“I am not letting you leave,” said Bon, clutching my hand.
It was time to go, and everything inside of me wanted to stay with my new
friend.
When I was told I would be visiting an elderly home I
immediately imagined an American nursing home: private rooms, men and women in
wheelchairs playing games and drinking coffee, and a nice yard or parlor to sit
and talk with them. In our orientation before leaving, I realized I was wrong.
The “elderly home” was located in a pagoda, or Buddhist temple, and there were
no private rooms, no pretty lawn, and definitely no cute parlor to sit and
visit. We entered rooms full of beds, practically tables, with about 100
elderly people, most of whom were ill or disabled.
As my translator and I entered a dark side room I was
overwhelmed with the smell of urine, but even more so was the feeling of
hopelessness. The women there probably had no family or anyone that cared for
them anymore. They had been given to the monks, strangers, to be taken care of.
Throughout the day people come in and out bringing little gifts, food, and
small amounts of money, but no one stops. Most people come in as their Buddhist
duty, they do not care about the feelings of the people they pass.
I sat beside a woman who immediately crawled up next to me
and wrapped her arms around
me. For almost two hours, I listened to Bon tell
stories about her life. Her husband had died almost ten years ago, and they had
no children. She had not kept in touch with her brothers and sisters or
extended family. She had no one. Her
life was like the hard surface given to her for a bed. Everything she owned or
thought valuable was contained in the small space where she slept and sat all
day.
During our time together tears continued to fill my eyes. I
thought of my own grandparents, Mama 2 and Daddy 2, who spent their last years
surrounded by a family that loved them. Both passed away after months of being
in Hospice Care, in their own beds, being cared for by their own children. Bon did not have that option. She grew up in poverty, abused by her father.
Both parents died before she was six. Now she is alone. She had no hope. She
had given up.
Bon needed Jesus, but I could not tell her. Not only was it illegal, the people we were
with asked us not to. As I listened to her pour out her burdens, I kept my hand
on her back and prayed silently.
“How do you feel about my situation?” she asked. I was
speechless. The one source of hope and peace I knew was something I could not
share.
Leaving the pagoda was the hardest thing I had done all
year. Bon took a piece of my heart. As I was leaving, I told her I would be
praying for her. I know God does not need me in order to give comfort and
salvation to others. I have faith that Bon will come to know the hope and peace
found inside the heart of Jesus. I pray that the Holy Spirit falls so heavily
on Bon that there is no mistake that she can have hope in something greater.
