Cambodia Questions

I don’t know what words to use to describe my week. I could go through each days’ activities, relaying humorous and possibly deep stories as I chronicle a week on the other side of the world, working with the poorest of the poor. But that wouldn’t be enough. I could try to make sense of the marginalized mired abject poverty from the perspective of an upper-middle class white kid who has never truly known hunger, pain, or need. But my words could never express the emotions inside me that I can’t fully feel, much less put into written form.

I’m left with more questions than answers, a familiar place for me for certain. Why was I born in America to a loving family with enough money for more than we need? How can I summon the audacity to cry over the trifles the I call my problems when those children held joy in their hearts with next to nothing to their name? How many of the children that I looked in the eye have been beaten, starved, and sexually exploited?

But more than anything, how do I sleep peacefully every night in my warm bed while these I have seen and countless others are hurting? How is it that I call my life Christian when I take the time to pray for my personal wish list, yet consistently fail to bring their case to the Father? What good is my faith if I look only for the rewards, never the obligations?