Rock Star

I've had a couple weird weeks where I haven't been in the office as much as usual. This break in routine is good… it's nice to be away from my desk and out in the world. Particularly when this means I get to interact with our field staff and what we term "beneficiaries," those people who we seek to serve and help with our programs. It's hard to consistently communicate passion for our work when I'm sitting miles away from the people we're trying to help.

Anyway, I was out in the field with some visitors. Among other things, we attended a support group meeting for people with HIV/AIDS, and briefly chatted with one of the group volunteers and one of the patients. The volunteer blew me away with her story. She began working with HIV patients when there was still an enormous amount of stigma and discrimination in her community. Her husband banned her from using their motorbike to help people. She was ostracized and degraded, her own family thought that she should stop helping the poor and the sick and spend her time elsewhere. Yet Sokha continued to work for those who needed her most. Now, there are 19 people in the village that she cares for, and she is the leader of a cell group. Many of those living with AIDS are members of that cell and have become Christians because of Sokha. Her husband now accepts and supports her. Most of all, as we sat there with Sokha, we could see the results of her sacrifice in the face of Sok, the other woman we interviewed.

Sok told us she was so sick that she could not get out of bed. The doctor refused to see her, because he knew she was HIV positive. No one would talk to her, her family were outcasts. Her husband, also infected, could do little to help. So it was Sokha who tracked down another doctor for Sok. When he, too, refused to come to the village, Sokha told him the symptoms of Sok's illness and asked him what medicines she should give to Sok. At one point, Sok looked at us and said, "Without her, I would be dead. She has done everything for me."

I sat there, listening, totally humbled by this conversation. Sokha is, quite simply, a rock star. She gives out of what she has, which is very little. Yet Sokha has transformed a community from one that condemns AIDS patients to one that supports and encourages them. It's when I meet people like Sokha that I realize how much farther I have to go in my own sacrifice for the Lord. Sure, I've moved away from my home country, given up a few conveniences, certainly traded away some comforts. I haven't had my husband or family tell me to stop, haven't had anyone stand in my way to keep me from serving. No one has looked at me and said that my sacrifice has kept them alive.

It's not that I want the recognition or the accolades; no, I'm very happy to carry on in the background. Watching someone like Sokha—who has her own struggles, fears, and heartaches—give up so much to serve those in her neighborhood made me wonder how far I've really extended myself. Have I acted in ways that God desires? He's quite clear on what true sacrifice looks like: "Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter— when you see the naked, to clothe him, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?" (Isaiah 58: 7). Even though I'm far from where I started, God's mandate is not specific on geography. The hungry, the wanderers, the naked… they exist in all places. The admiration I felt for Sokha during our conversation became a deep conviction for the ways in which I had turned a blind eye to these issues. Now, though, it has morphed into an aspiration; rather than feel guilt over what I'm not doing, I want to look for ways to be poured out, to be of service.

What I've realized is that Sokha didn't set out to be a heroine or an example. She simply did what was right, showed love to those in need of it. Turns out, that's something that I can do too.