Today marks a year. A year in the same country, mostly the same city, same room, same bed. A year with every comfort imaginable, and the only travel being weekends with a small carry-on bag, not a backpack. A year of sitting in an air conditioned office. A year of being able to eat whatever I want when I want, no beans or rice. A year of making new friends in the city I left. A year of learning to be content in one place. A year where nothing is different, yet everything has changed. A year of transformation.

Landing in Los Angeles after a year abroad on the World Race, I had no idea what was ahead of me, no inkling what I wanted, no clue what God wanted for me. One year later, it seems as though nothing has changed, even the Gamecocks are in the College World Series championship again. I am still figuring out what God has for my life, still learning who I am, still seeking the mystery of who He is.

Over the past year my passion for the orphans and widows has grown, despite their absence in my daily life. I still hurt when I think of the millions of people in poverty. I still cry over the people who think they have no choice but to sell themselves to make ends meet, or even traffic their children hoping to give them a better life. I am burdened for people who lost everything in a single moment. My heart breaks for the impoverished who don't see hope, encompassed in darkness. I still don't know what I am supposed to do about it.

It would be easy to sit and compare and feel that my year at home was wasted. To feel that after a year moving from the inner city of Dublin to the African bush to the jungles of Southeast Asia living among the poorest of the poor, sitting in an office 40 hours a week means nothing. It would be easy to spend today fixating on all the things I didn't do this year, places I didn't go, people I didn't meet.

Instead I am going to spend today celebrating what God did in my life this year. The people I have been

blessed to meet, and the relationships that have grown even deeper. For the change He has made in my heart, and for the passions that remain. I will praise Him because I still don't know what lies ahead, because I am still learning my role in His plan, and as I discover more of God's heart mine will change as well. The Lord has a unique purpose for my life, and I don't have to worry about the next step. I just have to follow. I just have to listen to His voice and obey.

Thank you Jesus for this year. Thank you for a family that loves me and a roof over my head. Thank you for better friends than I deserve, who demonstrate Your love for me so well. Thank you for air conditioning and clean water. Thank you for Charles and my time behind the fence. Thank you for the times I felt lonely in a room full of people, and the reminder that You were with me. Thank you for continuing to shape my heart to look like yours, even though it hurts. Thank you that I am not complete, and that you will never give up on me.

 

No, I am changed because of the times I spent with God: the mornings alone with coffee and my Bible, or the hours in prayer. I am changed by praising Jesus with my squad and the words God spoke to me through my teammates. I am changed by the moments I took the time to be still and listen to God's whisper. I am changed by silent worship as I ran through rice fields, banana trees, and African savannas. I am changed by the service of African mamas and prayers of the mamas, friends, and family at home.

I am no better, no more spiritual, or any more mature than anyone because of my experiences. I have not done anything extraordinary except to be obedient to following God's still small voice.

This year is just a small part of my walk with Christ. This year is not the only one that will change my life. A life walking with Jesus will continually shape my heart to be like His. Each day with Him will be one that changes me.

And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.

Philippians 1:6

 

 

 

 

 

Showing me the importance of serving others. I will never forget the hours you spent helping little old ladies with their cars at the Station.

Giving me an appreciation of good music. I may have hated it growing up, but now I can understand the greatness of Zeppelin, classic jazz, and others.

 Always supporting every endeavor I chose to follow. Even quitting my job to travel the world.

Teaching me that hard work always has its rewards.

Sunday morning Boberry biscuits.

Knowing exactly how to fix my car over the phone: teaching me how to add transmission fluid or how to check where the weird noises are coming from without even being with me.

Showing me the lighter side of life: even though all your silly antics occasionally embarrassed me, they taught me that things didn't always have to be serious.

 

Growing up in Prektey, Jack did not have the safe, plush childhood a lot of children in America experience. After his mother deserted him as an infant and his father died when he was five, Jack and his brother bounced from family to family working around the house to earn a place to sleep. Life was not easy. Finally, Jack was fortunate enough to live with a Christian family who showed him the love and grace of Jesus. Jack's new family helped him through school, and is now helping him pursue a college degree.

Realizing how much God had blessed him, Jack wanted to do more for the community that raised him. Each day on his way to class he passed the shell of an old church. He prayed that God would reveal a purpose for the empty building, a purpose that would advance God's Kingdom. As Jack was waiting on an answer to his prayer, he became acutely aware of the poverty surrounding him, especially the conditions that hundreds of children were growing up in. He wanted to give these children the same opportunity he had, the opportunity for an education. As a full time university student, Jack obediently followed God's call and opened General Talent Training School, a school specifically for children in poverty. It is Jack's vision to pull kids out of poverty by providing them with an education, teaching them English, and most importantly teaching them about the saving grace of Jesus. 

As a full time student in Phnom Phen, Jack travels almost an hour every morning, spends all day in classes, then comes back to teach children at night. He even sleeps in the school. Since opening the GTTS in November, Jack has worked tirelessly to promote his program, recruit teachers, and provide a Godly environment for children to learn. At the moment all of his students only come for part time English classes, but it is Jack's vision to open a full time primary school as well as develop the school into a ministry in order to share the Gospel with the students. However, all of this comes at a price.

GTTS is in desperate need of funding. Jack is searching for monthly sponsors to help cover overhead expenses and salaries for teachers. At the moment, Jack can only afford to pay his teachers $10-$20 a month, and most simply volunteer. It is Jack's vision to be able to afford professional teachers and eventually transportation for the students, although currently he simply needs to be able to pay the bills and buy supplies and toys.

Hearing Jack's story I could not only sit by and watch him work hard to start a school from nothing. I heard God calling me to do more. After teaching alongside Jack for two weeks, hearing his vision, and experiencing his love for the students, I knew I had to help. While I do not have the resources to fund the school myself, I am in the process of helping Jack develop fund raising materials as well as committing to being on my knees for Jack and the children at the school.

Turning onto the dirt road leading to House of Love, I felt oddly at home. The overloaded tok tok had to pause and swerve for chickens and cows, and my teammates and I bumped up and down as we ran over pot holes. People waved from their homes at the foreigners and young children either ran to hide or began crying at the sight of white people.

Village life in Prektey is a stark contrast from the busy streets of Ho Chi Min. Instead of dodging motorbikes on large paved roads, we are walking down dirt paths passing humble shacks on stilts. Across the trail from our house is a small factory where men and women are constantly sewing something that will probably be sold in American stores. Everything stops in the middle of the day when the heat is debilitating. The only thing my team and I can bear to do is be completely still. Any slight movement only creates a deeper pool of sweat around each of us. However, at around 2:30 each afternoon, we run out to the street to buy homemade popsicles to help cool us down.

This month my team and I will be teaching English in various schools around the village. After one week, I am already in love with each of my students. Most are older kids who know basic English, but want to learn better pronunciation:

"THA. THA. THA. VA VA VA."

"Thir-TEEN. Thir-TY. Thir-TEENTH."

"FR-esh. PR-ess. FR-esh. PR-ess."

Also, the kids love any opportunity to ask whatever questions they have learned in class:

"Did you eat breakfast?"

"What do you do in your free time?"

"What kind of man do you like?"

Even more they love learning about American culture. With two minutes left in class, I asked the students what they wanted to do. Their reply was to ask someone to dance with me.  I proceeded to turn up music and teach them a few key moves: the sprinkler, the shopping cart, and the running man. After my performance I believe the kids are going to want to dance every day. I would not object.

I am so thankful for where God has me this month. I am so blessed to be a part of such a wonderful community and have the opportunity to build relationships. In a few weeks I will be back to the comforts of my real home: good food, a car, air conditioning, and shelter from bugs and rodents, but I will miss the simple life here in Prektey. I will miss the smiling faces of my students and the friendly waves of the Khmer people.  I will miss being surrounded by banana trees and rice fields and watching rain storms move across the village. While I am looking forward to coming home and finding what God has for me in America, Cambodia already has a large piece of my heart.

 

"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.