Jesus Loves my Neighbor
“I think our neighbor’s baby died,” my husband said.
We live in a concrete townhouse in Phnom Penh. The walls rattle when ceaseless planes fly overhead. There’s constant construction. Everything is made of concrete, metal, and tile, and everything is loud.
Our neighbors on the left place offerings to the spirits at the foot of the trees on our plot. They have two altars in their house and one on their porch. These neighbors don’t like us, and they barely respond to our greetings.
My neighbor had a beautiful baby boy named Nano. Maybe my youngest child will befriend him, and something will be better. Perhaps, one day, my Khmer will be good enough to say, “Let’s be friends,” and have them over for dinner.
Meanwhile, I just want to move because it’s so loud. The sewer pipes broke again. We can’t flush the toilet until it’s fixed. Water from the kitchen sink is pouring onto the floor. We tell our mentors. They encourage us, and also remind us: “When you moved in, you told us you felt this was where God wanted you to be.” We remember.
One evening my husband comes into the house, stunned: “I think our neighbor’s baby died.” We rush outside to see straw mats with bowls of fruit, cans of beer, steamed buns stuck with smoldering incense sticks, and burning candles. Cambodians gather in the dark on the driveway in that distinct, hushed sadness that hovers when there is a death.
We are invited into the house. On the living room floor, the deceased baby lies by a wooden burial box. The mother comes toward me, clutches me close, and sobs. I sob and embrace her. I whisper, “Jesus,” again and again. A dozen Cambodians stare at me. Why would this foreigner care?
Then, to my unconcealed surprise, she starts speaking—in English. “The baby had a heart problem,” she says. “Too small.” I tell her we are Christians, and we will pray.
Just a few days later, she is standing on my back step holding out food to me. The next day she sends me a picture of her baby’s grave with bottles of milk on it. And dead chickens. And offerings for the spirits.
Later, she sends me a message that she is crying. I ask if she wants to talk. She says yes, so we sit and talk about Nano, which she says means “the smallest one.” On the porch of our conjoined houses, we just sit. She offers to take me to the open-air market with her. She too hates the airplanes that fly overhead constantly.
I use all my Khmer words, but her English is really good. We talk about Jesus. She listens and asks questions. She is mourning. I ask if I can pray, and she says yes. Holding her hands, I pray. She fights back tears. She talks about suffering, and I tell her about Jesus, who suffered and died for us. We talk for a long time.
“Do you like living here?” she asks me.
I pause. I tell her—or maybe I tell myself—“I like being your neighbor. I think I’m supposed to tell you about Jesus.” She nods. I tell her I love her. She says she loves me too. She hasn’t accepted Jesus…yet. But she’s listening.
I don’t understand tragedy, but I do know this: Jesus loves my neighbors. He loves precious baby Nano. And we love our neighbors too. We are where we belong.
— from a cross-cultural worker in Cambodia