my reflections

I am fairly certain that I have only just begun to process my year here in Kerala. But perhaps, that relates to one lesson that I have learned—that the quality of raw food is superior to that of processed ones and that the caliber of handmade, homespun, self-financed goods cannot be replaced by the manufactured ones. Likewise, maybe my initial, raw thoughts and emotions will be more compelling than the thoughts I will take years to process. In fact, I even wonder if we lose some of the heartfelt vigor and ingenuous curiosity when we mull over something for far too long. So here they are, my experiences— honest and unrefined.

Before this year, I really had no concept of just how influential our lives and decisions in America affect countries like India. It is not only corporate America or the policy makers that create impacts, but also each of us as consumers and global citizens. In college I tried to stay informed on global issues, but here, I felt I have lived amongst the issues. It is my neighbors that don’t have enough to eat, who are landless, and who are denied their basic rights. It is tough to realize that your own nation, claiming to be “developed,” has practices and policies that dictate the “development” of other countries.
I have learned that generalizations are useless and quite often, completely off the mark. Just as each state in India varies in culture, food, dress, environment and language, each person is different from the next. I have been, at times, shocked by the many generalizations that have been made about my home or me and this has allowed for self-awareness regarding the generalizations that I make about others.

In Kerala, I have found a new concept of hospitality. I have been welcomed “in” again and again—hosted by friends, families, and complete strangers. I have been made to be like a family member at marriages. I have been served countless cups of tea and been showed off to everyone’s neighbors. More than food and functions, I have consistently found grace in others-- when I fumble with my very few Malayalam words or have my churidar top tucked into my pants, when my hairstyle is wrong or I am clueless to what is going on, when I have too much pride to ask for directions or help I have found friends who will take me as I am, genuinely interested in my life. I hope that I can take this with me and learn to be a gracious host and an ever-grateful guest.

Yet, while I want to be a grateful guest, I have also realized the need to feel as an integrated part of a community. At times, it has been a challenge to find the balance of being a part of a culture and observing all that that entails without losing your own identity or compromising what you hold true. But in seeking this balance, I have encountered many revelations about my world, my faith, and myself and been given the opportunity to more solidly form my own identity and the truths that I claim.

Most importantly, my year has been shaped and hugely impacted by a deeper understanding of Jesus’ radical ministry. My worldview has been shifted by find the Jesus who engages in social justice. I found that I have detached Jesus from social justice compartmentalizing the two into different passions of mine. But now I see that Jesus represents justice, equality and a kingdom that is unlike any political empire that has ever existed. As we have delved into the marginalized people that Jesus restores, I am discovering the variety of the marginalized in my own community here. These people are not only the poor, the sick, the different, but also the neglected, the women, the children. And, it was these very people that Jesus made the center of His ministry while using signs to point to larger social issues.

Contrast

I know I will be asked to describe India. How was it? What is it like? I already hear the questions looming.

To capture a year of experiences, a life lived in a new place is a challenge in itself. But, trying to capture a whole counrty and hundreds of years of history and civilization by describing a year in one tiny corner of the country will be defeating. All I can offer is my own limited experiences, albeit fulfilling and life-enriching ones.

I might attempt to depict India as a land of extremes. The striking sun clashing with the pounding rains. Arguably one of the most ecologically prized landscapes, dotted with piles of waste. An elephant working beside a bulldozer. A bullock cart beside a Land Cruiser. Never have I seen the juxtaposition between the haves and have-nots so strikingly obvious. The highest and the lowest placed one next to the other. Where neighbors coexist with great dichotomy—a grand estate flanked by a tiny colony of umbrella dwellers. Here, you will find hospitality like you’ve never seen. Simultaneously, a class system pervades the social structure and, albeit a Hindu construct, continues to dictate the underpinnings of the Church.

Contrasts. A concrete one room house with dirt floors and a family hovered around a television. Emaciated and corpulent. No scraps wasted; no scraps used. The same stick used by the same teacher to both hit a child and also affectionately tease a child.

Contradictions. Watching a highly educated and established woman belittled and berated by her husband. Seeing a family home broken apart in order to provide for the demands for a daughter's new family. Finding a place that is legendary for its natural health therapies suddenly inundated with imported processed foods. The politics and culture of an infant country (such as America) influencing the very livelihood of the people in a country with such an ancient and rich heritage (such as India).

Interestingly, one of the greatest contrasts I have learned in the year is the perception of my country and that that is my country. Stepping into a new place, you learn about your own. You learn that no country has it perfect. No country has it right. No country has the authority to dominate another. And, no country or people can be generalized or described in a matter of words.

Common Threads

Manninda manum. “The flavor of the sand.” It’s a Malayalam phrase the postman taught me that captures the essence of sustainability. Essentially, there is no paradigm of development that can be applied to an entire global context. The “flavor of the sand” dictates the needs as well as the sources of livelihood of a community.

One thing I have learned while in India is that it is futile to generalize. The stark contrast among states in India, is proof alone that diversity reigns. In traveling, I have come to realize that not only do the physical environments change with each border crossing, but also the tastes, the dress, the language, the customs, the sights, and the sounds. Like the character of each state, people are very different.

A favorite song among our group is titled Common Thread and describes unity among diversity. There is one stanza that depicts sustainability (it’s also given me words to describe my own decision in being a vegetarian!)

"We can feed our grain to cattle and the rich men will be fed;
we will rise all together we will rise
Or we’ll feed our grain to people so that millions will have bread;
we will rise all together, we will rise.
We will rise like the ocean, we will rise like the sun.
We will rise all together, we will rise.
No more will there be hunger in these strands of common thread,
We will rise all together, we will rise."

Maintaining the livelihood of marginalized people requires sustainable measures. I am discovering that sustainable development encompasses far more than the efficient use of available natural resources by a community. It includes sustainable economics and politics, agricultural and industrial practices. We are quick to distinguish between the “developed” and “developing.” Perhaps “developed” countries can look to “developing” countries for natural and basic solutions to the complicated problems that have resulted from our expansionist mindset and prevalent consumerism-- co-ops of women creating recycled papers and homemade soaps or men who come to the shore with the sun carrying the fish that will provide for their family’s daily meal. Fuel created from vegetable scraps, rainwater harvesting. Lives that seem rudimentary or “developing.” Simply. People living life so as to meet their basic needs. Simply.

As the “flavor of the sand,” it is essential that sustainability be incorporated according to a people and a place. It is only then that the strands can be woven into a common thread.
While the thread is strengthened by the addition of each strand, the simple fibers must also be able to maintain their elements, resilient at the core.

Empowered

One of the greatest joys of my year has been working at Jyothis- Home of Love. It is a home and school for students with special needs. Amidst the chaos this place exudes, I find it a personal haven of peace. I am readily accepted-- my hand is always held or high-fived. It doesn’t particularly matter that I am not fluent in the language; communication at Jyothis transcends words. There’s Jojo, the self-appointed grass cutter with a temper that can change in an instant; Annie who says hello to me and then hides her face at least once a minute; Srudie with the sweetest smile; Bapu who tries to escape or drive away on the bus daily; Jerren who adores Cricket and is the handy man of the crowd. The disabilities vary greatly, but here is a place where I see the students taking care of each other even when the rest of the world has become distracted with its own needs.
As I watched the students standing in an assembly line to pass bricks up for roof repair, I witnessed the difference between simply helping someone and actually empowering that person to do something. For the past month, we have been making paper bags in the vocational class out of old newspapers. As the stack of bags swells, so does the confidence and ingenuous pride of the each student in the class. The completed bags are sold for a small amount at the local produce shop. It may seem like a trivial task to make a bag out of a newspaper, but for some, it is the completion of a monumental task. Each completed bag is an affirmation of one’s abilities and sufficiency.
The miraculous signs that Jesus performed during his lifetime meant far more than healing of the body or spirit. In fact, if we get caught trying to determine the means, probability and extraordinaire of it all than we are missing the point. This was no magic show. Jesus sought to empower the powerless, the marginalized, the outcastes. He gave a voice to the silent and strength to the weak. The freedom was not so much in the healing as it was in the implications that being healed brought- the acceptance into a society that for so long had shunned this exiled individual. By empowering these people—to walk, to see, to enter the temple—Jesus’ healings point to a necessary paradigm shift in the power structure and the society’s acceptance of others.

CLEAN

Cleanliness is relative. At least that is what I keep telling myself. I am a product of an anti-bacterial dousing, Lysol engulfing, don’t drink after anyone culture. I am learning to give that up really quickly, let me tell you. When it comes to the issues of neatness and germs, I lean towards the “I suffer from OCD tendencies,” category. Just ask my roommates. One of the toughest habits that I am quickly being forced to break is living according to my preconceived notions of cleanliness. Here, I cannot always wash my hands before I eat -- even if I just touched the hands of 80 small children. We share glasses. Many dishes are cleaned with no more than a quick swirl of hand and water. Have I drilled it enough that we don’t use toilet paper? Each morning I wake up to a find a small pile of the door by the door. The ants are literally eating away at the door. I can see through the door in some parts and I am just waiting for the day when I wake up to the sun shining bright through my non-existent door.

But, I will tell you one thing. I am learning to be humble and to let things go. When I see day after day the aching dirty soles of laboring feet I can better comprehend the biblical significance of feet washing and the precious gift to whom it was bestowed upon. Jesus ate with those considered unclean. Did you get that? He actually sat down and ate a meal with them. He lived among these people. And I can hardly go anywhere without my anti-bacterial hand gel and miniature roll of toilet paper. In India, there are often restrictions for women who are menstruating. There are some temples that women cannot enter in the entire span of their childbearing years. They are considered unclean. I think I am beginning to see that cleanliness is more than pressed clothes, clean ears, and fresh sheets. It is a way of living. Like a cold shower on a hot day, we should revel in the company and lives of other whether the society tells us they are clean or unclean.

SOLIDARITY

I have tossed this word around so many times over the year. I have heard it claimed at lectures and conferences and read it in the papers. As a tune stuck on repeat in my head, so is this word. What does it really mean to be in solidarity with others? To be in solidarity with the poor? To be in solidarity with the marginalized? If I am not considered a part of the “untouchable class” than how am I to place myself as one with these people? I have spent many days seeking to extrapolate more than the meaning of this noun- rather to understand how to live the word more as a verb form. What does it really look like to live in solidarity with others?

Well, for starts there is the idea of conformity. This approach would call me to give up my cultural identity and the underpinnings of my life as I know it. I could “do as the Romans.” But, I soon realize that the way in which we see and discover the world is shaped by the lens of our background. There really is no way to completely remove our experiences, traditions and history. Perhaps the lesson here is bring who we are into a new place with the flexibility and open mindedness to embrace and respect a culture different from our own with the knowledge that things will be different.

Well then, how about giving up all that I have and living on the streets with the impoverished themselves? Hmmm. I am not really sure what this is doing and if this “solution” offers anything more than to make me “feel better.” We have been entrusted with tools among which are education, health, food, and shelter that, if left unused, then we would be wasting the instruments by which we can serve others. The reality is we can choose simpler lifestyles without throwing it all out.

We can be in solidarity by sharing what we have and who we are- by regarding both the material wealth and also the intangible gifts that we possess as something that is entrusted in our care for the benefit of more than ourselves. I am far from discovering the perfect picture of solidarity, but I think I shared in a moment of it this week. It was really quite simple. Nothing spectacular. I didn’t really feel accomplished or like I made a huge revelation. It was just a simple moment that impacted my own being.

Against their garrulous protesting, I got to spend an hour weeding the grounds with the mess staff. In Malayalam I was given a list of excuses why I shouldn’t dare be among them working like this- I would get dirty, I had better things to do, I was the teacher. I was able to show them in my actions that I value what they do, I want them to allow me to share in their burden. I tried to convey in words that this was my home too, that I enjoyed being with them and doing this work I don’t want anyone (including myself or them) to put us on two different planes because I am a foreigner, or educated, or a teacher, or have more financial resources. Being in solidarity is sharing in struggles and causes, it’s placing yourself along side others, it’s sharing your gifts, it’s living out your life among the lives of others and affirming their lives, livelihood and existence in this world.

FACE

How does one ever become "used to" looking in the face of poverty?

I guess that is just it- we don't look. We don't look into the face because somehow, if we don't ascribe a name, an age, a story, a life to the outstretched hands and pleading voice, then, somehow, this human exists as nothing more than an institution we call poverty.

The poverty in India is grotesque. The majority of beggars that I encounter here are either physically deformed or children. These young children display a certain feral demeanor; their wild hair and torn clothes, caked in dirt. Even before the availability of words, they have been taught to be frighteningly relentless. This is survival.

Thus, the paradox of poverty.

I remember the conundrum well in America. Do you give the beggar a few coins? Do you take your chances at inviting them in to a meal? Do you point them in the direction of the nearest shelter?

How can I reject money from the glaring eyes, the desperate mother, the crying child? In all honestly, what will my meager change do? Do I perpetuate a system that perhaps fills a stomach today but leaves it once more empty tomorrow? Do I continue to teach this child that it is ok for him to skip out on school for the day so that he can gather enough rupees for his daily sustenance?

I don't know.

Sadly, I can imagine that, even here, there are places that one could shield his or herself away from the eyesore that it is and perhaps, live a life in which even the knowledge of poverty was non-existent. Ignorance is bliss.

So, perhaps, recognition—giving poverty a face—is one of the first steps to the solution. I won't give you a rupee right now, but I will look you in the eye and promise in my heart that I will commit myself to changes in my own life and in the systems that deprive you of your rights and livelihood.

**Give us our daily bread not only that we may have enough to eat, but also that we may be empowered by You with the courage to share, change and live in solidarity with your Creation

BROKEN

An honest confession of my life

Throughout college, I prayed for brokenness that I might experience a deeper longing and need for God; a prayer that I might be humbled. During my last time living a broad, I experienced a certain personal brokenness that allowed me to examine a lifestyle that I was living that was consumed by stress, anxiety, inadequacy and a longing to please others. On the outside my face contorted to flash my carefree smile; on the inside I was churning with guilt, self-loathing and anxiety. I was living a life that felt only like a shadow of who I always was and who I thought I was expected to be. For me, these were dark days. But you cannot escape yourself. Over the next two years, I began learning how to like myself again and am transitioning into a time where I can love myself as a creation of God and a vessel for God’s purposes. It has been a long battle with myself.

This year, I have continued to face these struggles, even ones that I thought I had conquered but perhaps have only pushed aside. When you are somewhere on your own with no one who has known you or your battles, your weaknesses and fears suddenly hover around you. There are less ways to distract yourself, be a busy body, or escape from life’s confrontations. Even here, I find myself exhausted and guilt-driven in trying to please others. Let me say that a life controlled by trying to please others can hardly be described as “living.” And when you are straddled between two worlds, two homes—you can certainly not live to please all.

My most recent experience was as such. I spent the first few months at the hostel literally intimidated by the 2nd year students. (Mind you they are 5 years younger than me). Even still, I found myself nervous to see them, and make the wrong impression or having to really push myself to reach out to them, enter their rooms, or at times, even strike up a conversation. For one, they are a very tight knit group that does everything together and generally sticks to them selves. They are that “cool group” that must be in existence universally. They even threw their “gang sign” at me in passing. They are the rebels of the hostel, the fashion queens, the beauties. And I? I was intimidated. And, like so often, I just wanted to make them happy and for them to like me. One day as I rounded the corner of the basketball court during my afternoon run, I happened to see that they were all sitting their watching me. Oh, well this is just great. Here I am in my horribly smelly clothes, self-consciously running as they stare at me. I flung my hand up in my best wave—slipped on a rock and completely busted it. I mean lying flat on the ground. Talk about being brought down to your knees and humbled. As these girls ran over to me, they appeared to want nothing more than be my friend. My pride and fears prevented me from relationships with these girls.

Real relationships are not about pleasing others. I write this as I sit here convincing myself of this truth. Here in India, I am slammed with this: I cannot give food or money to every person that asks me. I cannot be everywhere that everyone wants me to be. I cannot do everything that everyone wants me to do. I cannot be everything that everyone wants me to be. To love others, we must love ourselves. Without accepting this, we cannot serve others. It requires forgiveness to ourselves that we cannot please everyone or be perfect-- a life lived seeking to do so is not trusting in the existence of Grace.

RELEASE

When I spent Christmas on a pilgrimage journey, I had no idea that my Easter would come a little close to feeling like a tomb. As the hostel closed, I ventured off to stay with my other volunteer friend Laura for the holiday weekend. On Good Friday, she woke with a stomach bug. Perhaps you’ve had one, you know you feel pretty crummy all day, lie on the sofa, eat saltines and jello and after some rest you’re up on your feet again. Well, that is NOT how things are done in India. You go to the hospital and get pumped with 5 glucose IV bags and a plethora of shots and pills. After two nights sleeping in the hospital together, we were promised that she would be discharged on Easter morning. Hallelujah. We joked about leaving the tomb (a small hospital room with a bed and cot ) on Easter. How fitting. But by Sunday afternoon, this was no joking matter. Laura felt fine with the exception of being a bit tired. I mean she was even eating ice cream for pete’s sake. We were bored out of our minds. To pass the time we played games, learned each other’s entire life history (we are talking about the full length history of crushes since elementary school until present even), and when we just about to go insane Laura says, “We could put our feet on the wall.” Well, there’s some entertainment for you! We were the only patients (by we I mean she…I was just trying to be patient) on the entire ward so we were the only form of entertainment for the nursing staff of six—they seriously thought we were nuts. We sang Christmas songs with the nurses at their insistence and were constantly quizzed on our Malayalam.

On Sunday afternoon when I got up the nerve to ask the nurse, “So, when can we leave,” I was quite dismayed when she looked at me and said, “Tomorrow,” with the biggest smile. “WHAT! Are you kidding me. This is ridiculous. Why? She is fine.” Oops, the not so patient Katherine cried out! “Are you sad?” she inquired with an equally large flash of a smile. Sad maybe wasn’t the best way to describe how I was feeling. I was going insane in this small room, convinced that Laura must be get sick just by being confined to the four walls, and frustrated that they would not free us! I do not get angry very often, but there was no mistaking it this time. I was in a huff. I walked out of the room and out into the sunlight (it had been raining all week). I wanted to scream! Why would they keep us in here on Easter of all days? How unfair.

Suddenly it hit me. Not only was I stuck in this hospital room, but also I was still living in the tomb. The Lord had risen and left the tomb, but I was living like he was still behind the stone and shrouded in white cloth. I was seething in frustration and selfishly wallowing in the unfairness of our situation. I wasn’t living the Joy that was the celebration of the entire Easter season- the Resurrection, the conquering of the tomb, the joy in new life. Whether it was a hospital bed or not, we had a bed, we had food, we had friends. And, we had the Joy that this is not the end. No. Because of the gift that was given this day so many years ago, the beginning is to come and is far greater.

NEIGHBOR

My neighbors live under an umbrella. Literally. There is a little village comprised of makeshift umbrella and plastic homes. I walk by and see them huddled around a small pot cooking their rice. I stop and chat for a few moments when I walk by their little neighborhood. Unlike other neighbors, they don’t invite me in for a cup of chai. How do you invite someone under your umbrella? But, they are quick for a smile and life just keeps on going. There’s no shock here. These are my neighbors these are my friends. I have friends that live under umbrellas. And the world keeps whizzing on by.

The more I learn, the more skeptical I become of globalization. The word tends to bring negative connotations. In kindergarten you take pride in the Pinta, Nina, and Santa Marina, but by high school you are equating Columbus with syphilis. If we journey back through history, we find that many global encounters are the result of treasure-hunting, conquering crusades, wars, and trade. The intentions all revolve around the what can you give me scenario. I am beginning to wonder if a simple longing to know one’s neighbor has ever spawned globalization on. I want to reclaim globalization. I want to make it a positive venture. After all, perhaps my mission is simply to know my neighbors. Jesus asked who are our neighbors? For me, I am spending a year meeting neighbors that are thousands of miles away from my actual home. It’s not uncommon to find physicals fences and walls between neighbors. And sure, there are plenty of walls and fences between me and my neighbors in India. But I cannot let those be barriers to knowing my neighbors.

CLEAN

Cleanliness is relative. At least that is what I keep telling myself. I am a product of an anti-bacterial dousing, Lysol engulfing, don’t drink after anyone culture. I am learning to give that up really quickly, let me tell you. When it comes to the issues of neatness and germs, I lean towards the “I suffer from OCD tendencies,” category. Just ask my roommates. One of the toughest habits that I am quickly being forced to break is living according to my preconceived notions of cleanliness. Here, I cannot always wash my hands before I eat -- even if I just touched the hands of 80 small children. We share glasses. Many dishes are cleaned with no more than a quick swirl of hand and water. Have I drilled it enough that we don’t use toilet paper? Each morning I wake up to a find a small pile of the door by the door. The ants are literally eating away at the door. I can see through the door in some parts and I am just waiting for the day when I wake up to the sun shining bright through my non-existent door.

But, I will tell you one thing. I am learning to be humble and to let things go. When I see day after day the aching dirty soles of laboring feet I can better comprehend the biblical significance of feet washing and the precious gift to whom it was bestowed upon. Jesus ate with those considered unclean. Did you get that? He actually sat down and ate a meal with them. He lived among these people. And I can hardly go anywhere without my anti-bacterial hand gel and miniature roll of toilet paper. In India, there are often restrictions for women who are menstruating. There are some temples that women cannot enter in the entire span of there childbearing years. They are considered unclean. I think I am beginning to see that cleanliness is more than pressed clothes, clean ears, and fresh sheets. It is a way of living. Like a cold shower on a hot day, we should revel in the company and lives of other whether the society tells us they are clean or unclean.

“LOST IN TRANSLATION”

My friend Laura and I are sitting around a table with 5 amachees (grandmothers) at a retirement home testing out our Malayalm skills. There are two stones in the middle of the table. We struggle for what seems like minutes to get the correct verb and tense and ask if the stones are for a game that these ladies play. Then, in a very matter of fact sort of way one of the women says, “Paper weights.” Oh, right.

As one who revels in awkward moments, let me tell you I think I have found my utopia. I cannot keep track of the amount of “awkward” moments that I have encountered since arriving in India inevitably revolving around a cultural faux pas that I have unknowingly committed or a feeble attempt on my part to communicate in my very limited knowledge of Malayalam. I am grateful for those who try to talk with me in English, and probably even more thankful for the ones that will patiently sit and listen to me as I say the banana 7 times in Malayalam and still get it wrong. And I have found that increasing the speed or volume of the pronunciation in no way clarifies the situation. Even better are the times when I proudly say, “I am going to church.” “Nyan palaeel pogunnu.” When the laughing subsides, I am informed that in actuality, I proclaimed, “I am going to lizard.” “Nyan palaaeel pogunnu.” I just don’t think my tongue works quite in the same way. Other times, I will be talking with someone in English and ask a question. I am given an answer that has nothing to do with my question. Interesting. So, I have determined that I must pretend like this was the information I was seeking and later, re-work a revised question into the conversation. Questions are answered that were never even asked.

UPSIDE DOWN

My drinking water is always hot; my shower, always cold. Sometimes, I don’t have any water so I just don’t bathe. I wash my clothes in a bucket and on the streets have come to trust only in the safety of a hot cup of tea. Seems like the world is turned upside down. But, it is something else that shocks my worldview. In developing countries, it is the distribution of this natural resource that is turned upside down. Water cannot be made. Yet, it is privatized and commoditized and denied to the very people that find refuge on its shores. Water as a good takes away from the acts of fishing, farming, bathing, cooking, even drinking. Major national and international corporations not only drain the water for bottling, production, and extended distribution, but also leave bodies of water contaminated and unfit for use. It is a devastating situation, as water becomes a privilege to the ones who can afford it. I have been learning about this situation through readings and lectures and it is clear that it is a problem in dire need of examination and action. The image that captures it best for me is this: while the child dreams of a pepsi, the mother sadly realizes that it is because of this globalization that she cannot even offer her child a glass of water.
Water is sacred. It is a central part of our lives-- our culture, our health, our very spirituality. Our stewardship towards humanity extends far beyond our monetary contributions- preserving the natural elements is the only way to ensure human life.

Flexibility

Sure, I stretch daily. I practice yoga and do plies on my concrete floor. My daily run is now confined to circles around an old basketball concrete. But, learn to do without toilet paper? Without cheese? Without BROWNIES? God, that’s asking a lot! Exactly what kind of “flexible” are you asking me to be here? I can learn to take cold showers and be the butt of jokes (more than usual at least). Oh, but there is so much more. The flexibility to say an impromptu speech at a meeting or to sing on command, to bide my time in a classroom with non-English speaking boisterous six year olds for two hours, to set aside what I am doing and just listen to someone. The flexibility to give a devotion to 200 girls with seven minutes notice…during a power outage.
How flexible really am I? Flexible enough to care for someone who is sick? To give up my time? My money? My stereotypes? My resentments?
When I think about it, my newfound “flexible lifestyle” is nothing to boast about. What about those who continue to make it with one-meal days, dirty water, or broken families? Maybe I will stretch to my potential and reach out to others more often. Maybe even find the flexibility to break my pride, lower me, and have the boldness to truly love others.

Resolved

If you are extremely claustrophobic I wouldn’t recommend a train ride in India. I think I have found the origin of the phrase “packed like sardines.” It is the 9:30ish train from Mavelikara to Kottayam on Monday morning. I left for a marriage of a friend’s “uncle’s” son. (You’re lucky if you know that much about the bride or the groom). Now, keep in mind, I am wearing a sari. And walking. And boarding a train. I generally attract attention, “Madama, madama (white lady). But how about a madama in a sari? That’s just asking for the stares, waves, honks and laughs that so often come my way. So, I head for the back of the train designated as the lady’s compartment. There is hardly room for both my feet to touch the floor and I am hanging on to the handle bar of the train door. But, alas that doesn’t stop half a dozen others from getting on. It was like playing the game twister with this car full of women. Right hand on blue. Hey, now; that’s my rear end! Left foot on yellow. And that is my foot! I had a grandmother learning on my shoulder and the young girl next to me was heaving her breakfast onto the tracks below. Then, heaven forbid, someone needed to get to the bathroom! As she wove under our arms and I found my body contorted into something like a pretzel. To put it frankly, I wanted to scream or push someone. But so often in these times when I am on the train I begin to stare out the window and have a word with God. It’s one of my favorite times to pray. I am normally by myself and in a reflective mood while journeying. So I got to thinking about the new year. I have certainly had my share of resolutions. We all know what they are typically composed of--and how often these desires become realities. Lucky for us, we are a ‘new creation.’ We have a fresh start over and over again, not simply at the beginning of a calendar year. I saw my quickness to anger and frustration on the train. It made me question how I handle each situation and the emotions that arise…how I cope with the smallest challenges, like a crowded train. The two young ladies in front of me were encouraging and helpful in every way possible when you are on a crowded train. Surely, I too, can find the strength to live the life of a new creation- to react to others with grace and love.

Side Note:

Christmas in India. Oh, how can one begin to describe it? I took part in many a Christmas program in which I learned some very important details that until now have been void from my own Christmas traditions. First and foremost, in case you thought otherwise, Christmas Father was present at the birth of Jesus. And it is essential that he wears balloons at the top of his hat and carries a staff reminiscent of the shepherd hovering over the cradle. Angels should like pageant children and a “candle dance” parallels a 1980’s aerobic video. With candles and pompoms. Naturally. All choir songs should be sung with a keyboard synthesizer. Next, when it comes to decorating the tree, the more the better. Especially if it has neon hues. And have you ever thought to decorate with balloons and streamers? Don’t have a fir tree? A branch from the papaya tree will do just fine.

PILGRIM

On Christmas Day, I embarked on a twenty-four hour train journey to the east India state of Andhra Pradesh. The journey was spent surrounded by Hindu pilgrims making their annual pilgrimage to Sabrimala Temple. This was my own pilgrimage. It gave a new perspective on the journey of Mary and Joseph. They were far from home, away from family. While they were more than likely surrounded by a multitude of other “passengers” on the journey, maybe they felt lonely. They certainly stuck out- possibly even a spectacle! Mary was very heavy with child and they were scrutinized for conceiving a child out of wedlock.

I spent the week at the Parakal Missions Home of Love. Here is a place where boys come when their parents have perished or can no longer afford to keep them. The surrounding villages are mostly composed of straw-roofed huts, echoing the picture I formulated as a child of the manger scene. Old men and children sit atop ox and donkey carts teeming with hay or cotton. I met the shepherds. And the day laborers. And the farmers. They still remain on the fringes of their society after some 2000 years. They continue to be exploited. But who were the first to receive the Good News? Who saw the star and were the first to greet the child? These are the times when I throw up my hands and ask, “Where is God? What is fair about any of this?” These people have next to nothing. These boys have no family, nothing of their own and live in a place that barely meets its day-to day financial needs. And, God! These are the lucky ones. At the boys’ home they have a roof and people that take care for them. And food to eat. Tears creep down my face. But, as I sit among the boys and take a deep look around, I know that God is here. He is in this place. These are the hungry, the fatherless, the widowed. The ‘least of these.’ And He is with them. Suffering with them. I have not experienced such love and hospitality as I did with these boys and the staff of the home. I see that they are loved and in the hands
I missed the Christmas season spent surrounded by my family and friends celebrating a myriad of traditions. But, this year my simple celebrations were spent with new friends and the people that welcomed me in. Maybe this Christmas was the closest I’ve been to the nativity. Never before have I hovered so closely to the trough and peered into the eyes of the Baby that came to show the world a radical way to live.