The burning body

Although we didn’t get to meet, we were connected in a greater way. Yesterday, as I prepared to go to church, my ministry contact explained that there was an ill man in a village that needed help. He went on to say that the man was married and has an adopted son, but no one will help his family because the man is Christian, and the Buddhist culture “will not help a Christian”. So, knowing that I have been blessed with the gift of healing, (and have prayed people into health in the past four countries) I volunteered to go. With no expectations of how I was going to help, or what the afternoon would require, I travelled with four teammates, 45 minutes away to a remote village where a dusty road lead us to a raised wooden deck in a field with straw lined cardboard walls and a straw and wooden roof. 

The structure was clearly the home of this family, where lost eyes of a woman greeted us. The pastor spoke to her and turned to say “we are 10 minutes late”. Quickly I bowed my head in brief prayer for the situation. No instructions. No direction. And the pastor walked away in grief. 

The man had passed away, and I felt total peace knowing that he was in heaven. I don’t speak Khmer, and his family did not know a single word of English, but there sometimes are no words for moments like these anyways. Within minutes, his wife went and sat next to the sheet covered body in the home, and reached out to me, motioning to come join her. She grabbed my arm and her warm smile filled my heart with a longing to meet her needs as her hope-filled eyes begged for my presence at her side. As I joined her, she fell in my lap and tears fell from her eyes. My arms wrapped around her in comfort and she pulled the sheet back from her deceased husband’s body. I did the only thing I knew how to do in that moment. I prayed. As the prayer wrote itself on my lips, I found myself crying with her. I unwillingly felt every burden that was on her shoulders and raised them up one by one in prayer. By the time I finished, there was a complete peaceful knowing that filled the space. 

Over the next few hours, the village became aware of the passing, and vendors came to set up a tent, tables, chairs, lighting, and even a sound system was erected on her property. The body remained on the floor of the hut where this man slept every night, and the funeral was prepared. As time passed, I constructed two flowers out of the pink facial oil blotting papers that were buried in my handbag’s vanity kit and gifted them to the family. When I came across a mini lotion bottle from The Ritz Carlton of previous travels, I dabbed some on my hand and offered it to the woman. She beamed as she rolled her sleeves all the way up to her shoulders and exposed skin that was once brown, but dryness left it white. As her hand reached into my lap, I used the technique that my nail tech has used on me for the past 15 years- the woman continued to smile and joy radiated out of her in this now spa like setting where the compassion I had to offer through a simple arm and hand massage seemed to be the best gift she had received. It was really that simple. Love is a universal language.  

It was soon time to go, as I had a speaking engagement last night, but I didn’t want her to be stuck with the burden of the funeral expenses. I reached into my handbag and snuck out enough to cover the costs she was facing, and gifted her with the cash as I hugged her goodbye. On the way back I found out that cremation was a popular option in Cambodia, and because the entire funeral is held at the household, the cremation is also typically held on site. 

The thoughts of placing a body in a fire created images in my mind that I attempted to ignore, but it was the real probability that I must mentally prepare for. Not sure if anything could actually prepare me, I pondered aloud this morning my hopes of not wanting to see such a thing. 

When we returned today, the village was in attendance, and food was being prepared, while pastors took turns delivering messages of hope and joy in Khmer. The man’s wife came up to me with her warm embrace and tears again fell on my shoulder as we hugged. We then each were handed a flower and the wooden box wrapped in floral butterfly paper containing the man’s body lead the way down the dusty road into an open field were it was set in fresh bamboo stalks. As a group sang Amazing Grace in Khmer, we each placed our flowers on his body and the white linens that family cried into were collected and placed on top and at the ends of sticks. I followed his wife as she silently turned to walk to a safer distance. The  men poured lighter fluid in and around the coffin like box. The linens at the ends of their sticks, once filled with tears were now covered in flames as they then ignited the box from the bottom. I turned in moments to catch a glimpse of what I thought I couldn’t bear. Each time I turned, I felt more peace than I had imagined. Even though I was witnessing a body in flames, it had really become just that. Just a body. A place that the spirit and soul of a very loved man once dwelled. The peace came in knowing that he truly wasn’t there. As this peace flowed in, I began to sing..