When I first arrived in Banlung, Ratanakiri, one of my very first tasks was to settle into a new home. But it was not simply about unpacking my belongings or arranging furniture. It was about creating a sanctuary—a small refuge where I could rest, reflect and reconnect with God at the end of each long and demanding day.

The home given to me was simple. Very simple. A tiny room with bare walls, a basic bathroom, and a narrow counter with a sink that doubled as a kitchen. At first, I told myself it would be enough. After all, I had not come to Cambodia for comfort. But it did not take long to realize that keeping this small space clean would be a challenge unlike any I had faced before.

Each night, as darkness fell, countless little creatures appeared—some drawn to the light, others searching for food. They slipped in through every crack and crevice, ignoring barriers I thought would be sufficient. Standing alone in my tiny room, I found myself facing a quiet but persistent dilemma: Should I simply accept sharing my space with them, or should I fight to maintain order, even if it meant spending long hours cleaning, sweeping and scrubbing?

As I wrestled with that question, lessons from my childhood resurfaced. Phrases I had heard so often echoed with new meaning: “Order is the first law of heaven.” “God is a God of order.” “His angels cannot dwell where there is disorder and filth.” These were not just familiar sayings; they were principles that had shaped my character, my faith and the way I understood service to God.

And then, somewhere between wiping surfaces and sweeping the floor yet again, a deeper realization began to take shape. God was teaching me something far greater than how to maintain a clean room. Just as I worked intentionally to keep my living space free from what did not belong, He longs to cleanse every corner of my heart and mind. Habits, thoughts, worries and distractions—much like those tiny creatures—can quietly slip in, settle unnoticed and slowly take over if left unchecked.

In that moment, I understood something humbling: I cannot keep my heart pure by my own strength. No amount of effort or discipline is enough on its own. But God can. My responsibility is simple, though not always easy—to seek Him daily, to surrender fully, and to allow Him to do the transforming work within me. As I reflected on this, Jesus’ words came alive with renewed clarity: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

From that day on, cleaning my small room became more than a routine task. It became a quiet act of worship and a daily reminder of my dependence on God’s grace. Each sweep of the floor and each wiped surface pointed me back to the need for spiritual attentiveness and continual surrender.

Now, from this humble little room in Banlung, I see more clearly how God uses even the smallest and most ordinary experiences to teach eternal truths. What once felt like an inconvenience has become an invitation—to examine my heart, to invite God’s presence and to make room for Him to dwell.

And so, each day, I choose to seek Him, to open my heart to His cleansing work and to live with longing for the day when I will see Him—not through faith alone, but face to face.

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