I sat there in my seat with tears in my eyes.
It wasn’t even a sad story.
It was a happy story.
It was the story of Svay Pak’s redemption.
I haven’t even been to the village of Svay Pak.
Yet I still cried.
There was my nation, Cambodia, on video.
There were the children, laughing and smiling.
There were the streets and cars and tuktuks.
There were the schools that taught kids about Jesus.
I leaned on my mother’s shoulder and uttered repeatedly, pathetically, I wanna go, I wanna go
Umm… Kayla? You are going? My sensible self seemed to say.
But no. I don’t want to just go for a few weeks. I don’t want to leave those kids again. I don’t want to step out of the nation again not knowing when I’ll return and back home to a place that isn’t really home because I know that those kids are still on the streets and they are still in the brothels and they are still not in school because there aren’t enough teachers and they still think they are worthless whereas in reality they are worth more than they can ever imagine. I don’t want to leave them again.
But I know I will have to. I know part of being called to a nation is waiting for God’s timing.
And it is heart-wrenching. But sitting on that plastic chair in the Ohana Court, crying silently. . . there were no regrets for this painful love. It was the most satisfying thing in the world, to cry for someone other than myself. And I know that the first kid I see in Cambodia in July will be hugged and hugged until I can hug no more.
And in that moment, crying will be the most sensible thing I could ever achieve.