Hear my cry, O God. Listen to my prayer. From the ends of the earth I call to You when my heart is afraid. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. (Vs. 1-2)
I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in Whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
Psalm 18
We landed in Phnom Penh and were greeted by armed guards at the airport. They were walking about with guns on their shoulders. I have to admit it was intimidating. Our group fell quiet as we passed them. Out on the streets the scene was very different. Every vein was crowded with people in all sorts of vehicles, each filled to the brim with passengers. Bicycles with three or four people straddling them, motos carrying entire families, or old trucks bearing workers returning from their jobs in the fields crowded against the missionary van in which we were riding. Vendors carried their ten or twelve chickens upside down and strapped to their bikes by their feet. Kids were running everywhere in every direction. And I fell in love. With a country on the other side of the world.
The orphanages we traveled to visit were in the outlying, rural areas of Cambodia although there was a very large one in Phnom Penh. Street children, orphaned by AIDS and malaria, or left to fend for themselves because there was not enough for parents and children, roamed the metropolitan areas in droves. These children had become the focus for Foursquare Children of Promise almost by accident. But now new orphanages are springing up all over the country as safe havens for children and widows.
Our local church bought a field and planted rice for the children. Near the rice field Foursquare Children of Promise built a new orphanage, and it was there our group headed. We boarded a bus early in the morning and traveled down deeply rutted dirt roads for several hours until we arrived in Battambang, the third largest city in Cambodia. The city square was filled with vendors who had erected pop-ups all over the hard dirt streets. We were taken to the nicest hotel in town - a pink brothel with questionable sheets and wet towels. Prostitutes were gathered around the sparse lobby, and I have never wished so much that I could speak Khmer. The loneliness in their eyes as theirs searched mine was so deep. I touched them and smiled, but I wanted to hear their stories. Share my Jesus. Because I knew this brothel was their pitiful salvation from the streets.
In the morning we stood in the back of a pick-up truck for an hour and a half to get to the rice mill orphanage which had opened only days before our arrival. The trip was probably only thirty minutes or so, but the roads were almost impassable because of the recent rains. There on the porch were ten or twelve children waiting for us. Still in their ragged, filthy street clothes and as yet unwashed from their lives on street corners were two little girls I still call my own. As we walked up, my eyes met theirs. They were eleven years old. Abandoned and now saved. And they were beautiful. We spent the day with them, fixing their hair, polishing their dirty fingernails, and holding them. The home they now lived in had tile flooring and an outdoor restroom tiled and clean. Rescue gave them a safe place. A haven from the sex traffickers and the elements.
The next day, they all had baths. We didn't clean them. The house widows, taken in because they, too, had no place to go, were given five children each to care for. While they were bathing we bought them school clothes, bath towels, shoes and other necessities. Shining and ecstatic, the children wondered at their new home. Told by the house pastor and his wife how much God loves them. Assured by those words that they were no longer fatherless because God had taken them in, these children lifted their hands and their voices in song. A new one they had just learned. And they looked up to heaven as they sang. Loving their new Father with such ardor - only those who know how great a refuge He is can sing that way.
From the ends of the earth. He hears our cries and rescues us. My Father is their Father. My Rock is their Rock. My deliverer, my fortress, my shield, and my salvation is their hope, too. Our cries reach His ears. Our needs reach His heart...everywhere.
A year later, we went back. The daughters of my heart were strong little oaks by then. They had begun to take responsibility for the younger children who came in. Because they understood more deeply the love of their Father than they had the year before, their worship and praise was based upon their experiences with Him Who answered prayers for healings, heartbreaks and safety. Stunning how real He was allowed to be in that place. Answering the prayers of the most vulnerable of His kids. At the other end of the earth.
I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in Whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
Psalm 18
We landed in Phnom Penh and were greeted by armed guards at the airport. They were walking about with guns on their shoulders. I have to admit it was intimidating. Our group fell quiet as we passed them. Out on the streets the scene was very different. Every vein was crowded with people in all sorts of vehicles, each filled to the brim with passengers. Bicycles with three or four people straddling them, motos carrying entire families, or old trucks bearing workers returning from their jobs in the fields crowded against the missionary van in which we were riding. Vendors carried their ten or twelve chickens upside down and strapped to their bikes by their feet. Kids were running everywhere in every direction. And I fell in love. With a country on the other side of the world.
The orphanages we traveled to visit were in the outlying, rural areas of Cambodia although there was a very large one in Phnom Penh. Street children, orphaned by AIDS and malaria, or left to fend for themselves because there was not enough for parents and children, roamed the metropolitan areas in droves. These children had become the focus for Foursquare Children of Promise almost by accident. But now new orphanages are springing up all over the country as safe havens for children and widows.
Our local church bought a field and planted rice for the children. Near the rice field Foursquare Children of Promise built a new orphanage, and it was there our group headed. We boarded a bus early in the morning and traveled down deeply rutted dirt roads for several hours until we arrived in Battambang, the third largest city in Cambodia. The city square was filled with vendors who had erected pop-ups all over the hard dirt streets. We were taken to the nicest hotel in town - a pink brothel with questionable sheets and wet towels. Prostitutes were gathered around the sparse lobby, and I have never wished so much that I could speak Khmer. The loneliness in their eyes as theirs searched mine was so deep. I touched them and smiled, but I wanted to hear their stories. Share my Jesus. Because I knew this brothel was their pitiful salvation from the streets.
In the morning we stood in the back of a pick-up truck for an hour and a half to get to the rice mill orphanage which had opened only days before our arrival. The trip was probably only thirty minutes or so, but the roads were almost impassable because of the recent rains. There on the porch were ten or twelve children waiting for us. Still in their ragged, filthy street clothes and as yet unwashed from their lives on street corners were two little girls I still call my own. As we walked up, my eyes met theirs. They were eleven years old. Abandoned and now saved. And they were beautiful. We spent the day with them, fixing their hair, polishing their dirty fingernails, and holding them. The home they now lived in had tile flooring and an outdoor restroom tiled and clean. Rescue gave them a safe place. A haven from the sex traffickers and the elements.
The next day, they all had baths. We didn't clean them. The house widows, taken in because they, too, had no place to go, were given five children each to care for. While they were bathing we bought them school clothes, bath towels, shoes and other necessities. Shining and ecstatic, the children wondered at their new home. Told by the house pastor and his wife how much God loves them. Assured by those words that they were no longer fatherless because God had taken them in, these children lifted their hands and their voices in song. A new one they had just learned. And they looked up to heaven as they sang. Loving their new Father with such ardor - only those who know how great a refuge He is can sing that way.
From the ends of the earth. He hears our cries and rescues us. My Father is their Father. My Rock is their Rock. My deliverer, my fortress, my shield, and my salvation is their hope, too. Our cries reach His ears. Our needs reach His heart...everywhere.
A year later, we went back. The daughters of my heart were strong little oaks by then. They had begun to take responsibility for the younger children who came in. Because they understood more deeply the love of their Father than they had the year before, their worship and praise was based upon their experiences with Him Who answered prayers for healings, heartbreaks and safety. Stunning how real He was allowed to be in that place. Answering the prayers of the most vulnerable of His kids. At the other end of the earth.
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