WOMAN

I hesitated for a long time writing this one because I don’t want it to be misconstrued as a comment on India’s culture. In fact, this is an issue that, sadly, is far too common in the world in which we live. So please, simply take this as my tribute to one woman.

She is patient while she teaches me my first letter of her mother tongue. Again, and again, she patiently listens to my honest attempts at making such a foreign sound and repeats the correct version for me. She stops her sweeping. She is bent over with age that is probably not nearly as old as the wrinkles on her tired face.
For years she has been beaten by her husband. Still, she remains by his side. His health is poor, broken by a stroke. She attends to him still and is faithful to his needs. In spite of his sickness - and from his bedside - he continues to beat her.

RAIN

Walking through a monsoon downpour is like swimming in your clothes. You know that clingy feeling, the kind where your clothes are suctioned to your body and your shoes are squishy? Walking down the street in a monsoon downpour is like trying to fjord a river while avoiding two lanes of traffic. And just because there are these torrential amounts of rain in a matter of minutes does not mean that the bus right behind you is planning to slow down in the least. So you are faced with the choice to either jump into a puddle on the side of the road or be covered by that puddle on the side of the road. That is if you can call them lanes. Yet this is just an everyday kind of thing. No one seems to notice that their bags are now drenched, their shoes muddied, their appearance that of a “drowned rat.” It doesn’t really matter where you are going. You just trudge right ahead and there you are.

Taken by complete surprise, the most sensible thing to do in this instance is to look at the person closest to you on the street, throw up your hands and laugh. If you are lucky, you are walking alongside schoolgirls on their way home for lunch and together, you can revel in this moment - the instant where God's precious gift of water, the sustainer, is racing to the earth. You can jump across puddles and sometimes, if you are quite fortunate, land in one. And you feel new and refreshed. It’s a situation that could easily frustrate the best of us and make us want to pull our hair and scream! Why am I so wet? My clothes are ruined! I’ll never make it on time! The rains have great potential to dampen, literally, our spirits. But it is in these sudden and unexpected downfalls when we see the grace in God and the grace in others and we learn to treasure such precious gifts.

REUBEN

He is the picture of how our world has shortchanged its people in affording a equitable education for all. He smiles a lot. He runs barefoot like the rest. He loves the songs we sing and claps along happily. To most observers, it is obvious that he has Downs Syndrome. It breaks my heart that each day in class, I spend a good portion of the hour repeating, “Reuben! Eela! Reuben! No!” It doesn’t seem fair that he is thrust into this school where the facilities and resources are straining to meet the needs of its students. The teachers shake their heads and say, “Reuben is mentally retarded.” That is what disturbs me the most. Reuben can not learn to his potential because he does not have the opportunity. He is placed into this center of learning - a school that is ill-equipped to serve to his needs. Yet, this is the tragedy of so many children and not only those here in India. Often times, the education that you receive is based exclusively on the education that you can buy.

But there is a profound grace in Reuben's story. Today, I listened as Reuben recited the 23rd Psalms and then prayed for his teachers. Maybe he understands something that many of us don’t. Maybe today the student is the teacher.

IDENTITY

In my own limited scope, I would consider the people of India to be distinctively identifiable. Of course this tendency is not unique to India, but, perhaps I can see it more clearly in a country where the melting pot (of internationals) classification does not apply so extensively. Alas, India certainly has its own diversity. In many ways there is a huge disparity between the rich and poor, the educated and not, the male and female. Identifiable. The men in clothing dictated by their position. The young women in churidars, the older women in sarees. The dalit women often required to bare more midriff in their sarees. Some children dressed in their government school uniforms and other children in their private school uniforms. Then, of course, there is the Bindi dot for the young Hindus, with an additional mark near the hairline for the married women of this faith. There are the covered heads of Muslim women. The necklaces of marriage symbols, of prayers, of the cross. And ME, I am marked as well. Even behind my churidar and shawl, I remain a white girl. A foreigner. I cannot escape or change this identity. I cannot disown these things or pretend that I am not from a place of privilege, from a foreign land, of a different ethnicity. I cannot lose my identity but I suppose I can use my identity to change stereotypes and impressions that we present as an American culture. I can define myself - and my identity - by the love of God and the new creation that I am through the death of Christ.

SET

Our anachronistic arrival at the Mumbai airport felt strangely surreal. We had been traveling for one very long, continuous day which really consisted of something like two days and when we stepped off the plane it was going on 1 am. Thus, the airport was not the usual hustle-bustle that we are prone to find while traveling in the states. Beth, Rob, Laura and I sat on the cold floor and engaged in a card game called Set, which requires a great deal of thinking and concentration which, consequently, we were greatly lacking at the moment. It was not a game that could easily be followed without a deal of explanation, but as we continued on in the game we became acutely aware of the interested Indian observers that encircled us. Here we were, a clump of four wide-eyed and eager foreigners, enclosed by the night crew of the airport. What a beautiful welcome! We were united by a simple game that drew interest to the onlookers and the fascination of what is new. And, while our attempts to communicate were feeble, perhaps, there was an understanding that passed between us, providing a peaceful feeling to this long day.

It makes me think about how "set" in our ways we (including myself, of course!) can become. We are set in "the ways we've always done it." We are set in our political preferences, our social obligations, our grasp at what is "right." But maybe there is so much more than what we perceive as right and good, afterall our contexts are quite different. I think that is such a huge part of this experience. Learning to bridge the gaps between people and cultures. To step out from what is comfortable and be embraced by what is new and even "foreign." For me, this late-night airport adventure was a vivid reminder of the neccessity to form community and be open to the community that I will step into. I am surprised again and again, at the kindness that is offered in the most unlikely places. If I remain set, I perhaps will miss out on these transformative moments. I may not be entirely READY for what I will encounter, I hope that I am not too SET, but I will GO forward regardless!

PACKED

What is enough? Quite honestly, I think there has never been a time in my life when my needs were not physically met. My life has been packed full of stuff-- not only material items, but also an expansive support network, educational opportunities, a knowledge that I am loved and taken care of and a hope of a future. My life overflows with all of this. And as I pack my bags over and over attempting to consolidate my rolls of toilet paper, my personal pharmacy, and art supplies and have it weigh under the alloted limits, I pause. I will most likely never know what desperation feels like. I have so much. But I pray that I can know what it feels like to desire a God who those in desperation call out to! I pack and I pack and in trying to live a year of simplicity, I still have so much. The challenge transends over this journey. To unpack all the stuff, all the stereotypes and preconceptions, to unpack the expectations and the cultural underpinnings. To reach in and take out the pain, and the joy and all that has shaped this life. To strip down to the basics of humanity that make us all sisters and brothers and experience life wholly.

Welcome to my blog!

Hello sweet friends and family!

My journey has started! Please feel free to check up on me here at my blog. I will post different things to fill you in from time to time-- stories, prayer requests, thoughts, and even some Pictures!