Flash Fiction - “Where God Does Not Leave”

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Cambodia holds its history close.

Stone remembers here. Not loudly, not theatrically, but faithfully. Temples rise from the earth as if they were never built so much as uncovered—faces carved into walls, eyes closed or half-open, watching centuries pass without turning away.


The heat settles early and stays. It presses gently, not as threat, but as reminder: nothing moves quickly here. Even the air has learned to wait.


She walks near the river, where water moves steadily despite its weight. It does not rush to outrun what it carries. It holds memory in motion.


The river has seen everything.


She stops at its edge, watching the surface catch light and release it again. The water does not forget what has passed through it, yet it continues—bearing history without drowning in it.


A verse rises quietly, shaped by the place itself:


“The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18


Nearness matters here.


Cambodia does not invite quick conclusions. There are no clean lines drawn between then and now. Time layers itself—past resting beneath present, grief beneath daily life, resilience beneath routine.


She walks on, passing stone walls darkened by age and weather. Some are cracked, some repaired, none erased. Restoration here does not mean removal. It means endurance.


She thinks of how often healing is mistaken for forgetting. How people are rushed toward closure before grief has finished speaking. God does not hurry like that.


“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1


A season for remembering.

A season for weeping.

A season for standing still.


She pauses near a temple courtyard where the air feels thicker, heavier. Incense lingers faintly, not masking anything, only acknowledging presence. The stone beneath her feet is warm, worn smooth by countless steps.


She does not imagine she is the first to stand here seeking understanding.


There are places where pain is not personal, but communal—passed down through silence, gesture, posture. Cambodia holds these stories not as spectacle, but as fact.


And God has not abandoned them.


“Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.” — Romans 5:20


Grace does not deny what happened.

It stays where it happened.


She moves slowly, allowing her body to adjust to the heat rather than resist it. Resistance, she has learned, consumes energy better spent on endurance.


Children pass nearby, laughter brief but real. Life persists without pretending nothing was lost. This, too, is wisdom.


She thinks of another promise, one that does not minimize suffering:


“The LORD is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him.” — Lamentations 3:25


Waiting is not wasted here.

It is honored.


She rests briefly on a low stone wall, letting the stillness settle into her bones. The quiet is not empty. It is full of what has survived.


There are places where silence feels dangerous. Cambodia is not one of them. Here, silence feels like respect.


She remembers how grief can feel when it is rushed—how it turns inward, how it hardens. But when grief is allowed to breathe, it softens into something bearable. Something shared.


“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” — Matthew 5:4


Comfort does not erase mourning.

It accompanies it.


The sun lowers, casting long shadows across stone carvings whose features remain calm, unflinching. These faces have witnessed violence and mercy alike. They have not fled.


Neither has God.


She walks again, slower now, steps deliberate. The river appears once more between trees, steady as ever. She watches how it accepts reflection without clinging to it—faces, sky, stone, all passing through.


She thinks of generations whose prayers were whispered here—some answered, some not yet, all heard.


“The LORD hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee.” — Jeremiah 31:3


Everlasting does not mean distant.

It means enduring.


As evening approaches, the heat eases slightly. The day does not end abruptly. It fades with dignity. Cambodia does not rush nightfall. It receives it.


She stands one last time by the river, hands resting at her sides, body present, unguarded. There is nothing she needs to fix here. Nothing she needs to resolve.


God has already stayed.


She turns away, not lighter exactly—but steadier. Some places teach you how to move on. Cambodia teaches you how to remain without being trapped.


Behind her, the river continues. The stone endures. Memory holds.


And God does not leave.



⧪


Explore


Still With Her: Flash Fictions (New: Monthly on the 5th, 10th, 15th, 20th, 25th, and 30th)

Bound Gently: Veiled in Crimson - Short Fiction Book (Completed)

Spoken Before Him: Beloved Daughter - Prayer Book (Completed)

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