What is a raindrop to a storm? Heat and pressure work to corral moisture, forcing it to bunch up and gain in weight with the addition of each tiny bit of water. The cloud gets pushed by the wind until it has gathered enough energy and moisture that it can’t be held in the atmosphere anymore, and encouraged by a flash and a boom, it falls. 

When thinking about whether or not I would go with Saving Moses to Cambodia for a second time I had an immediate thought: Does my involvement actually matter? My first time to Phnom Penh was a phenomenal experience, and I will cherish it as long as I live. So why go back? My wife and I have agreed to give monthly, and I have seen first hand how they help people around the world,  so why would I need to go there again in person? Besides couldn’t they use the spot that I would take on the trip and possibly get another monthly donor? Wouldn’t that be better than me being there? I wasn’t opposed to it, but I didn’t want to if the only reason for my going was so seemingly selfish. 

The first time I went to Cambodia it was kind of like getting hit in the heart by a 2x4. I adored it, but it hurt. As much as I did love the trip, the thought of revisiting the horrors of Cambodia’s past sounded unbearable. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I could handle another viewing of “the killing tree” or even one room at Tuol Sleng Prison. Not to mention that the long drive out to the airport is on a road that seems to be absolutely lined with K-TV buildings taunting us as we leave. But the real heartache came when a little 5-year-old boy squealed and jumped into my arms while we walked his newly constructed neighborhood under the overpass. We were play buddies from the night care center and I knew that he was outgrowing the mission and there was nothing I could do about it.

What does my individual contribution ultimately amount to?

As the clouds grow, darken and tower over the landscape, they block out the sun for all life underneath.  Slowly brooding over when to release their payload of little life givers. Do the clouds decide when they will turn to rain, or is it simply a reaction to what is happening around them?

Although I was wrestling with the idea of whether or not to go, it was when I received an email asking about reserving my spot for the trip that I was kicked into action and called my Mother. We went together the previous year and it seemed like an appropriate first call to make in seeing about the possible benefit of my personal involvement. For some people the idea of traveling with their Mothers would be a torturous, hellish sort of exercise, where it would be a minor miracle if both parties made it back home alive, if not only severely maimed, but my mom and I genuinely enjoy bumping around tuk-tuks together in the sweltering heat of Phnom Penh. As I would’ve guessed, when asked my Mother was very receptive to the idea of heading out again, but not like I had imagined. Without any guilt she said: “I would love to go with you again, but if you don’t want to, I’d have to think about it.” So at the very least my involvement mattered to the two of us! That was enough of a start for me, so I signed up, again.

The Saturday we landed, while fighting off a pretty wicked combination of extreme exhaustion, from the almost full day of travel, and stomach pain, undoubtedly from the fifteen-dollar burrito I had at LAX, I met up with all of the wonderful people from around the world that also felt the call to come be a part of the beautiful mission that is Saving Moses. It was bright and fantastic to see my friends and the familiar faces again of all the people in the Saving Moses organization, from the nannies to the managers and supervisors, and to see that my presence very much mattered to them too. 

The best part of traveling like this for the second time is that I didn’t feel what I call the “Pol pot shock” like I did the first trip. To say that the brutality that occurred in Cambodia is appallingly atrocious is still putting it mildly, and there is nothing like being there and seeing it with your own eyes, for the true depths of the horrors to begin to show themselves. The real devastation though is not in a prison or a genocide museum, it is in a population that has too few elderly. It is in the obvious absence of protection of any kind from the worst sort of predators the world has to offer. The Khmer Rouge did not just kill people, they tried to kill the very future of Cambodia itself. The lingering sadness and devastation hangs in the air and on the faces of almost everyone you meet. But having done this before I was better prepared for not only what I could and would see, but more importantly, how I could and would feel.

Seasonal weather patterns give us a hint of what to expect, but the oncoming storm needs no announcement or greeting. The atmosphere silently and continuously rolls on, making its intentions known for miles. Soon there will be no avoiding what is above, there will be no separation between Heaven and Earth. The world below knows what is coming and it has no choice but to wait for this ceremony of life to begin.

It was toward the end of us walking around a neighborhood and passing out cards one day when the night care manager and nannies ushered us down a tiny alleyway and into the home of an absolutely beaming, beautiful older woman. As the group sat down on the dirt floor we were told that she has grandchildren that attend night care, and I was privileged enough to sit directly in front of her. As she spoke the joy in her eyes beamed like soulful searchlights. “She say that she is happy that her grandbabies have a place like Saving Moses,” whispered the translator to the group. “And she remember you from last year walking around the neighborhood and thank you for coming again.” While the translator finished the last bit of what this wonderful woman had to say, I could not take my eyes off of her. The fact that I came back mattered to her! Making sure to not return her overwhelming hospitality with tears, I kept eye contact and smiled as big as my face would allow, making sure to show her that she very much mattered to me too. 

Form turns into motion as rain begins to fall. All of the caked-on dirt and layers of grime begin to fade away, but not by a wall of water all at once. It is by the littlest bit that the scrubbing begins. It is not in the amount of water each drop contributes that determines the strength of a front, but in the sheer number of raindrops. The world will not be cleaned by one thunderous clap from above, but by millions of little hands descending together and washing what they can, where they can, confident they are a part of a much larger storm.