The AIDS Hospital

• The AIDS Hospital

“In the same way, the Spirit too comes to the aid of our weakness; for we do not know

how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes with inexpressible groanings.”

Romans 8:26

The plan had been in the works for weeks.  It was a sweltering day in 2004, and I was taking my son’s 9th grade class to an AIDS hospital to have them look firsthand into the harrowing face of AIDS in Cambodia.  The school van arrived at the hospital and parked in front of three dilapidated, cement buildings.  Walking to the entrance, we passed a brood of chickens and a ragged collection of small children scratching and playing among a pile of discarded food wrappers, old needles and used and bloody, medical wound wraps.

This particular hospital, indistinguishable as such but for the faded red cross painted on one of the buildings, was designated for former Khmer Rouge soldiers.  These men were primarily from the poor villages in the most northern part of Cambodia. Beneath their hardened bodies, covered in tattoos and scars, hid the poorly paid, malnourished, and often, demon-possessed souls of a forgotten sub-culture in Cambodia.

With nervousness and trepidation, our group of five breaking off from the larger group, meandered our way up a dark, dank staircase. Making our way down a dirty hallway that smelled of urine, we headed towards a room in which a new patient, a man in the advanced stages of AIDS, had just arrived from a Northern province.  The foul and stale smelling room was dark, dingy, and empty except for an iron bedstead.

In the corner of the rusted bed, he lay curled up.  This former soldier, now a skeleton with flesh, was drowning in a military uniform that once fit a muscular man. His reed mat was filthy, and flies buzzed in and around his gaunt face. When we entered, he did not acknowledge us.  Ming, a Khmer woman ministering with us, touched his shoulder lightly. He turned and looked at us with empty eyes.  I asked him in Khmer (the Cambodian language) if I could pray with him, and he nodded weakly.

Gently, I sat on his bed and placed my hand upon his bony leg.  With hesitation, I started to pray in Khmer.  The prayer started slowly and with great effort since I had only begunstudying the Khmer language less than a year earlier and my language vocabulary was stillrudimentary and basic.  But, as I continued, something came over me, and soon the words came tumbling out-effortlessly and with fluidity. In turn, I realized that I was praying the gospel of Christ over him, the Kerygma.

Moments passed, and suddenly he began to cough and sputter, making strange noises in his throat.  It was then that I felt an oppressive and evil presence fill the room. The hot, humid room turned cold and even Ming must have felt it because her prayers increased in pitch and intensity. This continued for some time until I finally turned to the man and pleaded, “Tuk-jet,Tuk-jet Prea Yesu”...”Trust, Trust in Jesus”.  He looked up at me at that moment and weakly proclaimed, “Tuk-jet, K’nyom Tuk-jet” -”Trust, I trust.” Almost immediately, the oppression lifted, the room was brighter and warmer, and theman fell into a peaceful rest. 

We went home hours later exhausted- spiritually, physically and emotionally.  Weeks later, I heard that this man died the day after we left.  Is it possible that, like the thief on the cross, he is with the Lord?  I don’t know.  But what I do know, is that day, the Holy Spirit interceded through my prayers, augmented my weak and feeble Khmer language ability, and allowed the Kerygma to be proclaimed to a dying man.