The sound of Justin Bieber blasts behind me as my team and I work on our morning construction ministry. The playlist of mixed pop and worship music made the work seem easy and the time pass quick as we helped build an add-on to an already existing tin pavilion at Lighthouse.
“Khay-lah.” I hear, a soft voice that somehow still reaches my ears despite the music. Sokha, Lighthouse’s “house dad” and our foreman, called down to me from the top of the scaffolding we just finished building. He always says my name airily and with a large emphasis between the two syllables.
I come closer and crane my neck to meet his eyes. I shrug my shoulders with my hands stretched to my sides. Translation: “What do you need?” It is part of the language Sokha and I are developing. Despite the relatively humble building project, it’s like trying to raise Babel with the language barrier between us.
He points down to his tool box. I kneel down and pick up his machete and hold it to him. Translation: “This?” He shakes his head. I grab the saw. Shakes his head. The hammer. Shakes his head.
I was determined to find out what tool he needed. I sat brushing aside old nails and screws, pieces of pipe, and other tools I’ve never even seen before in my life.
“Khay-lah.” I stop rooting around in the toolbox and look up again. Sokha takes one of his fingers and lays it on the wooden structure, then using his other hand, he draws an invisible line between that finger and as far as his arm will stretch. He does this twice before looking down at me expectantly.
I grab the coil of wire hesitantly and hold it up. “No, no, no.”
He repeats his gesture again, somewhat helplessly this time, as it’s the only way he knows to communicate with me, yet I am not understanding. I grab the measuring tape and hold it up, a last hope. He smiles his big smile and nods, “Yes. Good.”
I shimmy up the rickety step stool we’ve been using as a ladder, carefully avoid the sharp rusted tin roof, and hand it to him.
While only one instance, in the two weeks it took us to complete the structure, I probably performed this language guessing charade with Sokha a hundred times. It got easier as time went on, as we developed a lexicon of hand gestures related to objects that we both could understand.
Working on an intricate project like this with someone who does not share you language was not easy at times. God blessed our team by giving us Sokha to work under; He was so patient, kind, and willing to work with us through any limitations. And he let us play our music, even conservatively joining us on dance breaks a few times.
When I first arrive here, I thought him and his wife, Sinat, who also speaks almost no English, as people who I would never truly get to know, because of our language differences. Of course, I smiled and I greeted them, but I never expected to really get to know them or see parts of their true identity.
Sokha proved me wrong, and I am so glad for it. Working with him each day made me have to learn his personality without getting to hear it from his own lips, but rather through observation and our strange language game.
One of the most memorable moments happened when we finished the skeleton of the structure. Sokha clambered up to the top of it and stopped, his feet flat on the wood, his hands holding on between his feet, and his eyes forward with his “deep thought” face on. Translation: “Just wait. I’m thinking and I’ll direct you in a moment.”
So I zone out. But then, I hear meowing. I glance around. And again, meowing. Strange, Lighthouse doesn’t have a cat. I look up and Sokha is trying to suppress a grin.
“Sokha?” I ask. He meows in response.
I laughed aloud as a man who did not share my language just told me a joke. I’ve learned that when we can start laughing together, the differences melt away pretty quick.
Like I said, it felt like Babel at times. The story of Babel used to frustrate me, making me wonder why God allowed our separation by languages. But on an airplane ride here, I listened to a podcast explaining how man’s pride at Babel got redeemed at Pentecost. There, Holy Spirit gave the early Apostles gifts of language to share the gospel with everyone gathered.
Through Holy Spirit, Sokha, Sinat, and all the Cambodians who proclaim Jesus but don’t speak English, get to be joined with me as my family. Our differences don’t matter because we all have the same spirit living inside of us. Our building project became less about our differences, and more about identifying what makes us similar– our humanness, laughter, and the Holy Spirit.
It’s like what Pastor Rambo, one of our dear Khmer friends, told us on our second day here, “When I look at you all, I feel as if we’ve met before. I feel as if I know you already.”
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Currently: Sipping Americano Coffee on a ‘mild’ 81 degree morning | 8:36 AM | 85% Funded | Lord, hem me in. Keep your hand upon me. |
