Laos Taught Me the Gift of Receiving

When I boarded my flight to Laos a few years ago, I didn’t expect very much.

People told me the food wasn’t particularly good. Others warned me that the streets were dirty. Having already traveled through Vietnam, Thailand, and Cambodia, I assumed Laos would feel much the same.

So I arrived with an open mind, and very few expectations.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Almost immediately, Laos surprised me.

The streets of Luang Prabang were peaceful and remarkably clean. We happened to arrive just before Lao New Year, and everywhere I looked, monks were quietly preparing their temples for the celebration. Each sat beside a bucket of paint and a brush, patiently restoring centuries-old buildings one careful stroke at a time.

Then there was the food.

I had heard it wasn’t memorable, yet I found it absolutely delicious. To me, Lao cuisine felt like a gentle meeting place between Vietnamese and Thai cooking—fresh herbs, vibrant vegetables, delicate flavors that were never too salty or overwhelmingly spicy. Every meal left me feeling nourished rather than full.

But none of those became the memory I carried home.

That happened before sunrise. The morning of the alms-giving ceremony, we woke while the city was still asleep.

Along the roadside, vendors quietly arranged baskets of sticky rice. Visitors sat silently on small stools, each holding a woven basket in their lap. We were each given a light ceremonial cloth to drape over our shoulder, along with plastic gloves, then told to wait.

Soon, a line of barefoot monks in saffron-orange robes appeared through the soft morning light.

Without a word, they walked slowly past us.

One by one, we reached into our baskets, took a small handful of rice, and gently placed it into each monk’s alms bowl.

Silence filled the street.

I simply followed everyone else’s lead.

As each monk passed before me, something quietly shifted inside me.

At first, I thought I had come to give.

But somewhere during those quiet moments, I no longer felt like the giver.

I felt like the one receiving—receiving humility, and a quiet sense of grace that seemed to exist beyond language.

Overcome with gratitude, I looked up, smiled, and quietly said, "Thank you," as I placed the rice into each alms bowl.

Only later did I learn that tradition asks those offering alms to remain silent and avoid making eye contact with the monks.

After the ceremony, one of my fellow Travel Lovers shared that as she placed rice into the monks’ bowls, memories of her late brother came rushing back. Tears quietly streamed down her face throughout the ceremony.

Although our experiences were different, we had both received something words couldn't fully explain.

She carried home memories of her brother.

I carried home the quiet feeling that something sacred had passed between strangers.

Even now, I cannot fully explain it.

Perhaps some experiences aren’t meant to be explained.

Perhaps they are simply meant to be received.

And that morning, in the peaceful streets of Luang Prabang, I discovered that receiving can be just as sacred as giving.

A quiet morning in Luang Prabang. In the silence of giving, I discovered the unexpected beauty of receiving.