I was in Cambodia last summer, walking through the city streets jam-packed with people. The humidity was so high I could hardly breath. The noise-horns honking, police whistles screaming at cars and people, and just the rumbles of people all going about their days was so loud my head hurt. I looked around and asked myself, “Why exactly had I come?” I was ready to return home.

With this thought on my mind, I looked down and noticed a small boy at my side, trying as best as he could to keep up with my stride. His shirt was as tattered and as dirty as his shorts. His battered sandals were tied to his feet by frayed chords. But it was his face that looked the most worn: He looked to be a very weary old soul, a boy far older than his years.

I have never known poverty, hunger or despair, but something about this young boy told me he was no stranger to these things. I stopped, and he quickly ran in front of me, and began to beg for some food. He was so gaunt and frail, even sickly. I wondered when he had eaten his last meal. With eyes pleading, he offered up a faint smile. My heart went out to him. I wondered if there was anyone who loved him, or if he was homeless as so many children here were. Though there was a small spark of hope in his eyes, I wondered how much-if any-joy or laughter was his. Hoping akin to begging, the small boy put his thin hands together, as if to say, “I pray you will help me.” It made me wonder if he knew of the “peace that passes all understanding.” He was such a young boy, a little boy in desperate need of so much. Surely I could help him. I decided to begin by talking about God’s love. After all, it was what I had come here with a group of youth to do: help these children learn of God’s love. He walked along side of me until I reached my destination, a large military hospital. From the appearance of this building, one could easily mistake it for a garbage dump. The walls were peeling and trash was piled high on all sides of the building. I stood in disbelief as my eyes took in more than my heart could handle. Malnourished children, some of them very sick, struggled to keep their place in line so as to receive a small portion of soup for the day.

The boy, his hand in mine, stood looking at this dismal scene of poverty, loss, pain and suffering, and then looked to me as though I would somehow make it all go away. I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t make it go away; in fact, I felt paralyzed from just seeing it all. Worse, I wanted to go away. But I had come here with a mission. And in that moment, I wanted more than anything to speak their language and to somehow show the love that compelled me to travel across the world, to share the message of God. But then doubt assailed me: Who was I to come to this abused and strife-filled land with words of hope? Somehow the Gospel takes on new meaning in such a setting. Either the Gospel is everything, truly having the power to heal the broken hearted, or it can seem like a luxury-which for a fleeting moment crossed my mind as being true for this setting. Here food and water ranked first in terms of dire needs. I felt so helpless. I wanted to talk about God, but how could I? I was so young and there were so many hungry and sick people who needed food and medicine. I didn’t even speak their language. Instead of praying for them, I stood in frustration and prayed for wisdom and understanding for me — which came in the squeeze on my hand. I looked down into the big brown eyes of the little boy whom I had befriended. He pointed to the soup line in the far corner of the hospital where sick children stood patiently waiting for their daily meal. The boy was famished, possibly even starving to death, but the food was for the children who were sick, and not just hungry. I watched as the little boy looked on, longing for a bowl of soup.

I pulled from my bag a sandwich I had brought for my lunch, and gave it to him. Then, I sat down and placed him in my lap so he could feel secure. The boy rested his head on my shoulder and began to eat. Then, we noticed a tiny malnourished girl watching us, a little soul too frail to get up and join in the soup line. Instantly, the boy got up out of my lap and went to her, and then, sitting cross-legged in front of her, he fed her the remaining sandwich he had.

One starving child feeding another.

It was a life-changing moment.

My intention had been to teach of God’s love. Instead, I was shown it. I was student that day; not the teacher. It was on that day that two little children showed me the essence of God’s love: serving each other. It wasn’t about good deeds, but rather, serving and caring for each other. I was taught this not by an eloquent sermon, but by two little hungry children turned out in the streets of Cambodia, children who knew how to be God’s love for each other. It was an action I’ll never ever forget, one that filled me with humility, serenity and strength, too. Watching the little boy’s instinctual sharing gave me a newfound love and respect for all people, and gave me greater courage to have empathy for all people.

I am forever grateful for that trip-for the little boy who tugged at my hand and heart that day showed me a deeper meaning of love than I had ever experienced. For sure, that day changed my concept of love — and how we can best witness to others God’s love for all his children.

Kate Harmon, 18

(From the Taste Berries for Teens book series co-authored by Bettie B. Youngs and Jennifer Leigh Youngs)

Bettie B. Youngs bettie@tasteberriesforteens.com