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.

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.