covered in paint that might never come off (shout out to the green paint that has been holding on strong for 4 days). We ride our bikes around town. I let the Cambodian wind tangle my already matted hair. And in the afternoons, I jump up and down amidst children so full of life. We throw Frisbees in the street, often hitting our neighbors’ windows. We dance and sing until we collapse on the floor dripping in sweat.
And these are things I would much rather hold on to. Moments where I see Jesus so clearly, no longer blinded by my lack of good expectations. How much sweeter it is to hold even tighter Jesus’ hands anyways. The hands that have the scars to prove He’s been holding me all along.
