Have just returned from being with the children and to look over some of our building projects on the site.  Noah and his wife Grace are doing a wonderful work with the orphans and outcasts that come to them.

Some are rag-and-bone children—scavengers—who dig for plastic bottles in the garbage. The little twins were such scavengers—“little” because of malnourishment. Noah said that whenever they have testimony time, they always stand and say, “I thank God I have food”!

Others like Sarie Mei and Joshua had to turn to the street to survive after their father died. When people said they were too hard, too stupid to learn, Grace said, “That’s OK, give them to me.”

Others come full of sores and scars—not just emotional but real scars. Ruthie’s father abandoned her, and at four she was already staying at the brothel across from her house or sleeping in the street because her stepfather did not want her. He beat her and even burned her with cigarettes out of cruelty. Ruthie’s mother eventually gave her to Noah and Grace to raise. She is now a pretty little 6-year-old who is finding love for the first time, but when she’s alone with her doll, her eyes are very sad.

Crossed the border at Cham Yeam, a place used mostly by smugglers and addicts. A casino and a string of tawdry hotels sit alongside the border station, making it convenient for sex traffickers, drug addicts, and pedophiles that come here on “business trips.”

I’m writing to pass a restless night. From my balcony the sea breeze feels good, sweeping over now-empty streets. Only Orion is keeping vigil.

Spent the afternoon and evening visiting little islands where we have permission from the provincial leaders to teach in the schools the Buddhist and Muslim kids attend. We also have after-school outreach teaching English. The people are so poor and neglected here that many don’t mind their children being taught by Christians if it will improve their prospects. And the children eagerly come because they find people who love them. Yet, it is long, slow work.

My mind is crowded with all the ragged, beautiful, lost children that gathered around us today. On the islands the houses are built on stilts to accommodate high tide. All of the garbage and sewage goes into the water, leaving the little islands afloat in filth. On the smallest island, Bang Kang, there were nearly 1000 people crowded together. The kids were cautiously curious, and some wanted a closer look at probably the first white person on Bang Kang. Often they would look and laugh. Their toys are crafted from trash and sticks that wash ashore. They live and play in water or mud, and malaria and dysentery take their toll. Talked with the village headman about expanding the clean water supply and our building a library on the island for the kids. This is exciting! Here a library only requires bamboo, banana leaves, and books!

Starlight will soon turn to daylight—better try to get some sleep.

Reached Kampong Cham early this afternoon and had a quick lunch and discussed what we could do to help the AIDS patients. This region has the highest rate of AIDS of any in Cambodia—there are 8,000 known cases and among them many children. They are cared for in two places—if care is the word for it. Those in the early stages and the AIDS orphans stay at a Buddhist temple. Those in the late stages are sent to a nearby hospital. Of course, these places only treat a fraction of people with AIDS. Most people come and hear their death sentence diagnosis. Some get medicine, but most just go home to suffer and die. Prostitutes continue to work for food and thus spread the disease further.

We called the doctor to see what the needs were, and he asked that the patients have something to eat. So we bought a supply of food and took it to them. The “hospital” is more of a place to go and die. Cattle graze on the grounds, and dogs wander freely through the wards. Families of the patients stay with them to cook and care for them. It broke my heart to see a mother with AIDS point out her daughter—a beautiful young girl—perhaps like her mom was once. Now the mother is just a skeleton. When I put my arm around her before we prayed, I felt only bones beneath sweat-stained clothes that clung to her. What can I say as I look into these pitiful, hopeless faces as they slip into the grave? What could I say? So I prayed.

Joseph and Sarah pour their lives into the lives of these kids, and the plants are taking root. Some of the kids live in the church house, but kids from all over the neighborhood are welcome—not just on Sunday but also after school. They are just kids who like most kids like to laugh, sing, play games, and eat sweets; but these kids also have enormous problems. Many of them get only two meals a day at home. Some have AIDS. One girl has been sent by her mother to sell herself in the red-light district.

The red-light houses are all around the church. I drove around last night to see them for this city, as in much of Cambodia, is notorious for child prostitutes and trafficking in young girls. Along dark, muddy roads, red fluorescent lights were strung up in front of shabby bars where girls (some of them no more than children) sit waiting and calling out for customers. To supplement their meager income, some are sent by their parents or sold to an agent to be the prey of pedophiles. Here life is cheaper than a meal.

All day long we sat in a little upstairs office off a narrow dusty alley in Islamabad. For nine hours victims courageous or able-bodied enough came to tell their stories of robbery, rape, and murder –as minorities, they live like lambs among wolves. We saw their scars and shared their tears.

About 8:00 this evening Jonah drove us over to the hospital to visit Pastor Masih, who was severely beaten by several men in his village near Malapura. We walked through a dark courtyard, careful not to stumble over people spending the night there. Families of patients huddled together in the shadows, sometimes spotted only by the clink of cooking pots or the orange glow of a cigarette. In the hospital ward, 40 men were housed with Pastor Masih. Cats darted in and out of the room, and flies lingered over the blood-spattered floor.

The left side of the young pastor’s head was smashed in. The blows severed his ear and have left him blind in one eye. Because of convulsions, his wrists were awkwardly tied with cords, leaving him in a position of twisted agony. His wife Shinaz sat next to him, holding their 3-month old son. She stared blankly at her husband with indescribable sadness in her eyes as the baby nuzzled her and cried softly.

We took issue with the doctors over his poor treatment; but it seems clear that they hoped Masih would be dead by now, and they are uncomfortable with the attention his case is now getting. Masih began to stir before I left and fixed his one eye on me. Who can describe the sorrow in that eye—or the anger I feel tonight?