Can physical healing lead to genuine faith in Christ?

There is a danger and a responsibility in being the "resident expert" on a place. For many in the US, I am the only person they will ever meet who has lived in Cambodia. In a one-minute, five-minute, or even hour-long conversation, how will I speak about Cambodia? How will I convey the highs and lows of my experiences, the ways I perceived the Cambodian people, the trends I see in their culture? It's tempting to vent about my frustrations and tell the stories that make me look good. I want to heed writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's warning and avoid presenting a "single story." Cambodians are diverse; their culture is nuanced; my own cultural lens remains thick and clouded.

On Sunday, I spoke to a church's missions team. They asked me how I see Cambodians embracing Christianity. I discussed a problem I see: Cambodians professing Christ after experiencing healing from sickness, but never gaining a thorough understanding of the Gospel that compels them to continue walking with the Lord long-term. In the moment, thinking on the fly and trying to be succinct, I didn't mention the cultural context demanding a different approach than I'm used to. I presented an unfair "single story" that is actually more nuanced. I wrote back to them today to share some additional factors:

1. Jesus initially demonstrated His power and sovereignty through signs and wonders such as healing illnesses and casting out demons. I believe what I've heard from some missiologists, that it's common for signs and wonders to occur in groups that are encountering Christ for the first time. They can't see the testimony of people they trust whose lives have been transformed by Christ. In that initial introduction, God often reveals Himself through things they can see. By contrast, mature believers or communities of faith might experience occasional supernatural events, but they don't need to rely on seeing supernatural evidence like this because there is a local testimony of God's faithful presence. In our province, 20 years ago there were about a dozen believers and no churches. In a society that requires conformity and says, "To be Cambodian is to be Buddhist," people need a concrete reason to buck the norm. Signs and wonders help give them the courage to consider an alien worldview.
2. Many Cambodians see the concrete and spiritual realms as intertwined. Cambodians typically don't have health insurance or savings. They are physically vulnerable in ways that we Americans typically are not. And they have very little knowledge of health and medicine. Americans can idolize money and medical care, with a false dichotomy between the material realm and the spiritual realm (ex. if I recover from this illness, it's because of these drugs or doctors I paid for, not because of God's blessing). By contrast, many Cambodians will seek spiritual solutions to daily problems like health, weather for farming, or employment. Seeing that God answers their prayers in concrete ways is an essential component of many Cambodian Christian testimonies. As a Westerner who tends to separate the physical and spiritual realms, I can be condescending toward people who see spiritual causes to much of life, when I am prone to make the opposite error, seeking earthly solutions instead of trusting God to intervene. I have a lot to learn from Cambodian believers whose poverty has taught them to seek God first and finances second. Jesus warns us often about the danger of riches!
3. Coming from a fear-power worldview, Cambodians need to see that Jesus has greater power over their daily lives than other spirits. For example, a house church started about 5 years ago when a woman was close to death and the witch doctor told her she needed to remove a demon-possessed pillar from her house in order to recover. Christians prayed for her, she recovered with the pillar still intact, and her family became confident that Jesus is Lord over all and worthy of their worship. Likewise, I know a guy who wanted to profess faith so he could marry a Christian girl - not the best motivation. But he became convinced that Christianity was true when he cut off all his amulets (meant to appease certain spirits) and the spirits didn't attack him. Because he stayed healthy and safe after committing to Christ, being baptized, and stopping all his animistic practices, he started to believe that Jesus really was sovereign over the spirits he'd always feared and served. If people just hear about Jesus saving their souls, they can combine animism with Christianity like they used to with Buddhism: Christianity covers them after death, but animism is still how they operate day to day. They need to know that Jesus is enough for them in both life and death.
4. Many Cambodians have come to Christ through a Christian hospital in Phnom Penh, where they receive quality care with compassion and dignity, in stark contrast to their treatment elsewhere. They also hear the Gospel there. To go, they have to be referred by a church or missions agency that has an existing relationship with them. So they are experiencing God's love for them through Christ-followers who pray for them to God, the ultimate Healer, and tell them about Jesus being the reason for this kind treatment. And when they return home, someone local can follow up and help them keep growing. Obviously, not all patients who profess faith stick it out, but a number of new believers and church plants nationwide have resulted from this hospital and its referring partners. I have no issue with people coming to faith through physical healing, as long as they grow toward trusting Christ no matter the circumstances. They shouldn't expect constant physical healing and zero suffering because of their walk with the Lord... that's the prosperity gospel, which unsurprisingly has made inroads into Cambodia.
5. Trauma has stunted many people's brains. Trauma comes not only from the genocide in the 1970s, but from the Vietnamese occupation through 1991, domestic abuse, substance abuse, physical risks around machines and extreme weather, tropical diseases, and other common ways poor Cambodians have suffered. It is much more difficult for them to learn new things, especially combined with low rates of formal education and schools that don't teach critical thinking. Families pass down Buddhist and animist practices without explaining any philosophical foundation. Their thinking is very grounded in concrete, day-to-day issues like farming and raising children. Even remembering a simple story about Jesus a week after hearing it is difficult for many village people. Our Cambodian partners with YWAM mostly have a high school education and way more Bible knowledge than many villagers are able to process. They tend to take a simpler approach and emphasize a few basic truths: "Jesus loves you. He cares about your daily problems and struggles. He wants to answer your prayers and take care of you forever. He can take away your sin. You don't have to be afraid anymore."
6. There are no easy answers about the best approach for this population. World Team has trained the YWAMers, house church leaders, and new believers in a more thorough 15-minute "Creation to Christ" story and drawing, which some villagers are able to grasp and retell, while others struggle even with repeated exposure. My teammates have worked hard for 20ish years to simplify Biblical truths more and more and express them in ways that resonate with our partners, house church leaders, and the general population. Our "School of Applied Ministry" for house church leaders takes people through the whole Bible but is designed so that even illiterate people can complete it. The goal is that house church leaders can pass on some of these key teachings, such as a "Walk through the Bible"-type overview of key themes, to local church members regardless of their exposure to formal education. I had a big learning curve in PV province realizing the limits of people's academic abilities and trying to engage them or evaluate their spiritual condition. (In the capital, Phnom Penh, I worked with students and teachers who had a much higher education level. And even in PV, I focused more on the high school students and recent grads, who were much easier to teach.) Maybe some villagers who say they're Christian have a sweet, simple, childlike faith. Maybe others don't yet understand enough to receive salvation and they need to be taught in a better way that helps them grow toward thorough comprehension. The situation requires a lot of prayer and effort in reliance on the Spirit.
7. Cambodia has challenged my paradigms about effective evangelism and discipleship. While as a Westerner, I tend to value head knowledge, I can see the beauty of someone living out the little bit that they know... choosing to trust God in their daily lives even if they can't give a lecture on why God is trustworthy. I still want to see evangelism in Cambodia improve, but I'm realizing the limits of my default methods and assumptions. That's one way I see the benefits of Cambodians and foreigners working side by side, to challenge each other's thinking and spur each other on toward more fully and appropriately conveying Christ to unreached communities.

You can watch the testimony of one young woman I know well, my former intern Sovan Bun, whose heart was first softened toward Christ when her mom was gravely ill. Ten years later, this young woman has a vibrant faith and is making disciples.

English translation:

God told us that those who believe in Him need to obey their parents.

The reason I believe in Jesus is because one time my mom was really sick. I felt helpless about the situation, but I remembered hearing that when we need something, we should pray and ask God. He is able to answer our prayers and supply our needs. When I realized that, I started praying for my mom because she was so sick. She couldn’t walk and she was really thin and she couldn’t do anything anymore. But I prayed for her and I took her to the hospital and she started to believe in Jesus and get better. That’s when I saw God’s miracles and saw that He’s trustworthy. But later, I got discouraged and lonely again. I started praying for God to restore and save me. I knew that Jesus had died on the cross to save me, but I forgot about it and it seemed like no big deal. But one time God reminded me that Jesus’ death for me makes all the difference in the world. I was struck by the enormity of God’s love for me. After that, I went to study at YWAM’s Discipleship Training School. I got discouraged again but I saw God was with me and lifting me up again. Through DTS, God showed me my heart for kids and allowed me to serve them. Ever since then, I’ve really loved kids and wanted to tell them that Jesus loves them, and that Jesus created them and everything they see every day.

For those of you who have lived and served cross-culturally, or even in Cambodia specifically, what did I leave out? What else would you hold up for consideration? How do you fight against the monolithic "single story" when describing your adopted homeland to outsiders?

A memorable visitor

A week ago tonight, I met a Christian family who live near the Plas Prai dorm and attended our New Year’s party. The oldest child, a teenage boy, moved and talked very slowly. The mom told me that Pharat (her son) had become like this since studying too hard. He sat and watched the events as dorm students came up and chatted with him one by one. I wasn’t sure of his intellectual ability during my brief chat with him, but he seemed peaceful and happy to be there.

On Thursday, during a Sunday School meeting with the younger female leaders, they told me Pharat had been visiting daily. They felt a bit uncomfortable around him but invited him in because they felt bad for him. At the dorm, he'd finally found a place where he felt welcome and happy. They had heard from some of some of the dorm alumni that before graduating high school a year ago, he had been a good student, without his current issues. They said that on Wednesday, three of the girls were each bothered by an evil spirit, and they wondered if it was because of him.

Shortly after those comments, Pharat walked in the front gate and sat down next to me in our open-air meeting. “I want you to have this,” he told one girl, putting his krama (cotton scarf) around her neck. She put it on, smiling but taken aback.

He helped read aloud our Bible lesson, in his usual slow pace, with his hands hovering stiffly in the air.  As we discussed John the Baptist, he told us he’d been baptized.

“By whom?” the girls asked. “Was it Pastor Sok?” (his family’s pastor)

“I don’t remember,” he replied. He was quiet in most of the Bible discussion but asked, “Do you all love me? If you love me, I’ll keep coming often.”

“We love you,” we all assured him. I was impressed by the girls’ maturity. I wouldn’t have sensed their discomfort if they hadn’t told me. They really seemed focused on being there for him.

When the meeting ended around noon, we told him it was time for lunch. He asked, “Can I come back at 1?”

“No, we’re going to a sports tournament. We’ll be back by 4.”

I drove home, puzzled by him. Was it appropriate for us to let him on campus so often? Could we send him to a Christian hospital to help figure out whether his problems were physical, mental, spiritual, or some combination? Honestly, we have our hands full trying to serve the students and some of their families who have accepted Christ. He's outside our scope of ministry, and I might have told him just to come to our Saturday night community outreach. But the girls wanted to serve him, and I was moved by their generosity with their time.

By four, I had a message on my phone from another dorm leader. Pharat had been seen passing Plas Prai around one, and his shoes and bike were discovered on a nearby bridge. It’s not a tall bridge, and teens have previously jumped off it to go swimming in the river, which is probably why an eyewitness of him jumping didn’t think much of it. After a search lasting several days, his body was found this morning (Sunday), an apparent suicide. We must have been some of the last people to see him alive. I'm so glad we gave him what we could.

The leaders told me that they first met him because he was depressed and his pastor asked them to go pray for him. The pastor also told me that he believes Pharat was possessed by an evil spirit, like his mom before him. When she first met the pastor, she was looking for deliverance. After she believed in Jesus three years ago, the spirit left her alone and she was healed from a condition similar to his.

I joined his funeral service tonight with many local believers. Though everyone at Plas Prai had just met him, he and his family were heavy on the hearts of many students as well as leaders. The speakers, including this pastor, did a great job communicating the new life that believers have in Christ and the comforting hope of reunion with our loved ones who have believed. We ended by circling around the family and praying for their protection from evil spirits. Normally Cambodian Buddhists picture their deceased loved ones as upset ghosts who need offerings of food, drinks, incense, etc. to be placated and avoid attacking the surviving relatives. Christians often face strong pressure to give these offerings and are blamed for all kinds of family problems if they don’t.

Please pray for comfort for his parents and three younger siblings, as well as other relatives living in their home. His dad is not yet a Christian. Please especially pray that no evil spirits will impersonate Pharat and frighten or harm the family. May they know our God’s power to protect Pharat and them.

His mom gave me a three-minute hug at the end and asked me, “Why didn’t I ever hug my son like this? It was hard for me to show him love.” She struck me as a warm and open woman, but it’s normal here for families to feel awkward about showing affection. I don’t know how much of this hesitation is inherent to Khmer culture and how much is the effects of generational trauma. I believe Christ is changing her, but three years is brief, and who knows what happened in their family in the last four or five tumultuous decades. Evil spirits are a common experience here. Healthcare is hit-or-miss and mental healthcare almost nonexistent. I am convinced she fought hard for her kid, and whatever attacked him, she just didn't have the resources to protect him. 

Probably in my first year here, my friend Suzanne commented to me something like, “To gain the trust of a Cambodian is to hear the story of unimaginable heartache.” At the time, her words didn't resonate. But while I know happy, healthy Cambodians, it seems to me that everyone has extreme pain in their recent family history. Pharat’s story was sandwiched around two other difficult local stories this week. They just keep coming at a dizzying rate.

3C: We did it!

After four years, I’m finally allowed to tell you all about it.

I first heard of World Team’s global conference in mid-2019, when I was asked to help on the communications team. Such an event is unprecedented in our org's history, so four of us in Cameroon, France, the Philippines, and Cambodia began meeting on Zoom to figure out what our job entailed. For one thing, what would this conference be called? We were told it would focus on community, collaboration, and celebration, so we called it the 3C conference. We built and launched a website for it in late 2019, with a countdown to July 2021. 

When COVID hit, all our planned e-mails vanished from our to-do lists. The website sat and sat. Later, the organizers decided to aim for July 2022. We were able to update the URL to “3C 2022” and started our timeline again before the organizers postponed it another year. This time we didn’t even bother updating the URL. How sure was anyone that we could pull this off?

The URL still says “2022,” but the conference was indeed pulled off last month, to our relief, joy, and amazement! I can now tell you that we met in Chiang Mai in mid-July… information that we worked hard to keep under wraps for fear that unfriendly parties would try to infiltrate, as they have done with similar orgs. (This is not an issue for me, but some World Teamers worldwide had good reasons to be cautious). 

While we never anticipated a two-year delay, the conference ended up coinciding with WT's 150th birthday! Although preparation generated a lot of work for many people, including me, I think we were all delighted to see our efforts succeed. The other teams did an excellent job on logistics, schedule, content, and fund-raising, and our resort was beautiful and well-run. Participants came ready to dive in. And for me, part of the joy of convening resulted from the relationships I had built in preparing for 3C... not only with the Communications team, but also with my workshop co-leaders. 

The location was easy for our Cambodia field. I had just 2 ½ hours in the air and a 90-minute layover, compared to 30+ hours for participants from South America. Still, I was dreading the first leg of my journey, something I’d hoped never to do: driving the Gabriels' pickup truck six hours to the capital. On two-lane roads with everything from tractors to delivery trucks to speeding Lexuses, every passing vehicle means a chance for a head-on collision. My teammate Sina joined me, having returned just days earlier from her year in Kenya. So did Charlie, the dog staying with the Gabriels and me for six months, who is an angel with us but rather defensive and not yet trustworthy with our normal sitters. Car rides are one of his favorite things, and to my relief he was docile with Sina. 

We had a fairly peaceful ride, and I savored the time listening to Sina's experiences overseas. Still, I was exhausted by the time we dropped off Charlie at Cambodia’s only pet-boarding facility, and all the more after running errands at rush hour on Phnom Penh’s crowded streets. (A construction detour led us to a narrow street where I scraped the side of the truck. The Gabriels were very gracious about it.) We both collapsed in World Team’s office guest room that night.

The next morning at the airport, we met up with eight other World Team Cambodia people (3 couples and 2 teens). We all sat there joking together during our layover in Bangkok. What a fun change from my norm of solo travel! We arrived mid-afternoon at our hotel in Chiang Mai, where more happy reunions ensued as well as several introductions. 

So happy to room with Cindy again - a native Parisian, she's the Global Coordinator who assists our CEO

There were around 300 total attendees, including children and teens and the team devoted to serving them. The 180ish adults participating in the meetings included World Teamers living overseas and working for the sending centers, missionaries seconded to WT, as well as global and national board members and representatives from partnering groups like DMG in Germany and the Cameroon Baptist Convention. Cambodia is currently WT's biggest field with 30+ members; some other fields have just 2-4 members. I probably knew more people than average and wanted to help include those who were less connected. But the night I arrived, at the dining hall and later at an icebreaker, I hit a wall. Despite my e-mail assuring people that this event would be introvert-friendly with lots of free time for R&R, I was majorly peopled out. I stumbled out early, my eyes stinging with fatigue.

3C lasted five full days, and they flew by. We spent each morning together, in addition to worship each evening and a 90-minute workshop during two of the afternoons. Organizers did a great job of having many different people speak in the morning plenary sessions: men and women, younger and older, native and non-native English speakers. We interacted in small groups throughout each session, organized around key World Team values: the gospel, growing global communities, focusing on multiplication, and looking for the unreached. We resonated with one Costa Rican speaker's challenge to look more like Christianity worldwide, where the global South comprises the majority and the future of missions. Full-time World Teamers are still mostly white English-speaking Americans, but we're gradually changing, and 3C was significantly more diverse, with many languages (even French sign language) during prayer and worship. What would it take for that to become our new normal? We explored that question a bit in the workshop I co-led that afternoon on multi-cultural teams, which we hope to expand into an online course next year. 

After night 1, "people time" was more spread out and manageable, and I was better rested. I appreciated the organizers leaving most afternoons and evenings free, as well as most of Friday (day 3). I was very happy to meet Scarlett, Dave, and Paul from the Communications team after working with them online for so long. I also enjoyed meeting several fellow single women for the first time; we had instant camaraderie despite our contexts varying from Cameroon to central Asia to Cambodia. It was great to reunite with my fellow Leader Cohort participants and trainers. I didn't work nearly as hard during the conference as I did in preparing for it, but I still had a bit to do before co-leading a workshop and a worship session, plus posting minor announcements. I had a lot of chances to tell people, "Oh, you're the one who helped me with..." or "I loved your video about..." as well as a few more like, "You live where? I didn't know we had World Teamers there!"

Leader Cohort back together (with Josh's son substituting in for Rachel, who was very missed)

With our Leader Cohort trainers

During the free time Friday, I loved climbing the Sticky Waterfalls with a mixture of old friends and new ones. It was beautiful and refreshingly cool in the sticky Thai heat. Affirming my positive impression of Thai parks, it was free and spotless. Having written an e-mail advertising the great options around town, it was fun to hear others' reports of meeting elephants, learning to cook Thai food, and exploring the night market.

The last night, watching a traditional Thai dance performance culminated in a very multicultural dance party. Like the multilingual worship, it was a moment when the veil lifted and heaven seemed a teeny bit closer. 

3C was a special week that refocused us and spurred us on toward our vision: "innovative teams multiplying disciples and communities of believers, bringing the Gospel within reach of lost people everywhere we go." I am grateful to have been a part of this historic event. And I'm curious: when I look back in five years, how will I see this conference's continued impact on my life and my community? Many people's stories and attitudes inspired me. So far, the comment I've come back to most often is a simple one from someone who, like me, struggles with the fear that her weaknesses could derail God's plan. She recounted a leader's encouragement to her: "Honey, you're just not that powerful." I believe the conversations we began at 3C will generate new friendships, collaborations, and synergy for decades to come. 

A quest for belonging: My glimpse into leprosy culture

I'd never thought much about leprosy before my friend Chihui invited me to tour a leprosarium during my recent trip to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, but our tour set my mind to spinning. For nearly a century, the Sungai Buloh leprosarium has housed people with leprosy. It’s common knowledge that lepers have been ostracized and isolated throughout history. I've read Bible stories dozens of times about Jesus healing leprosy's "unclean" victims. But who in recent history had leprosy, and how did it redefine “belonging” for the rest of their lives?

Reading up ahead of time, I saw that Sungai Buloh (also known as the National Leprosy Control Centre) has been nominated as a UNESCO world heritage site. Completed in 1930, this compound was the brainchild of Dr. E.A.O. Travers, who sympathized with leprosy patients whom he saw confined in inhumane asylums as British colonizers enforced strict laws locking them away. Sungai Buloh was far ahead of other institutions at providing quality care with dignity for lepers, and furthering research on their disease and its treatment. It originally had 600+ buildings over 562 acres, with 2440 patients at its peak – the second biggest in the world. Today, though a medical university has built over much of the property, it remains impressive.

This self-contained community had its own post office and judicial system, with patients serving “as clerks, typists, teachers, nurses, carpenters, police officials, fire brigades, general workers and other roles.” Here, leprosy patients could settle in independent homes, grow and sell produce, receive education and skills training, socialize with other residents, and democratically run their community. Chihui, an avid gardener, first encountered Sungai Buloh when buying plants from a resident. A long line of nurseries borders the lush green property, supplementing residents' income.

We were privileged to have an outstanding tour guide devote over two hours to us one Sunday afternoon. (It’s only open on Sundays.) Cera refused our tips at the end of the free tour; it’s a labor of love for her. A Kuala Lumpur local, she offers tours in both English and Chinese. 

Cera shows us a scale model carefully crafted from clay by a resident

When we arrived, I thought there were a few other visitors, but I quickly realized they were affiliated. One, a new volunteer in training, discreetly photographed Sarah with us throughout the tour and sent them to us afterward. The other, an energetic and gregarious man, chatted with us in clear English. I was shocked when Sarah introduced him as one of the patients, Uncle Vincent Yeoh. (He created the clay model shown above.)

We ran into Uncle Vincent again at the end and asked him for a photo

“Wait, he has leprosy?” 

“Well, he’s cured now, but he arrived from Indonesia when he was ten and now this is his home.” 

In the mid-20th century, scientists discovered several drugs with some efficacy at combating leprosy. By the 1980s, they established a multi-drug therapy still used today. If patients started early enough, they could be cured after six to twelve months of a drug regimen now available for free from the WHO. While some residents at Sungai Buloh experienced significant disfiguration and/or amputation, others retained a fairly typical appearance. But with an incubation period of 1 to 20 years and lingering social stigma, leprosy is often not caught early enough. And even when it is, many like Uncle Vincent discovered that mere recovery was not sufficient for re-entry. 

Some relatives made the former patients feel like an unwelcome burden through actions like burning the returnees’ sheets after use. Cera says Chinese-origin communities felt particularly nervous about returnees. Today, 96 retirees remain, choosing to finish out their lives in the place they once lacked the freedom to leave. Here, they are valued members of a close-knit group, with their own homes, hobbies, and histories. 

One exhibit told people’s arrival stories. Most leprosy patients discovered their infection in childhood, between roughly ages 8 and 15. Leprosy (aka Hansen’s Disease, a skin infection) can’t spread except after a year or two of close contact, but people used to believe it much more contagious. Cera told us about Mr. Nordin from Pahang, Malaysia, who remained in his village throughout secondary school (years after his diagnosis) without the disease spreading to any of his friends or family. Still, community pressure could be intense, and in some cases police rounded up patients to bring them here. Some families forcibly took their children to the center. In other cases, parents wanted to hold onto their children and cover up their illness, and it was the children who snuck out. Some journeyed for weeks from remote parts of Malaysia and Indonesia, and many never saw their families again. 

We got a special tour of the art gallery, which featured many paintings reflecting on residents’ transitions to the leprosarium. I arrogantly assumed it would be on par with an elementary school hallway, just trying to give residents a pastime and a bit of art therapy to process their feelings. Their creativity, skill, and passion surprised not only me but also their teachers. One resident painted a picture of the day she arrived, when she felt distraught, abandoned and unloved by her family. Looking back, though, she recognized her family’s love displayed in her last breakfast with them – a bowl of noodle soup. Another painted her father walking away barefoot, having giving her his only pair of shoes on arrival. One woman whose hands were amputated still painted vibrant scenes and still life images, with an assistant to color in her outlines.

The bouquet and sunflower paintings are by the woman with stubs for hands 

Cera maintained a cheerful tone throughout our tour of what's been nicknamed the “Valley of Hope." I think the name is apt. This was a huge step forward in institutionalizion. Sungai Buloh deserves recognition for helping patients know acceptance and choice, finding purpose in their daily lives as well as in contributing to a cure. But even with caring administrators, dignity, medical treatment, and a close-knit community, I can't imagine the residents' trauma and sorrow. There were elements of a dystopian novel in this sunny, pleasant village. 

Across many ethnic groups and religions, the residents’ shared medical condition and stigma brought unity to the extent that many intermarried. That brought us to the saddest part of the tour: hearing about their children. While marriage among the residents was welcomed, for decades any children they bore were placed in “welfare homes” in a misguided effort to protect their health. The parents had a year to visit weekly and recruit friends or family to adopt their newborns, but most children ended up in closed adoptions with strangers. Researchers wrote a book called "The Way Home" and started a website to help parents and children reconnect, but many parents had already passed away. How heartbreaking that young people torn away from their parents and siblings would one day have their own children needlessly torn away from them. Starting in the mid-1980s, around when the cure was established, the policy banning children from Sungai Buloh was less strictly enforced, and some inmates managed to hide their children when officers came around to check.

Back at home, I found an interview with one resident of 40+ years. Leon Chee Kuang, a leader among the ex-patients, arrived in 1957 as a 20-something. His words sum up the impression that I took away with me.

I thought coming here would be the end of the world. Living with people in this fenced-off area, unable to go anywhere... I thought it would be hell. 

Leaving my family was difficult. They were very sad. I was their only son. 

It was a change of environment. It was a new world. Once you stay here, you become much happier. You have friends, you have a school to go to. Outside, people are scared of you. Here, we all have the same fate, so it was easier to mix around. 

I wouldn't say I 'enjoy' my life here. But life here is a lot easier. It's not a rat race like outside.

Photo from https://poskod.my/features/the-valley-of-hope/

CuriouRead more resident stories.

The students I almost missed knowing

These stories are shared with student permission.

Vanna was rejected when he applied to our dorm.

Financial need and distance from the nearest high school are key criteria, and he was a great candidate in those senses. The problem was that he seemed so timid and passive. Vanna had a health issue that local doctors had told him was very dangerous. “Don’t ever do strenuous activity,” they told him. 

Vanna had never helped with chores on his family farm or at his school campus at the level of his teenage peers. Not playing sports isolated him from other boys. He struggled academically, spoke with a slight lisp, and felt inferior. The leaders interviewing him were not convinced he would participate in dorm activities or complete chores like chopping wood for the fire over which students cook all their meals. He wasn’t a good fit.

Then came a plot twist: Vanna’s close friend was accepted and turned down his dorm scholarship. He pleaded with the dorm leaders to let Vanna come in his place. “He reeeally wants to come.” Vanna traveled the farthest of any student that year, from along the Thai border near the ancient Preah Vihear temple, our province's namesake. 

The dorm sent him to a Christian hospital in Phnom Penh, which told him his health condition was nothing to worry about and he was free to participate in physical activities. He worked hard at chores. In grade 11, he discovered he could hold his own in volleyball. Now a senior, he’s well-liked, a confident storyteller in Sunday School, and one of the better guitar players. Most importantly, he decided to trust in Christ in his first year (grade ten - earlier than most of his peers) and has since demonstrated growing spiritual maturity. 

Vanna went home and told his good friend Phannat about Jesus. Phannat had likewise been denied admission to our dorm, but he so wanted to go that he reapplied the next year, meaning he’d have to repeat his tenth grade year. Now in grade 11 at the dorm, Phannat has also chosen to believe and be baptized, and we’ve been encouraged by his enthusiasm, hard work, and leadership skills in several arenas.

Vanna quickly began praying for his family. His parents divorced when Vanna moved away to attend middle school, and his younger sister Chanda was sent to live with an aunt for a few years, which was traumatic. Once his mom remarried, she brought Chanda back home, but Chanda still felt hurt and betrayed. She and Vanna were not close, and they constantly bickered with each other, their mom, and their stepdad. (Dad is no longer in their lives and I don’t think they miss him.) Their mom had frightening health episodes that included trouble breathing. She believed at least some of them were caused by demons, and she spent a lot of money she didn’t have to appease the demons with offerings such as pig heads. 

Vanna wanted his family to discover the love, peace, and purpose he had found in Christ. He wanted them to experience reconciliation with each other and with God. His mom seemed somewhat interested, which upset his stepdad. He said part of his reason for divorcing his first wife was because she had become a Christian. Chanda likewise wanted to hear nothing about Jesus.

But Chanda applied and was accepted to our dorm. She told me when she arrived this past January, she was determined to ignore the Christian teachings, but they quickly grabbed her attention. “We practiced a kids’ song to teach in Sunday School. It talked about blind people seeing and prisoners coming out of darkness.” I think she means “I’ve got a river of life.” My first impressions: Chenda is petite, pale, feisty, and insatiably curious. When most of the other grade ten girls were still too new and shy to answer basic questions, Chanda was asking plenty of her own questions, extending the group discussion.

Before Khmer New Year, Chanda asked me to pray for her time visiting family. “I want to show my mom that I am different, not as short-tempered as before. I want us to have a peaceful relationship just like my relationship with Vanna has gotten so much closer since I came to the dorm. And I want to get her permission to be baptized.” I was a little nervous about her high expectations. “Relationships can take time to change,” I told her. “Don’t be discouraged if it’s gradual. And it’s great that you want to believe in Jesus, but your mom might need time to get used to the idea. You don’t have to be baptized this year.” I didn’t want her feistiness to burn bridges and add needless contention to discussions of Jesus.

They both signed up for the dorm’s two-week Discipleship Training Camp earlier this month after the New Year break, but only Chanda attended. I was curious why Vanna had skipped the camp. “My family needed income from one of us kids,” he explained. “So I worked construction in Phnom Penh.  When I signed up for camp, I didn’t know Chanda wanted to take part too. She’s newer to learning about Jesus, and I wanted her to have the opportunity.” I love this kid! 

Chanda (R) heading to Silat’s home village during the camp

Chanda said she had a great visit at home. Things were more peaceful, and both her mom and stepdad seemed to accept her newfound faith. When her mom had a health episode, Chanda was terrified it might take her life, but she prayed aloud and her mom quickly recovered. (We’re trying to send her mom to Phnom Penh now to get a clearer diagnosis and treatment plan.) During camp, Chanda eagerly listened, joined in, and applied lessons on her own. “I read from Matthew to Acts this month in my quiet times!” she reported last week. Like many there, she was moved most deeply by a talk on forgiveness - especially forgiving parents. 

Someday, Chanda says she wants to serve God, maybe as a missionary to another country like Thailand. Hey, that’s what Vanna told me last year, too! Could they go together in five years or so? Our team has been talking about what it would take to help the Cambodian church start sending missionaries, especially to Thailand, where millions of Cambodians have gone to work in farming or construction. I have no idea where their future will take them, but it’s fun to dream. 

I so easily get discouraged and cynical. This week alone, I heard about debt collectors currently hounding one volunteer’s family, a dad who just relapsed into alcoholism, and a young student in our English class who can't remember anything he learns since a tractor crash brought head trauma four years ago. His dad has had debilitating stomach pain ever since neighbors got a witch doctor to curse him four months ago. The hardship and darkness are oppressive. I hear so many stories about people professing faith in Jesus without fully understanding, getting little discipleship, and quickly abandoning their faith. The Cambodian church is so young and frail, and it might even be shrinking nationwide. I am ill-equipped to understand these issues, let alone address them.

But there are stories that give me hope. There are stories that make me think, “People are really encountering God, and He is changing them.” I tried to limit Chanda’s hope of her parents being open, but her prayers were answered despite my limited faith. Vanna was rejected by humans but chosen by God. He has already played a part in Phannat and Chanda coming to the dorm and believing in Jesus. I’m praying that for all three, this is only the beginning. And as I walk with them, may our encounters with God change me too.

Monks snuck kittens into my yard (and other conspiracy theories)

I didn't choose the Cat Lady life. The Cat Lady life chose me.

Or so I thought. After all, hadn't I just agreed with my housemates Jim and Carolyn that this was a good season to be pet-free? Their latest dog had died a year earlier, their kids were out of the house, and all three of us were very busy, including regular overnight travels. Plus, with the big new wall the landlord built around the property, a dog no longer seemed necessary for security, and Carolyn's allergic to cats. I was fine with that - my family had a dog growing up, but I've never felt inclined to have my own pets. They're not a priority.

Besides, that big new wall didn't deter many creatures. Lizards, chameleons, skinks, and bugs were permanent residents. Cows wandered in to graze on crabgrass and rotting mangoes. The neighbors' stealthy cats, raucous roosters, inquisitive dogs, and floppy-eared rabbits regularly paid our yard a visit. Toads snuck under the door to poop in our dining room nightly. While gardening one day, someone moved a rock and uncovered a mother scorpion with dozens of babies on her back. We had plenty of animals around.

Jim first documented their presence

So I barely blinked when three little kittens showed up last August. I savored their cuteness and snapped a few photos, but they didn't seem like pets any more than the scorpions. Until they stayed all day, and the next day, and the next.

We realized these kittens, around four weeks old, weren't yet venturing far. They had not journeyed together to our yard without human assistance. The options? A neighbor. Anyone in town who had noticed our spacious green yard. Maybe someone who thought that since Cambodian pagodas always take in and care for stray animals, Christian missionaries might be willing to do the same. Should we drop them off at the local pagoda like everyone else who didn't want their kittens? "If the pagoda was overrun, the monks might have brought them here," one friend theorized. So the Cat Lady life didn't choose me... but maybe monks did. 

The Gabriels' son Jake and his friend Jack were wrapping up a summer visit, and Jake was the first to put out milk and coax the kittens to feel safe around us. Soon we had designated food dishes and daily feeding times. The guys started assigning names: Frodo, Galadriel, and... Gandalf the Grey? Radagast the Brown Wizard? We couldn't agree on kitten #3's color (what's your vote?), but it became apparent that she was not the same gender as either wizard. Shelob? When this kitten was their favorite, the smallest and most mellow of the three, it was hard to name her after an evil giant spider. This dilemma highlighted the LOTR cast's limited racial and gender diversity. This kitten did not see herself represented in the dozens of characters. For months we called her "the gray one" and "the brown one" and "Gandalf" and "Radagascar" before Jim finally said, "She's so sweet, I'm just calling her Hugs." And Hugs she became. 

Galadriel's name also didn't seem to suit her well. Aloof, moody, talented at hunting, and wanting closeness only on her own terms, she hardly seemed to take after her namesake. Where were the serenity, wisdom, and gentleness? Later we watched "Rings of Power" and realized WHICH Galadriel we had living with us: definitely First Epoch. And Frodo wasn't pensive and melancholy - he's more like Merry and Pippin, loving food and fun and mischief. Anyway, Frodo and Galadriel's names both stuck, but Frodo acquired a lot of nicknames like "Frodo-Panda" and "Panda in the Neck" and "Floppy Fro" (rhymes with "Sloppy Joe") for his tendency to roll over and play when we gently kicked him out the door. In Frodo's view, all attention is good attention.

But why were they still here, when we were all avowed non-pet-owners? Carolyn's allergies were tolerable if the cats stayed outside (harder than it sounds) and if she washed her hands after touching them. Jim and I didn't mind feeding them, and Jim loved teasing them and posing them in funny situations. (They also had a knack for posing themselves without his help.) The nation's few animal shelters, 3-5 hours away, are overrun with kittens. There seemed to be just three options: rehome them, kill them, or keep them. Having a subpar survival rate in my previous Cambodian cat-sitting experiences, I wasn't sure we'd need to reach a decision. Our teammate Joel's cat had kittens in July, and all of them got sick and died by September. With all the critters, diseases, and vehicles around, it seemed like a miracle every morning to come downstairs and find them snuggled up safe and sound. 

We started working on rehoming them. Cambodians generally prefer dogs over cats, since they can protect the home and be trained not to steal food from their open-air kitchens. Though nobody wanted females that might later have kittens, one family offered to take Frodo. But they had an aggressive puppy that had already killed several baby chicks, so we told them, "Wait till he's bigger." The kittens were so tiny and vulnerable, and they'd already lost their mom. Surely they needed each other. Plus, I wanted to spay and neuter them before we sent them out. In the meantime, I didn't mind them piling on me for daily cuddles in the hammock. And when we traveled, we needed someone to house-sit anyway, so it was easy enough to arrange for their food. 

I realized Jim was a much bigger pet lover than he'd let on. He suggested we keep just one cat long-term, but which one? Though the easiest to give away, Frodo was winning his heart as the most playful, following us everywhere and eager to wrestle with us and his sisters. Whenever I picked him up at the door to keep him from running into the house, he made aggressive eye contact until I paid more attention and petted him with more dedication. I felt more attached to the girls, though. Hugs was the sweetest, content to lie quietly on our laps, play with her siblings, or go exploring on her own. Galadriel meowed the most plaintively, seeking my attention until I sat or crouched down, when she'd run up on my shoulder and compulsively lick my chin. We all felt bad thinking about splitting them up into families that just wanted rat-killers (not pets), would likely hit or kick them for being naughty, and would feed them almost nothing but rice. Eventually, we decided to keep all three.

Not that we always love them. They sometimes like to bite us - not to hurt us, but to play or to get us to pet them. The older they've gotten, the more they've started doing "cat things" like depositing maimed or dead lizards and birds on our shoes. They shed a lot, especially during hot season. They run inside when we open the doors... which is often, since our office, kitchen/dining room, and bedrooms are all in separate enclosures with an outdoor hallway and stairs. (Frodo is especially good at slipping in through the kitchen door, which doesn't latch well.) It will be a miracle if nobody ever breaks an ankle en route from the kitchen to their food bowls because all three are underfoot every time. They're not smart enough to steer clear of the pickup when it's backing up, so we're always worried about hitting them. I have caught each of them standing in the squatty potty to get a drink. *gag*  

I wasn't sure if I'd like them as cats as much as I did as kittens. They're more independent now than they used to be. These days, my hammock naps might bring a cat or two, or not, whereas before they all came running every time. But they still clamor for affection a few times a day. It's still fun to watch them playing and napping together (they huddle up even on the hottest afternoons). And except for the occasional squatty potty incident, they stay astonishingly clean given all the dirt and mud around here. As mostly outdoor cats, they don't need a litterbox, bedding, walks, toys, or anything from us besides food and a little attention. I'm on board for that.

Getting them spayed was an adventure. The local vet doesn't spay or neuter but offered to administer human birth control (we declined) since medications here are unregulated and don't require prescriptions. The vet in Siem Reap required them to be at least six months old and weigh 2 kg. Kittens can get pregnant at four months, and we were advised to separate them until they could be spayed at six months, but keeping them indoors was not an option.  The last thing we wanted was more kittens here, but what else would we do if they got pregnant? "Drown them," Carolyn declared, to my shock. "It's more humane than letting them suffer as strays or be maltreated in someone's home." 

Carolyn chaperoned the cats in repurposed storage baskets

 

In January, Jim and Carolyn loaded them into their pickup truck bed when taking some visitors to Siem Reap, three hours away. We were relieved to hear the vet declare neither female was pregnant and all three were qualified for surgery. This vet was more Western, wanting them to return in five days to remove stitches and then every few months for more shots and check-ups, which was far beyond our commitment level given the distance. She even mentioned a taxi driver who could chauffeur the cats solo if needed. The cats came home pros at wriggling out of their cones, and were back to lying in the dirt within days, but they still managed to heal without infection. They might be the only spayed and vaccinated animals in our whole province! 

I've been the main feeder and cuddler of three cats for seven months and counting. I think that puts me squarely into the "Cat Lady" category. A crazy one? I won't deny that I've been a little crazy lately, but the cats have been less of a symptom and more of a therapy. It's not something I anticipated when I moved up here. I'm not sure I'd continue it if my context changed. And I'll probably never know who conspired to thrust this lifestyle on me. But I'm enjoying it more than I expected. 

I didn't choose the Cat Lady life... but I'm choosing it now. 

A Cambodian Christian's Buddhist funeral

The last time I saw Pu ("Uncle") Deum...

there was a joyful reunion. We both surprised each other: I had told him that our mutual friends the Arters would be visiting with their team from Phnom Penh in late January, but I wasn't sure which day we could visit his village, nearly half an hour from Preah Vihear town. Once they arrived and made a plan, I tried to call but couldn't reach him, so we just drove out to look for him, hoping he wasn't away on his farm. We were all delighted when Pu and two of his daughters were home with time to eat lunch and hang out. Sometimes, Cambodians' flexible approach to time is awfully convenient!

Pu with the older Arter boy during the 2020 homestay

It was the Arters' first visit since spending two weeks with Pu's family to learn Khmer, and Pu had never met their second son. He enjoyed reminiscing with them about their older son, who joined our final English class at Pu's house with Pu's grandsons and some neighbor kids. We gathered to pray with Pu for his wife, who had gone to Phnom Penh the previous morning to resume chemo treatments after surgery to remove a tumor last year.

The reunion, January 24, 2023

Lunch included my interns, the Arters' teammates, and Pu's grandsons

The first time I saw Pu Deum...

was in 2018, when a very drunk, friendly man kept interrupting the Sunday School class at Pu's house. Why don't the hosts ask him to leave? I wondered. Then I found out that this man WAS the host. 

Pu Deum's daughter Sinat, one of our high school students at the Plas Prai dorm in 2018, gave me permission to share her family's story in this post. She was accepted to the dorm partly because her father's alcoholism had crippled his ability to work and exacerbated the family's poverty. Pu's life was never easy, between growing up in the 1970s during a genocide, dodging nearby guerilla warfare for twenty years, losing an eye in an accident involving machinery, and subsistence rice farming. At least one of his siblings and several neighbors likewise turned to alcohol for solace, finding it a cruel mistress. 

While at Plas Prai, Sinat trusted in Christ and told her parents about him. Pu remembered seeing the Jesus film as a teenager and sensing that it answered his big questions about life, but not yet knowing any local Christians with whom to discuss its significance. Now, his daughter's words resonated deeply, and he and his wife Ming ("Aunt") Nia decided to follow Sinat and become Christians. They began studying the Bible weekly with my teammates Jim and Carolyn. 

Pu and Ming's baptism in March 2021, with their son and 2 of our dorm partners

Pu's alcoholism still distressed his family, who encouraged him to go stay with a pastor in another province who helps people detox. Pu was afraid, and twice he ran away after agreeing to go. Then he had a dream about Jesus. "Jesus is real," he often told people after that. "The moment I saw him, all my fear was gone." He lived with the pastor for several months and was mostly sober after that,  except for a relapse during Ming's surgery last year. In debt and without health insurance, Pu found the extra medical expenses very stressful. With his wife five hours away, Pu succumbed to temptation, but stopped again after another brief stay at the pastor's house.

Ming and Pu studying the Bible in May 2022

Pu helping the World Team interns recruit English students, November 2022

Pu, Ming, Jim, Carolyn, and Sunday School volunteers meeting at Pu's home in January 2023

The day after I last saw Pu Deum...

Pu started drinking again. He'd voted last year against his wife getting the recommended chemo after surgery, feeling it was too expensive and unnecessary. But his daughter Sinat realized the chemo's importance and had recently promised to share the cost... a cost which still paralyzed Pu with anxiety. For ten days, Pu was so drunk that when Ming came home, she couldn't even tell him the tragic news that her cancer was back and had spread. Jim and Carolyn went to visit them and found Pu with a mostly-empty bottle of strong palm liquor, 25 cents a liter. Jim had to pull him out of the busy road in front of the house because Pu was too drunk to notice the oncoming vehicles. The evening of February 3, he was killed instantly in a hit-and-run.

All my teammates and the Plas Prai staff piled in the car that night to see his family. Pu's body lay draped in a sheet upstairs while half his village milled around, including his still-intoxicated buddies. Overcome with grief and shock, Ming initially said she wanted a Christian funeral for her husband, but his mom and siblings quickly took over. There would be a Buddhist/animist funeral the next day, hours after Pu's two middle children returned on the night bus from Phnom Penh. (Some of the rites I'll describe here are Buddhist; some are animist or a mix; there's a lot of variation in Cambodian practices.) 

I doubt the relatives intended any malice. Since Pu's family are the first Christians in their village, nobody there had any idea about Christian funerals. And given his sudden, violent death and Cambodians' fear of confused, agitated ghosts, I'm sure his relatives were extra concerned that his body be swiftly and properly laid to rest in a familiar way. My teammates said it might be wiser to yield. They remember someone dying years ago who was the sole Christian in his family and village, and his Christian friends' stubbornness about having a Christian funeral added to the family's grief and left a bad impression on the community. We believe Pu's funeral type has no impact on his destiny, so we could afford to be gracious. The Christians planned a small gathering to follow the Buddhist rites.

This funeral felt more intense than others I've attended. Usually, I've just been invited to the meal at a tent outside the family's home, after the rites. In the background I can hear monks chanting instead of pop songs, and the color scheme is different, and there's no dancing, but otherwise it's a lot like attending a wedding. People sit around eating and making small talk. 

But here, the grief was raw. Funerals are usually 3, 7, and/or 100 days after a death - not within a day. And obviously, Pu's death was unexpected. Ming couldn't participate in the rites happening in their front yard; she could barely stand up from weeping. Her children wept, too, on display for hours in traditional white clothes. Her son, a recent dorm graduate, felt uneasy as a Christian participating in the Buddhist ceremonies. We encouraged him with what he already knew: he had no say in the matter and was just being a dutiful child. "I have to stand there while the monks chant," he told us, "but in my heart I'm praying to Jesus." 

I missed the morning ceremony, known as howoo praleung, or "calling the soul," something I've only ever read about. Procedures and purposes vary. In this case, the achar (Buddhist master of ceremonies) tied a red string to a stick and took it to the spot down the road where Pu's body was found. He set out food for Pu's spirit and gradually pulled the red string farther and farther back toward Pu's house to bring him home. 

We arrived just in time for a procession by the achar and Pu's children with Pu's casket, from the sleeping area upstairs in Pu's home, down the stairs, out to the front yard, three times around the funeral pyre's middle level, and up to the top. The journey up the tall tower symbolizes their wish for Pu to reach heaven. This is a more expensive means of cremation; it's normally done at the pagoda's permanent facilities. Was the money recently borrowed for Ming's chemo all burning up in Pu's cremation? I later found out that it was, but the family was anticipating an eventual funeral payment of the same sum since Pu was an army veteran. It makes me sad that many Cambodians believe their loved ones' security in the afterlife depends on how much they can afford for the funeral.

The Christians and the dorm students prayed with Ming and the children and then mingled with the other guests during hours of monks chanting and funeral music amplified by massive speakers. At Buddhist events here, the crowd is not expected to pay attention - what counts is just showing up. I met some parents of our students from English and Sunday School. Many neighbors had seen the four foreign World Teamers at Pu's house over the years. Several neighbors told me, "Pu was a good man. Even if he sometimes drank too much, he never hit anybody." Pu and Ming had always said the same thing. 

The monks lowered Pu's casket so cremation could begin at 7 PM, the hour of Pu's death the night before. It started off with a literal bang as the achar and his helpers lit fireworks for several minutes that made the audience shriek, just meters away. All the local guests stood attentive during the fireworks, their hands clasped in a gesture of prayer. I'm not sure what's causing the loud moans in the video... the fireworks?... but they were seriously creepy. Combined with my fatigue, the bright flashing lights, the traditional music blasting from a smartphone's YouTube playlist, and the chanting, my American self experienced major sensory overload. 

I felt for Pu's children, who had to sit rigidly facing the pyre for hours, keeping vigil at the cremation. Normally in this part, the neighbors, friends, and relatives also stay on site until the cremation is finished; they keep busy by eating, drinking, and gambling.  Every now and then, the cremation was paused while bone fragments were removed for other ceremonies - some of Pu's bones ended up in a local river, and others in a spirit house in his yard. The Christian/dorm student contingent did some clean-up from dinner and headed home soon after the cremation started, so I can't verify people's behavior later on, but they were still orderly when I left at 8:30. 

Several dorm students asked me how Christian funerals differ. "Burial is more traditional," I told them, "but cremation is okay too. Either way, our bodies can be raised again. We sing and read Bible verses about our hope of being resurrected with Christ, but we don't have a lot of set rituals because we believe Christians are already safe with God." 

Was I actually fine with with this funeral, though? From calling the soul to chanting to carrying the casket up the tower, I wasn't sure what was happening in the supernatural realm. In trying to appease Pu's spirit and protect his surviving family, I believe the achar and monks could well have invited demons into the home. Could Ming resist them while mourning her husband, battling cancer, and losing her husband's income? (Since her cancer, Ming has been too weak to farm; she mostly does housework and watches her grandsons.) 

A soft-spoken woman with minimal formal education, Ming has never been much of an independent thinker. When Carolyn asked her, "Where is Pu?" she pointed to the spirit house. Carolyn reminded her, "No, that's just his bones. Pu is in heaven with Jesus." "Yes," Ming replied, "because he was a good person and never hit anyone." "No," Carolyn gently corrected her, "like all of us, he had sins he couldn't escape on his own. But he trusted Jesus to save him through Jesus' death on the cross." "Oh yes, that's right," Ming assented. Ming struggles to retain new concepts and stories, and given the trauma of recent events, it's not surprising that she'd revert to an old idea.

Now that the only other believer in town is her youngest daughter, age 14, I'm not sure how well Ming will withstand her village's criticism and peer pressure. We're praying for her miraculous healing, and dreading how the village might blame the family's conversion to Christianity for the suffering they've experienced. But thankfully she has some support. Last week, she and Carolyn visited her aunt's church. Her two middle children, now being discipled at our colleagues' university dorm in Phnom Penh, have a strong faith they can articulate clearly. We promised her this month that her youngest can live at Plas Prai next year when she starts high school. Under threat of being disowned, Ming allowed Pu's relatives to install the spirit house, which Christians wouldn't normally have. But while Buddhist relatives leave offerings there, she and her Christian children choose not to participate. 

We returned two days later for a small Christian gathering. One happy surprise was discovering that Ming has a Christian aunt in a nearby village. After several songs, we took turns reading Bible verses and encouraging Pu's wife and kids. Finally, Carolyn reminded us of Pu's testimony. "He sought the truth from a young age," she told us, "and he knew when he'd found it."

"The next time we see Pu Deum..." 

she reminded us, "he will have the same giant smile that appeared every time he told his testimony. Pu is healed, happy, and smiling. We don't need to fear his ghost!"

The next week, when we went out to teach Sunday School, we were sad to find no village kids waiting for us. "They're all scared of Pu's ghost," Ming confided, pointing to the golden spirit house. We set out on foot to invite them back and reassure them that Pu couldn't hurt them. I was so thankful for our lesson that day - Jesus' ascension to heaven, where he's preparing a place for us. 

Right near the spirit house, we played Resurrection Tag, where Satan tags people and they have to sit down, symbolizing death. But when Jesus tags them, they come back to life. If Satan tags Jesus, he has to sit down for 3 seconds, symbolizing three days, but then he comes back to life and can keep resurrecting other players. "Pu is resurrected too," we told the kids. "We don't have to fear his ghost because he's safe with Jesus, just like we will be if we trust in Christ." By the end of the lesson, nearly twenty kids had joined in, and in the following weeks they came unprompted. 

My teammates and I certainly wouldn't have chosen to conclude Pu's life on earth in this way. We grieve the fragility of life here. If Cambodia were more like the US, with AA, Medicaid, closer hospitals, and guard rails around limited-access highways, Pu would almost certainly be alive today. We have concerns and questions about the future. Will Ming join her aunt and worship with a nearby congregation? Will her cancer be healed in this lifetime? Will the citizens of Bakam village end up more open or closed to Christ than before? Will some of these kids and their families one day worship God with Ming and her children? Will the Bible study fizzle out and come to nothing? 

We have no control over these questions. But we want to be obedient, and we want to pray in faith that God loves Bakam village more than we could. May the Bakam community see Christ's faithful love and power as we keep walking with this family. And may we hold on to our confidence of a joyful reunion with Pu Deum, where we'll compete with him for the biggest smile.