Vang

Last summer, I spent an hour with a woman named Vang. We visited Vang with a staff worker, Savun (an incredibly sweet woman), and watched as she taught about drafting a will and making preparations to die. Why the macabre lesson? Vang is HIV positive, and has 5 children (one of whom is also HIV positive). She is thin, nearly frail, and has no means of support for her family. Last year, I met her, prayed with her, and when I left, I gave my mosquito netting to her. I remembered to pray for her sporadically during the year, and she only crossed my mind occasionally until we were preparing to leave on Friday and a staff member said to me, “Do you want to see Vang while you are there?”

I immediately said yes, and we called to set up a meeting. Monday morning, when we left the office to drive to her house, I spent my time on the motorbike asking the Lord, “Why are we doing this? Certainly she doesn’t remember me. There must be some reason why we’re going to see an almost-stranger today.” And God, in all His wisdom, had a reason. Just not one I had anticipated.

We said hello (and yes, she remembered me), talked with her for a few minutes, and mentioned we were on our way to Kampong Cham. Which interested Vang’s mother, Seng. She immediately jumped up and said, “I want to go to visit my relatives in Kampong Cham, could I ride with you?” As Engchy (my partner in ESL-related activities and translator) said this, my first thought was, “WHAT?!” I grew up in a culture where you do not give or take rides from strangers. Even old women strangers. Yet, somehow I found myself agreeing to the plan, and realizing as I did so that some part of Cambodia had taken root in me in the form of general hospitality, and willingness to do whatever people ask of me.

As we settled her in the car and climbed in ourselves, I thought through the plan. We were taking this woman to visit relatives (including an 80-year-old uncle) who weren’t expecting her, and we couldn’t be sure she remembered where they lived (she hadn’t visited in at least 3 years). She had no money for a trip back, and we had to be at our next stop before 5 (it was noon, and we were at least 3 hours away, plus lunch). But she had packed a small purse with some clothes and other belongings, changed into her nice traveling outfit, and looked so intent on following through that there was simply no turning back. To Kampong Cham we went.

Seng didn’t speak to us much, and I slept for part of the trip. Yet somewhere in the first hour, I realized that my morning reading had been from James “Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.” Seng’s husband died 38 years ago, she lost two children to the Khmer Rouge, and her daughter is wasting away of AIDS. She became a Christian 3 years ago. How on earth could I refuse a ride to this woman when it was not even inconvenient to me? Wasn’t I just crying out for justice a few weeks ago? What would be more unjust than denying this woman a simple request, even if it seemed foolish?

As we got closer to her destination, my thoughts about our generosity became more skeptical. It is halfway through the rainy season, which means that the locals have started to call it the flood season. The road to Seng’s relatives was dirt—which meant that the road was essentially one long, muddy slip-n-slide and rice paddies filled with water just off to the side. Not to mention that the many potholes and dips that caused me to pray we wouldn’t get stuck (since pushing the Land Rover out of the mud was not on our itinerary). It was the third time that I thought “what are we doing?” Somehow, though, we did not get stuck, we left Seng within walking distance of her relatives (where she asked to be let out) and made it to the office in plenty of time. In fact, Engchy helped someone else pull his overloaded moto out of a ditch on the way back.

I still don’t know what I think of all of this. We didn’t do anything heroic, or all that sacrificial. I think what I’m taking away from this is that the complete audacity I saw in Seng’s asking for a ride is precisely the chutzpah we must summon when we pray to God. She asked a wild request of us, but with the right motives and we had to say yes. She started packing her bag before we had made any reply. She was expectant that we would take her with us. On Sunday, Jesus’ teaching on prayer (Luke 11) was the topic in church. These verses are a strong reminder that we are to be bold before God. He will give us what we ask when it is in service to others. The man grants his friend’s request because of his boldness and persistence. This episode in my life has helped me to understand that verse in a new way.

I don’t know what Seng’s visit to her family will hold. Perhaps she will tell them about the Gospel. Perhaps she will simply renew family ties. I may never know what happens. I promised to visit Vang again when I return to Kampong Thom, but that could be months from now—what could be a lifetime for this woman with AIDS. Until then, I will commit to praying for this family, these people I am linked to in strange ways. Until then, I will pray boldly before God, expectant of His answer. Sometimes that might be as simple as two strangers with a Land Rover heading in the direction I want to go.