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Camerin and her Cambodian students at a snack break during the conference

I never expected God to speak to me about my singleness while I was halfway around the world. But three weeks ago, in a small church situated on a dirt road in the middle of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, he did—even though I didn't quite realize it at the time.

I'd arrived in Cambodia the day prior to that church service, along with four other members of my church. We were there to work with one of our church's missionaries who'd launched a publishing company in Phnom Penh in 2004. Our team was to stage a four-day conference—one member would teach graphic design, two others would teach editing, one would consult with our missionary on business practices, and I'd teach writing.

I had 20 students in my class: 19 men and 1 woman. Many of them worked for missions agencies, including World Vision, TransWorld Radio, The Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Though these writers had ministry in common, they varied in educational level—one 22-year-old was finishing high school, another 30something had a college degree in literature. As a class, they worked hard, asked good questions, and appeared eager to learn. I was eager to learn from these brothers and sister as well, and they didn't disappoint. Three of their stories in particular moved me and represented some of the other students' stories I heard.

Standing just to my left every day was Chhay, my translator for the conference. I was startled to learn that finding a Cambodian man Chhay's age, 54, was unusual, since most men his age had been killed during Pol Pot's genocidal reign in the early 1970s. While my students spent time writing in class one day, Chhay told me about that horrific season of his life. How he did hard labor 18 hours a day in a Khmer Rouge work camp and received only a spoonful of rice for each meal. How he was ordered to kill his mother, refused at peril to his own life, and was spared only because he was a hard worker. How years later he sensed God calling him to start a hostel for college students who had nowhere to stay, besides Buddhist temples, while studying in the city. How most of the 50 to 70 students housed at his facility become Christians during their second year there, drawn by the servant-love Chhay models.

Sitting directly to my right every day was Kimchoeurng, an orphan who'd never known his parents. He was a beggar on the streets of Phnom Penh from ages six to eight before he finally landed in an orphanage—not the kind of place that attracts adoring parents looking for a child to call their own, but the kind that offers better accommodations than life on the streets. Last year, at age 21, Kimchoeurng started his own orphanage. He now houses 31 children in his three-room, one-bathroom facility, teaching them about the Father whose love sustained him through a tumultuous childhood.

And straight ahead of me at the back of the room sat Sokha. The son of a high priest in a prestigious Buddhist temple, Sokha accepted a friend's invitation to attend a Christian church, and later told police about the underground congregation. His betrayal led to the arrest of several church members and haunted Sokha for years. The friend who'd invited him and the people he'd met at church had shown him only kindness, which he'd returned with cruelty. Sokha finally went back to that church, seeking forgiveness from those believers and from the God he then came to know as Savior. His conversion created great strife in his family. They burned his Christian materials, and his father even held a gun to Sokha's head. Years later Sokha led his family to Christ. His father and uncle, once Sokha's biggest persecutors, now serve as pastors in strong Christian churches, and Sokha works and ministers with World Vision.

What gripped me about these stories was the common theme of resilience and perseverance in the face of hardship. In fact, not just perseverance, but ministry. All three of these men created some sort of ministry out of their unthinkable circumstances. All three stories are testaments of God's penchant for creating beauty from ashes. All three stories are beautiful examples of God's amazing grace.

What also amazes me is that during the worship service the day before the conference, God gave me a peek at this theme that would emerge. The church service was unlike any other I'd attended in my 30-plus years as a believer. We sat on plastic chairs on a poured-concrete floor. A dog wandered in and found a nice place for a nap underneath a chair in the row in front of me. The church provided shelves for helmets, worn by several of the many attendees who arrived by moto—and Bibles, as not all the members had their own copy. Though I couldn't communicate with most of the 30 or so people there that day, I could sense their joy.

I've loved the few opportunities I've had over the years to attend churches in other countries. I listen intently to catch the sermon's meaning from friends' whispered translations, I recognize a few familiar hymns or worship songs and hum along, but mostly I take joy and comfort in realizing God understands all the prayers and praise so foreign to me. Knowing he's the God of the universe is one thing, but experiencing that truth in a foreign setting is another thing altogether.

Sitting there reveling in this truth, thanking God for our team's safe arrival, taking in the new sights and sounds, listening to an unfamiliar Cambodian-penned worship song, I was overcome with an unmistakable sense of God's grace. The kind of sense that comes with tears. Just as I was dabbing my eyes, Steve, the missionary we were assisting, leaned in and translated, "This is a song about God's grace." The kind of grace I saw so beautifully displayed in the following days.

At home a week later, telling a coworker about my students' three gripping stories, I explained, "These students seemed eager to share their story, to show us their hostel or orphanage, to read their testimony. They seemed to greatly value simply being seen."

Lying in bed that night, I reflected on this realization and on my personal resonance with this feeling. "You know, God," I whispered into the darkness, "I totally understand that feeling of wanting to be seen. I can feel invisible as a single person—in our churches that center on families and in a culture that preaches the religion of romance, to the men who don't give me the time of day and to you, who seem to keep withholding a big desire of my heart. I really long to be seen. And I really long to be seen by you."

After a few moments of silence, God seemed to remind me he'd already provided evidence of his seeing me—in that Cambodian church service. He heard my joy that morning—my individual, wordless joy—and joined in. He knew I was marveling in his ability to understand every uttered word, so foreign to me. He lovingly let me in on the secret of the song's subject matter: his grace. And suddenly the words of Zephaniah 3:17 came to mind: "He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing."

On that trip, many miles from home, I learned that the song God's singing over his children in Cambodia is a song of his grace. And I learned that though we might not always understand the words and the tune, the details and the timing of his grace, most of the time it's enough to simply know his grace is there.

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