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.
Friday, May 16, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, April 28, 2008
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
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
Thursday, March 27, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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