Sweat moistened my shirt, as it did everyday in Cambodia.  Sometimes the heat made breathing difficult.  The dirt road we traveled down to get to the Killing Fields was lined with pot holes and ruts.  We bounced around in our little tuk tuk, a cart of sorts pulled by a motorcycle.  I thought I was going to have permanent back damage from the jolting.  We were covered with dust when we arrived.  I felt relieved to step out of the vibrating carriage.

The scene was peaceful—trees, a breeze, a monument, people milling around.  I thought how differently this place must have been in the 70s when Pol Pot’s regime laid body on top of body.  The smell of blood and rotting flesh must have been sickening.  The large tower with glass windows displayed rows of skulls from those who died at the hand of the Khmer Rouge.  It was a reminder that these fields had not always been charming. 

Who would think that you could find smiling faces in a place like this?  But we did.  As I finished wandering throughout the property, reading the signs about mass graves, and looking over the pond that was once filled with bodies, I saw smiles. 

My wife had met two boys in the shade by a big boat, which to my knowledge had no historical connection to the Killing Fields.  But there it was, a 30-foot-long boat right in the middle of this lot of land.  Beside the boat were two Cambodian boys who claimed to own the vessel, or at least to be watching over it.  They wanted money. 

Since they looked well-fed, my wife gave them a “JESUS” film tract instead.  They liked what they saw, as they turned the pages and smiled big at the still shots from the film.  The text of the tract was in Khmer, and the boys seemed to understand.  But our conversations were limited, since we spoke no Khmer, and they spoke only a little English. 

I thought of the irony.  A few decades back, dead bodies were piled here by the thousands—babies, children, women, and men.  I wondered if they were all dead when they arrived, or if most drew their last breath here among the humidity and stench.  Boys the age of these two were killed and placed here during that period.  Now, here we were, in perfect health, alive and well, sharing the message of hope with two Cambodian kids.  These boys weren’t even born then, but surely they had heard some of the horror stories.

Who would have thought that 30 years after the killing, there would be the hope of eternal life offered here?  We probably weren’t the first people to ever speak of Jesus here or to share material about him on this sad place, but it was a thought to behold.  This field had been a place of physical death, but now—thanks to the “JESUS” film tract—there were smiles, and, the seeds of eternal life.