Surprise Oasis

Right smack in the busy area of Phom Penh was a surprise.

Just off the beaten tracks, some meters away from the main road, is a tall, nondescript fence that hid everything beyond it. Unlike the ornate gilded ones that were in abundance, and seemed to be in vogue, lining the major avenue from the airport, this colorless fence wouldn’t merit a second glance.

But as the gate opened, I gasped more audibly than I intended. This was what I saw.

And at that very minute I knew I had a home away from home. The two-storey house is all-wood, looking like the twin of the house I grew up in, except that this one is well kept and in tip-top condition, with a complete, vibrant family—American missionaries—living in it.

Since my parents went to glory, our family house has been decaying, and were it not for my sister who has decided to convert it into a public library, it would stand lonely and remain a relic of a happy, distant past. (Ooops, this is not about that crumbling house. It’s about the surprising oasis that pulsed with life in Cambodia.)

The chocolate brown house was surrounded with tall fruit trees, bushes, flowers of many different kinds and a walkway—all reminders of the province where I made my first steps and attended my first Sunday School. It also has a patio, roofed with nipa, tucked away at the rear which seemed to have been built for quiet times.

This private, unpretentious compound with its wide orchard and grounds (and a bedroom with walls that had luminous jumping sheep for counting, if sleep doesn't come), was my haven for seven nights and seven days.

Beats any five-star hotel anytime. After long, hot, energy-sapping hours of sharing all I know about creative writing to a group of fourteen, composed of mostly of locals and some expatriates, this was my home—replete with adorable children, ages 12 and 10 and their gracious parents; and a golden Labrador.

Here, my earlier fevered thoughts could take flight and come back stilled, as though God built this place for this purpose.

It wasn’t the “teaching” that melted my candle. I could teach all day and come out unscathed. It was the stories—the many, endless tales of pain from my “students.” Unbidden, these stories would creep in because they are integral parts of who they are.

So why do bad things happen to good people? I asked this oft repeated question again.

Ken Gire, in his book, “Seeing What is Sacred,” explains it so succinctly.

“This is the dark side of Christianity, the side we don’t see when we sign up. That if we want to be like Christ, we have to embrace both sides of his life.”

Gire’s examples of contrasts: the Christ who turned water into wine and the Christ who died on the cross. The clothed Christ and the one whose garment was stripped and gambled away. The Christ who fed the five thousand and the one who hungered for forty days in the wilderness. The free Christ, walking through wheat fields with his disciples, and the imprisoned Christ who was deserted by them.

At the end of the seminar/workshop, I was gifted with many stories that showed these two sides: the ache of suffering and the beauty of hope. And right in the patio on my last day, with the Labrador sitting on the floor by my side, the bouquet of roses they gave me distilled my thoughts—only a grace-filled life can enable one to understand and accept these permutations: thorns and beauty come together; or thorns bring out beauty; or beauty has thorns.

While we are on the subject of roses, and now that I am back at my home base in the Philippines, let me end with this text message I just received, “God did not promise a bed of roses. But He promised—'I will never leave you nor forsake you.'"