ENTRY 4
All are silent as Miss arrives—without acknowledging anyone
else’s presence she lifts her chin, kicks off her shoes, and with a flick of
her wrist flings her bag for a nearby child to catch. Another girl clearly
knows this routine; with downcast posture she quickly collects Miss’s sandals
and follows her upstairs to her room. Children stay quiet, listening for what
humor Miss has returned with. Will she have a spat with the cook or laugh with
a friend on the phone? When the children are certain that Miss will not be
coming back down, their voices slowly return to them.
I may not be able to understand many words, but I can understand eyes. There is joy, and there is fear. I have seen both here. Children’s eyes reveal much.
Joy.
Boys chasing dirty chicks. Girls twirling in colorful dresses. Children picking fruit off the trees. Singing songs, playing games, sitting and laughing. Joy.
Fear.
Children huddled silently outside as they wait for their meal. Heads tucked into their laps. Yelled at for something. Hit for something. Apologizing for something. Something I can’t understand.
Joy.
The girls teach me to wiggle my hips and twirl my hands. I teach them the Macarena. The song never ends, and neither do they. Constantly: “do da dance, do da dance!” I really hope the Macarena is not my lasting mark on India.
Fear.
Finding hidden corners for their laughter, their play, their dance--where they won’t get caught having joy. Children not to be seen, not to be heard.
As I look around, something starts to surface in me: blame. I think these kids are mistreated, unheard, unseen, unloved. Why do the orphans eat rice standing in a large room, while the adults get a large meal seated at a nice table? Why do the children clean, but they won’t let me touch a broom? Why are the children hit when they act out of line? Somehow my lack of understanding never inhibits me from an abundance of rash opinions.
In my aggravation, my Protestant-spirit wants to start some sort of Elevate-the-Children Revolution, but I realize that’s no solution. As I pace back and forth in my room, asking the Lord to help me to see as he wants me to see, I realize: in my prideful heart I think I’m a better candidate for loving these children than the ones who are already here…but I’m not the one always here. Perhaps, I should stop trying to see the adults as the enemy. Adults who were also once children. Adults who also need the Father’s love. And then I know what I am to do: pray for Miss.
So I do.
At first alone in my room. But then with her, for her. The pout in her lip, I realize, is partly there because she is sick. “Not feeleen good,” Miss says. I ask to pray for her, and the next day she starts to feel better. Instead of paying tribute to the medicine she received at her doctor’s visit, Miss smiles at me “God answer your prayer. Nice girl, nice girl.”
But not only does God heal her, but he also begins an even bigger work in me. Yes, He healed my sickness, too-- by His grace and the prayers of so many--but that’s not even what I’m referring to here. I’m talking about how God has been healing a blindness I didn’t even know I had.
Where I once saw as a haughty strut, I now see an elegant stride. One of the orphan girls takes Miss’s bags and follows behind, quietly, as Miss enters her frequented worksite: a missionary home for widows. Miss gives her smileness nod, and the orphan girl presents the bag to the onlookers—pouring out its contents: a pile of small red fruits. The women bicker and grab. Miss uses the harsh tone I am so used to hearing—joining in the argument. Once all is evenly dispersed, Miss turns to me and explains, “Or else dey weel fayt over da food.”
Miss shows me around the widows’ worksite. “Dis is where dey weaf. Make tings—sell an make mahnee.” Miss guides me over to an elderly woman who teaches me how to use her weaver’s contraption. Miss also asks for my help to write a proposal for financial support for the purchase of their yarn. The widows don’t make enough off of their goods to cover the cost of supplies. I find out that Miss uses some of her own personal funds to make this operation possible (she doesn’t want me to include this in the proposal).
I’ve been missing something. Miss. Miss laughs. Miss smiles. Miss encourages me. All this beauty, how could I miss? Maybe, just maybe, because others are missing Miss, too.
After our trip to the Widow’s center, I hear Miss’s husband come back to the orphanage. Some sort of argument ensues. Tension high, the children’s vibrant laughter is now subdued. Her husband eats with his other well-dressed friend. Served downstairs at the supper table. Without Miss. Later I find her alone--upstairs in the kitchen. Sitting at the door to a balcony overlooking the meal where she is not—from what I can tell—welcome to participate. And then I see—is that a tear? Not something I am used to seeing here—not even in the children. Miss keeps looking out—thinking, sad. I sit next to her. Quiet. She welcomes my presence; I think it is a comfort to her.
After some time in silence, Miss says to me as she continues to look out towards the sky, “Dey are always fayteen.” Since ‘dey’ could refer to a number of different people, I am glad for her clarification, “da widows--dey are always fayteen.”
I know there is more behind this than those widows.
“The boys I worked with in Honduras,” I say gently. “They were always fighting too.”
“Hmm?” she turns to me curiously.
“I think it’s because they never really believed that they would be provided for,” I say as their faces flash before me. “That they had to take care of themselves because they thought that no one else would.”
“Hmmm…” she gives a soft nod and looks back out at the sky.
Fear.
That no one sees me. That no one takes care of me. So I have to. And so, I fight.
Broken systems are made up of broken hearts.
Joy.
Just around the corner.
The next day one of the girls teaches me an Indian dance routine she learned for this past year’s Christmas pageant. Once I have committed the steps to memory, something compels me to run upstairs. I find Miss seated in the kitchen—her right foot propped up on a chair with one of the young worker girls is giving it a massage as she plays some sort of fruit popping game on her phone. Still giddy with laughter from before, I interrupt by performing the dance routine for Miss and the (for lack of better words) servant girl. Miss laughs—pleased. I feel like a court Jester. I am too delighted to care.
“Who show you dat?” Miss asks as servant-girl scurries off.
“Monika,” I say.
Miss nods approvingly, “She eez good dancer.”
Before I know what has happened, Servant-girl has gone and fetched Monika along with her friend who witnessed my training. They enter, afraid. Without a smile, Miss motions for them to dance. Oh no, what have I done…
The girls look at each other—uncertain. Instructed to dance in front of the very person they’ve been trying to hide their dancing from.
But I saw Miss laugh. I saw Miss pleased. I know not to be afraid.
With leftover giggles I encourage them, “It’s good! It’s good! She says it’s good!”
So I dance with them. Miss plays on her phone but glances up just enough for them to notice her faint smile. When we are finished, they run off. I follow, not sure if I should apologize or try to explain. I never intended to rat anyone out!
But as I go look for them, I find them returning with more girls. A group of them—going back to find Miss. They want to present another dance. Miss puts down her phone and watches the new routine, and she smiles.
The rumor of what is taking place must have spread, because I see the entire stairwell filled with the orphan girls, all peeking through the kitchen door to watch the dancing. And Miss. Who is very much enjoying herself… and them.
Joy.
Too big for fear to have the last say. There is always something that causes the joy to burst through. Even in Miss… Who, by the way, found me later that day to hug me and prayed, “Tank you Lord for sendeen Katee. And for da dancing. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
I may not be able to understand many words, but I can understand eyes. There is joy, and there is fear. I have seen both here. Children’s eyes reveal much.
Joy.
Boys chasing dirty chicks. Girls twirling in colorful dresses. Children picking fruit off the trees. Singing songs, playing games, sitting and laughing. Joy.
Fear.
Children huddled silently outside as they wait for their meal. Heads tucked into their laps. Yelled at for something. Hit for something. Apologizing for something. Something I can’t understand.
Joy.
The girls teach me to wiggle my hips and twirl my hands. I teach them the Macarena. The song never ends, and neither do they. Constantly: “do da dance, do da dance!” I really hope the Macarena is not my lasting mark on India.
Fear.
Finding hidden corners for their laughter, their play, their dance--where they won’t get caught having joy. Children not to be seen, not to be heard.
As I look around, something starts to surface in me: blame. I think these kids are mistreated, unheard, unseen, unloved. Why do the orphans eat rice standing in a large room, while the adults get a large meal seated at a nice table? Why do the children clean, but they won’t let me touch a broom? Why are the children hit when they act out of line? Somehow my lack of understanding never inhibits me from an abundance of rash opinions.
In my aggravation, my Protestant-spirit wants to start some sort of Elevate-the-Children Revolution, but I realize that’s no solution. As I pace back and forth in my room, asking the Lord to help me to see as he wants me to see, I realize: in my prideful heart I think I’m a better candidate for loving these children than the ones who are already here…but I’m not the one always here. Perhaps, I should stop trying to see the adults as the enemy. Adults who were also once children. Adults who also need the Father’s love. And then I know what I am to do: pray for Miss.
So I do.
At first alone in my room. But then with her, for her. The pout in her lip, I realize, is partly there because she is sick. “Not feeleen good,” Miss says. I ask to pray for her, and the next day she starts to feel better. Instead of paying tribute to the medicine she received at her doctor’s visit, Miss smiles at me “God answer your prayer. Nice girl, nice girl.”
But not only does God heal her, but he also begins an even bigger work in me. Yes, He healed my sickness, too-- by His grace and the prayers of so many--but that’s not even what I’m referring to here. I’m talking about how God has been healing a blindness I didn’t even know I had.
Where I once saw as a haughty strut, I now see an elegant stride. One of the orphan girls takes Miss’s bags and follows behind, quietly, as Miss enters her frequented worksite: a missionary home for widows. Miss gives her smileness nod, and the orphan girl presents the bag to the onlookers—pouring out its contents: a pile of small red fruits. The women bicker and grab. Miss uses the harsh tone I am so used to hearing—joining in the argument. Once all is evenly dispersed, Miss turns to me and explains, “Or else dey weel fayt over da food.”
Miss shows me around the widows’ worksite. “Dis is where dey weaf. Make tings—sell an make mahnee.” Miss guides me over to an elderly woman who teaches me how to use her weaver’s contraption. Miss also asks for my help to write a proposal for financial support for the purchase of their yarn. The widows don’t make enough off of their goods to cover the cost of supplies. I find out that Miss uses some of her own personal funds to make this operation possible (she doesn’t want me to include this in the proposal).
I’ve been missing something. Miss. Miss laughs. Miss smiles. Miss encourages me. All this beauty, how could I miss? Maybe, just maybe, because others are missing Miss, too.
After our trip to the Widow’s center, I hear Miss’s husband come back to the orphanage. Some sort of argument ensues. Tension high, the children’s vibrant laughter is now subdued. Her husband eats with his other well-dressed friend. Served downstairs at the supper table. Without Miss. Later I find her alone--upstairs in the kitchen. Sitting at the door to a balcony overlooking the meal where she is not—from what I can tell—welcome to participate. And then I see—is that a tear? Not something I am used to seeing here—not even in the children. Miss keeps looking out—thinking, sad. I sit next to her. Quiet. She welcomes my presence; I think it is a comfort to her.
After some time in silence, Miss says to me as she continues to look out towards the sky, “Dey are always fayteen.” Since ‘dey’ could refer to a number of different people, I am glad for her clarification, “da widows--dey are always fayteen.”
I know there is more behind this than those widows.
“The boys I worked with in Honduras,” I say gently. “They were always fighting too.”
“Hmm?” she turns to me curiously.
“I think it’s because they never really believed that they would be provided for,” I say as their faces flash before me. “That they had to take care of themselves because they thought that no one else would.”
“Hmmm…” she gives a soft nod and looks back out at the sky.
Fear.
That no one sees me. That no one takes care of me. So I have to. And so, I fight.
Broken systems are made up of broken hearts.
Joy.
Just around the corner.
The next day one of the girls teaches me an Indian dance routine she learned for this past year’s Christmas pageant. Once I have committed the steps to memory, something compels me to run upstairs. I find Miss seated in the kitchen—her right foot propped up on a chair with one of the young worker girls is giving it a massage as she plays some sort of fruit popping game on her phone. Still giddy with laughter from before, I interrupt by performing the dance routine for Miss and the (for lack of better words) servant girl. Miss laughs—pleased. I feel like a court Jester. I am too delighted to care.
“Who show you dat?” Miss asks as servant-girl scurries off.
“Monika,” I say.
Miss nods approvingly, “She eez good dancer.”
Before I know what has happened, Servant-girl has gone and fetched Monika along with her friend who witnessed my training. They enter, afraid. Without a smile, Miss motions for them to dance. Oh no, what have I done…
The girls look at each other—uncertain. Instructed to dance in front of the very person they’ve been trying to hide their dancing from.
But I saw Miss laugh. I saw Miss pleased. I know not to be afraid.
With leftover giggles I encourage them, “It’s good! It’s good! She says it’s good!”
So I dance with them. Miss plays on her phone but glances up just enough for them to notice her faint smile. When we are finished, they run off. I follow, not sure if I should apologize or try to explain. I never intended to rat anyone out!
But as I go look for them, I find them returning with more girls. A group of them—going back to find Miss. They want to present another dance. Miss puts down her phone and watches the new routine, and she smiles.
The rumor of what is taking place must have spread, because I see the entire stairwell filled with the orphan girls, all peeking through the kitchen door to watch the dancing. And Miss. Who is very much enjoying herself… and them.
Joy.
Too big for fear to have the last say. There is always something that causes the joy to burst through. Even in Miss… Who, by the way, found me later that day to hug me and prayed, “Tank you Lord for sendeen Katee. And for da dancing. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
ENTRY 5
There are no mirrors here.
Not-so-coincidentally, a few days before flying here, I said to my friend Megan on a walk, “I wonder if there will be mirrors in heaven. I mean, I don’t really think that we’ll need them. Isn’t the purpose mirrors to fix something that is wrong? Or out of vanity? And since we won’t have anything to fix, we won’t need them anymore. Maybe we will never know what we look like, and instead all our joy will come from everyone else’s beauty.”
Just a thought. But I sort of think I’m right.
I find a few of the girls cleaning out a room filled with old papers and school books. After they have a few laughs over one of the girls farting (childhood humor is cross-cultural), they take a sudden interest in my physical appearance (partially to evade their chore, I’m sure). The girls show me their sparkly studded ears and then point to my naked ones. They want me to wear earrings, so I go to my room and fetch a pair that I am thankful to have brought along. The girls nod and wow with approval at my dangly jewelry. Next they take out my hair band and begin to braid. I have no idea what I look like, but the looks on their faces—not mine—are what bring me such joy. I delight in them delighting in me.
There are no mirrors here, and it has been so… freeing.
Not because I have a face I don’t think is worth looking at, nor because I don’t have anything that needs fixing. But because the people here care for me, when I have something that needs fixing, they fix it for me. And not just fix: beautify.
Miss watches as I put back two of the three slices of bread I am served right before bed. Her face tightens with disapproval. “No no no!” She motions for the cook to bring back the bread. “You eet” she tells me, “Or I beat you!” I break out into laughter; she does, too. I know she is kidding, but I eat it all anyway.
“I never want dee visitors to come,” Miss confesses to me as they serve us another meal. “De Amereecins, dey always want to do. Not seeeet and taaaaaaalk. But seet and talk, dat eez my nature. But you seet and talk wid me—very nice.”
I am suddenly thankful for the Lord’s continual conviction over this. The whole sitting thing certainly doesn’t come naturally for me.
“And de prayers,” she adds. “Very nice. Satan he get in da mind, you know? But da prayers, dey help dat.”
I smile and look down at my plate only to realize that I have been touching my dirty foot. “You want spoon?” Miss asks me, probably reading my expression. “No, no,” I say with a wink. “We aren’t allowed to do this in America.” And forgetting my foot I plunge my hand into the soupy rice. Miss smiles widely, “A true missionary!” And with a grin she digs in, too.
I don’t need a mirror to know what I look like in this moment—all I have to do is look at the woman sitting across the table: beautiful.
ENTRY 6
I see pictures of my niece—my brother and his wife’s beautiful newborn girl—that my mom has messaged me over facebook. (Miss is letting me use the hotspot on her phone). My heart is so warm. I have been dreaming about my brother, Christine, and their little Parker Rose for days. Such a precious gift this girl, and she has finally entered the world! I long to see this family in person, but right now I am here and I know I will get to see them soon. In the meantime, flocks of orphan girls in India are excited about this little child. “You—Auntie! You—Auntie!” they tell me.
After she looks at the photos, Miss tells me that I am to stay back while she goes to work. I thought I would be going with her since there is a group of church people from Illinois who are supposed to visit the Widow’s Center today. I knew this group would be coming—many are from my hometown—and I have been looking forward to their arrival for some time. Originally Miss tried to connect me with them for the duration of their stay. Probably to get rid of me. But now we are friends, I think. Last evening Miss told me before I was to meet them, “Don let dem take you from me!” I assured her that I have no intention to leave. I know God has placed me here for this time. Nevertheless, whatever time I am allotted with these other strangers is a gift to me. A taste of another home in the midst of somewhere I still barely know is such a refreshment to me. Knowing I would like to see them, Miss assures me that she will go to work first and pick me up in the evening to spend time with the group when they arrive at the Widow’s Center. I nod and go about my day—a day that for some reason feels so long.
Today, I am hot. I am tired. I am sad. For reasons I don’t understand, I just want to go home.
But I don’t even know where home is.
Every “home” I go to in this world there is another home where I am not, and it seems that I have just added another one. So many people I love scattered all over the world, and here I sit: alone. My ache leads me to my knees in prayer, to the one where all of the people I love and care about are right there with me, all at the same time. In my heart and on my tongue in prayer as I go to the one I long to see most: my Jesus. No, I am not alone. He is here with me, but right now I long to see him face-to-face and for him to gather the whole family together. But right now, I know, there are still orphans. There are people here who have yet to be adopted into that family. Who have yet to taste his incredible love. And by his grace, I get to be a part of that feeding. Right now, in India, even though so much of me wants to go Home.
But I am not Home. I am here where everything is quiet. The girls are gone at school. A few of the young worker women are watching an Indian dance program on their television set. I pass most of the afternoon in the orphanage’s garden—going through John, the Spanish version, to prepare for my trip to Honduras. My focus drifts… I think about all the places in India I am currently not. There is so much to be explored. I think about the group and all the things they will have seen. As I start to compare, the Spirit gently reminds me that this is where he has me. You can’t just keep making babies, you have to raise them, too.
There are no mirrors here.
Not-so-coincidentally, a few days before flying here, I said to my friend Megan on a walk, “I wonder if there will be mirrors in heaven. I mean, I don’t really think that we’ll need them. Isn’t the purpose mirrors to fix something that is wrong? Or out of vanity? And since we won’t have anything to fix, we won’t need them anymore. Maybe we will never know what we look like, and instead all our joy will come from everyone else’s beauty.”
Just a thought. But I sort of think I’m right.
I find a few of the girls cleaning out a room filled with old papers and school books. After they have a few laughs over one of the girls farting (childhood humor is cross-cultural), they take a sudden interest in my physical appearance (partially to evade their chore, I’m sure). The girls show me their sparkly studded ears and then point to my naked ones. They want me to wear earrings, so I go to my room and fetch a pair that I am thankful to have brought along. The girls nod and wow with approval at my dangly jewelry. Next they take out my hair band and begin to braid. I have no idea what I look like, but the looks on their faces—not mine—are what bring me such joy. I delight in them delighting in me.
There are no mirrors here, and it has been so… freeing.
Not because I have a face I don’t think is worth looking at, nor because I don’t have anything that needs fixing. But because the people here care for me, when I have something that needs fixing, they fix it for me. And not just fix: beautify.
Miss watches as I put back two of the three slices of bread I am served right before bed. Her face tightens with disapproval. “No no no!” She motions for the cook to bring back the bread. “You eet” she tells me, “Or I beat you!” I break out into laughter; she does, too. I know she is kidding, but I eat it all anyway.
“I never want dee visitors to come,” Miss confesses to me as they serve us another meal. “De Amereecins, dey always want to do. Not seeeet and taaaaaaalk. But seet and talk, dat eez my nature. But you seet and talk wid me—very nice.”
I am suddenly thankful for the Lord’s continual conviction over this. The whole sitting thing certainly doesn’t come naturally for me.
“And de prayers,” she adds. “Very nice. Satan he get in da mind, you know? But da prayers, dey help dat.”
I smile and look down at my plate only to realize that I have been touching my dirty foot. “You want spoon?” Miss asks me, probably reading my expression. “No, no,” I say with a wink. “We aren’t allowed to do this in America.” And forgetting my foot I plunge my hand into the soupy rice. Miss smiles widely, “A true missionary!” And with a grin she digs in, too.
I don’t need a mirror to know what I look like in this moment—all I have to do is look at the woman sitting across the table: beautiful.
ENTRY 6
I see pictures of my niece—my brother and his wife’s beautiful newborn girl—that my mom has messaged me over facebook. (Miss is letting me use the hotspot on her phone). My heart is so warm. I have been dreaming about my brother, Christine, and their little Parker Rose for days. Such a precious gift this girl, and she has finally entered the world! I long to see this family in person, but right now I am here and I know I will get to see them soon. In the meantime, flocks of orphan girls in India are excited about this little child. “You—Auntie! You—Auntie!” they tell me.
After she looks at the photos, Miss tells me that I am to stay back while she goes to work. I thought I would be going with her since there is a group of church people from Illinois who are supposed to visit the Widow’s Center today. I knew this group would be coming—many are from my hometown—and I have been looking forward to their arrival for some time. Originally Miss tried to connect me with them for the duration of their stay. Probably to get rid of me. But now we are friends, I think. Last evening Miss told me before I was to meet them, “Don let dem take you from me!” I assured her that I have no intention to leave. I know God has placed me here for this time. Nevertheless, whatever time I am allotted with these other strangers is a gift to me. A taste of another home in the midst of somewhere I still barely know is such a refreshment to me. Knowing I would like to see them, Miss assures me that she will go to work first and pick me up in the evening to spend time with the group when they arrive at the Widow’s Center. I nod and go about my day—a day that for some reason feels so long.
Today, I am hot. I am tired. I am sad. For reasons I don’t understand, I just want to go home.
But I don’t even know where home is.
Every “home” I go to in this world there is another home where I am not, and it seems that I have just added another one. So many people I love scattered all over the world, and here I sit: alone. My ache leads me to my knees in prayer, to the one where all of the people I love and care about are right there with me, all at the same time. In my heart and on my tongue in prayer as I go to the one I long to see most: my Jesus. No, I am not alone. He is here with me, but right now I long to see him face-to-face and for him to gather the whole family together. But right now, I know, there are still orphans. There are people here who have yet to be adopted into that family. Who have yet to taste his incredible love. And by his grace, I get to be a part of that feeding. Right now, in India, even though so much of me wants to go Home.
But I am not Home. I am here where everything is quiet. The girls are gone at school. A few of the young worker women are watching an Indian dance program on their television set. I pass most of the afternoon in the orphanage’s garden—going through John, the Spanish version, to prepare for my trip to Honduras. My focus drifts… I think about all the places in India I am currently not. There is so much to be explored. I think about the group and all the things they will have seen. As I start to compare, the Spirit gently reminds me that this is where he has me. You can’t just keep making babies, you have to raise them, too.
Discipleship takes time. Our salvation comes in an instant,
sanctification, however, is a process. A long one—all the way Home.
And then I see Miss—she has come home. I have just finished studying John 15 and 16. The Lord uses these verses to prompt me to go love her. So I do… until she tells me, “Ohhh da day waz soooo so blest, Katee. Da Lord hear your prayer! Da group—“
The group?
“—da group dey come and dey visit and dey praaaaay--.”
The group?
“Dey even keep saying Kateee, Kateee—dey ask about you. I deed not tell dem you were here—“
I sense the Spirit reminding me to love her. But I don’t know how right now.
She can tell something is wrong. “You always happy—what eez wrong? Why sad? Be happy!”
I don’t know what to say.
“Eez dis about da group? Dey came early. Dey were supposed to come at 5 but dey show up at 2!”
I don’t believe her. Why else would she not tell them I was here? Is she afraid I will join the group—is that why she is trying to keep me for herself?
Her brother joins us at the table and they both keep pestering me. They try to feed me. I have no appetite. I excuse myself and go to my room.
This isn’t about the group. I have such a hard time already with trust—it has been broken so many times The children here are always catching butterflies and breaking their wings, so they won’t fly away. Am I just another butterfly? What once felt like the Lord’s special haven now feels like Rapunzel’s tower. I feel trapped, manipulated, lied to, alone. And so I go to the only one whose word I can count on, and I pour out my heart through all its broken spaces.
I know I am being melodramatic, but the Lord is gracious with me, even so. “In God I trust.. Love always trusts, love always hopes, love always perseveres… Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you… Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good… Forgive as the Lord forgave you… Put on compassionate hearts…” I could go on… and on… but the summary is this: life has been breathed into me. I am to love—all and unconditionally—it is not mine to judge another’s heart. There is so little I understand. The Lord has shown us how he ‘makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good.’ When it is time, the weeds and the plants will be revealed based on their response to the sun. My job: keep shining the light. And hope for the best. And so I do. I go up, newly joyful and hug Miss, from the heart. Hoping for the best.
And then the morning comes. Gloom. Miss is angry for no reason that I can see and I feel invisible to her today. Could the trigger be me? It feels too linked with the evening prior. She reprimands the girls and gets them in line—sending them—fear-struck—off to their school. One of the girls falls into What-eez-da-problem Girl (the one who so often whacks the younger ones who are out of line) and accidentally knocks her in the mouth. What-eez-da-problem Girl starts to cry. And doesn’t stop. Her displays of power masking a girl who wants to keep from getting hurt herself. After the girls are out of sight, Miss calls down her breakfast. I am not invited.
I revert to old thinking patterns, imagining that this must be about me. Maybe the Spirit has convicted her of her lie and she feels guilty? Maybe she realizes she can’t control me and bottle my happiness for her own pleasure? Is this sort of weird punishment being taken out on the girls because she knows that is what will hurt me most? When not submitted to the light, the mind plays awful tricks with the shadows.
I pray for the Spirit to come convict, to lead to repentance, and to burst forth in love.
The Lord answers this prayer, but I find that it was not for Miss, after all, it was for me. I was blind. Again.
Later that morning, I see Miss. I have already prayed for the strength to love her, to see her with eyes of grace, and for the Lord to prepare a time together. Although I don’t necessarily feel it, I am ready for what is to come. “You eet?” she asks me. “Not yet,” I say. “I tawt you eet already—come!”
Miss has me fed. Then she tells me, “The teacher called. The students not been doeen der homework. Just playeen.”
So that is why the kids were in trouble this morning… How quickly I turn on those I don’t understand… All of a sudden, I believe her for the rest. Not that her honesty or lack-therof is what should determine how I respond. Our love must be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect-not to be withheld from anyone or too soon we will find ourselves not loving anyone at all. Forgive me for my judgmental heart, Lord. Forgive me for my pride. I am not the Hero—you are, Jesus. Thank you for your grace. Thank you for your love.
I don’t know anyone’s heart—good or bad—but the Lord does. And he knows mine. And he is making it more like his. I know my heart still needs so much work (and not just mine—something I am, unfortunately at times, far more keenly aware of). I long for the day when the hearts of all the Lord’s children will be free to love without fear of getting broken. No more displays of self-protecting power. No more motives to be questioned. No more pride getting in the way of seeing others for who they really are. Truly sharing, truly seeing, truly living, truly loving—with the One whose unconditional love made our love possible. With our Savior. Our Jesus. Then we will finally be Home.
ENTRY 7
“Beware of the little foxes.” Little foxes eat a few flowers. But little foxes turn into big foxes. Big foxes eat lots of flowers. Pretty soon, no more garden.
I let a little fox go.
One of the littlest boys shows me a small bill in his pocket. Did he take it? I try to tell him with simple English, charades, and a stern expression that if he took it he needs to give it back to who it belongs to. Did it register? I don’t know—I’m so tired of not being able to communicate. I wonder if I should search down another adult to tell what I saw, but I reason my way out of searching: maybe he will do what I asked or maybe it even actually belongs to him. Besides, if he did take it, it was probably mine anyhow. It is just a small bill. I let it go.
Then this morning I read in Acts. Paul tells the Ephesian church, “I am innocent of the blood of all, for I did not shrink from declaring to you the whole counsel of God.” I pause—this brings a holy fear. Have I? I pray for courage to declare the whole counsel of God. I know the Holy Spirit’s first role is conviction of sin. How else will we know we must turn? How else will we or this world change? You cannot love without truth. They go together. I know this, and yet I often shrink. My initial concern for others’ favor blocks genuine love for them—the kind of love whose initial pain brings lasting healing. Oh Lord, help me to love in truth!
Later today I accompany Pastor for his errands around town. He shows me temple after temple littering each corner of the busy streets. Gaudy, pastel-colored little shacks housing various garlanded statues. Pastor tells me that every morning hundreds of Hindus will gather around these ‘gods’ to worship and pray to them.
“What do they think their prayers will do?” I ask Pastor. “Do? No!” Pastor points to his heart. “To sateesfayee.” So there really is an ache in all of us to worship God. These touchable-idols are just more obvious counterfeit replacements than our secret ones.
We stop to buy bread. I look in my fanny pack to pull out some change, but it is gone. All of it. I try to invent some sort of excuse. Maybe I dropped it. Misplaced it… But I know I haven’t.
The little fox is eating away at my conscience. I think of the small bill. I think of the key that Miss gave me for my room. I think of how I started leaving it unlocked here and there—wanting the kids to know I trust them. Meanwhile I wasn’t trusting the one who has been entrusted to take care of me. In my misplaced trust, I opened the door to another’s temptation. I let the little fox get away. Now, the garden is gone. Feeling like the confession is my own, I tell Pastor.
The money isn’t what concerns me—it is the child, the orphan who never trusts there is a constant parent who will provide. But it isn’t even just this child who concerns me—it’s me. I wonder about how many little foxes I have let go. The little foxes trying to eat up my heart—hurting both me and those around me. I don’t want sin to be real. But it is. And I don’t want to just be a photo-taking tourist of it. I want to hate sin, because I want to love the Lord. I want to love his people.
People. People. People. They are everywhere. Lining the streets. Streets filled with ridiculous statues--hand-crafted, ugly, tarnished, laughable “gods”. As we draw near to one of Tiruvannamalai’s most famous temple-sites, I suddenly see white-people row. Foreigners who fly in from all over the world to pray to this nonsense. And for what? Has anyone told them that they are worshipping a lie? So easy for my eyes to see…but what about the sin in me. The sin I’ve gotten used to. The sin that causes me to look away when I have seen another steal, because in that moment I cared more about me than another. I cared more about me than God. The true God. The only one who deserves our worship, and yet we so often throw it away to another.
“Dat is why we must pray—all deez idols,” Pastor tells me as he points yet another shrine. “Paul een Acts—he see da statue ‘One true God’ and tell dem dat eet eez Jesus Christ. That eez what happen here—in Tiruvannamalai.”
I look around… temple after temple… So many uncaught little foxes, and it appears that the Garden is gone. But our God sees, and he cares. About his name. About his people.
“Dat is why we teach da cheeldren,” Pastor says to me. “Den dey will know Jesus and—“ he makes a growing motion with his hand. Fruit-bearing. Discipleship-making. Light shining… Through the little children.
Little children… but if these children can’t trust those who are caring for them here, how will they ever learn to trust their unseen Father?
And then I see Miss—she has come home. I have just finished studying John 15 and 16. The Lord uses these verses to prompt me to go love her. So I do… until she tells me, “Ohhh da day waz soooo so blest, Katee. Da Lord hear your prayer! Da group—“
The group?
“—da group dey come and dey visit and dey praaaaay--.”
The group?
“Dey even keep saying Kateee, Kateee—dey ask about you. I deed not tell dem you were here—“
I sense the Spirit reminding me to love her. But I don’t know how right now.
She can tell something is wrong. “You always happy—what eez wrong? Why sad? Be happy!”
I don’t know what to say.
“Eez dis about da group? Dey came early. Dey were supposed to come at 5 but dey show up at 2!”
I don’t believe her. Why else would she not tell them I was here? Is she afraid I will join the group—is that why she is trying to keep me for herself?
Her brother joins us at the table and they both keep pestering me. They try to feed me. I have no appetite. I excuse myself and go to my room.
This isn’t about the group. I have such a hard time already with trust—it has been broken so many times The children here are always catching butterflies and breaking their wings, so they won’t fly away. Am I just another butterfly? What once felt like the Lord’s special haven now feels like Rapunzel’s tower. I feel trapped, manipulated, lied to, alone. And so I go to the only one whose word I can count on, and I pour out my heart through all its broken spaces.
I know I am being melodramatic, but the Lord is gracious with me, even so. “In God I trust.. Love always trusts, love always hopes, love always perseveres… Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you… Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good… Forgive as the Lord forgave you… Put on compassionate hearts…” I could go on… and on… but the summary is this: life has been breathed into me. I am to love—all and unconditionally—it is not mine to judge another’s heart. There is so little I understand. The Lord has shown us how he ‘makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good.’ When it is time, the weeds and the plants will be revealed based on their response to the sun. My job: keep shining the light. And hope for the best. And so I do. I go up, newly joyful and hug Miss, from the heart. Hoping for the best.
And then the morning comes. Gloom. Miss is angry for no reason that I can see and I feel invisible to her today. Could the trigger be me? It feels too linked with the evening prior. She reprimands the girls and gets them in line—sending them—fear-struck—off to their school. One of the girls falls into What-eez-da-problem Girl (the one who so often whacks the younger ones who are out of line) and accidentally knocks her in the mouth. What-eez-da-problem Girl starts to cry. And doesn’t stop. Her displays of power masking a girl who wants to keep from getting hurt herself. After the girls are out of sight, Miss calls down her breakfast. I am not invited.
I revert to old thinking patterns, imagining that this must be about me. Maybe the Spirit has convicted her of her lie and she feels guilty? Maybe she realizes she can’t control me and bottle my happiness for her own pleasure? Is this sort of weird punishment being taken out on the girls because she knows that is what will hurt me most? When not submitted to the light, the mind plays awful tricks with the shadows.
I pray for the Spirit to come convict, to lead to repentance, and to burst forth in love.
The Lord answers this prayer, but I find that it was not for Miss, after all, it was for me. I was blind. Again.
Later that morning, I see Miss. I have already prayed for the strength to love her, to see her with eyes of grace, and for the Lord to prepare a time together. Although I don’t necessarily feel it, I am ready for what is to come. “You eet?” she asks me. “Not yet,” I say. “I tawt you eet already—come!”
Miss has me fed. Then she tells me, “The teacher called. The students not been doeen der homework. Just playeen.”
So that is why the kids were in trouble this morning… How quickly I turn on those I don’t understand… All of a sudden, I believe her for the rest. Not that her honesty or lack-therof is what should determine how I respond. Our love must be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect-not to be withheld from anyone or too soon we will find ourselves not loving anyone at all. Forgive me for my judgmental heart, Lord. Forgive me for my pride. I am not the Hero—you are, Jesus. Thank you for your grace. Thank you for your love.
I don’t know anyone’s heart—good or bad—but the Lord does. And he knows mine. And he is making it more like his. I know my heart still needs so much work (and not just mine—something I am, unfortunately at times, far more keenly aware of). I long for the day when the hearts of all the Lord’s children will be free to love without fear of getting broken. No more displays of self-protecting power. No more motives to be questioned. No more pride getting in the way of seeing others for who they really are. Truly sharing, truly seeing, truly living, truly loving—with the One whose unconditional love made our love possible. With our Savior. Our Jesus. Then we will finally be Home.
ENTRY 7
“Beware of the little foxes.” Little foxes eat a few flowers. But little foxes turn into big foxes. Big foxes eat lots of flowers. Pretty soon, no more garden.
I let a little fox go.
One of the littlest boys shows me a small bill in his pocket. Did he take it? I try to tell him with simple English, charades, and a stern expression that if he took it he needs to give it back to who it belongs to. Did it register? I don’t know—I’m so tired of not being able to communicate. I wonder if I should search down another adult to tell what I saw, but I reason my way out of searching: maybe he will do what I asked or maybe it even actually belongs to him. Besides, if he did take it, it was probably mine anyhow. It is just a small bill. I let it go.
Then this morning I read in Acts. Paul tells the Ephesian church, “I am innocent of the blood of all, for I did not shrink from declaring to you the whole counsel of God.” I pause—this brings a holy fear. Have I? I pray for courage to declare the whole counsel of God. I know the Holy Spirit’s first role is conviction of sin. How else will we know we must turn? How else will we or this world change? You cannot love without truth. They go together. I know this, and yet I often shrink. My initial concern for others’ favor blocks genuine love for them—the kind of love whose initial pain brings lasting healing. Oh Lord, help me to love in truth!
Later today I accompany Pastor for his errands around town. He shows me temple after temple littering each corner of the busy streets. Gaudy, pastel-colored little shacks housing various garlanded statues. Pastor tells me that every morning hundreds of Hindus will gather around these ‘gods’ to worship and pray to them.
“What do they think their prayers will do?” I ask Pastor. “Do? No!” Pastor points to his heart. “To sateesfayee.” So there really is an ache in all of us to worship God. These touchable-idols are just more obvious counterfeit replacements than our secret ones.
We stop to buy bread. I look in my fanny pack to pull out some change, but it is gone. All of it. I try to invent some sort of excuse. Maybe I dropped it. Misplaced it… But I know I haven’t.
The little fox is eating away at my conscience. I think of the small bill. I think of the key that Miss gave me for my room. I think of how I started leaving it unlocked here and there—wanting the kids to know I trust them. Meanwhile I wasn’t trusting the one who has been entrusted to take care of me. In my misplaced trust, I opened the door to another’s temptation. I let the little fox get away. Now, the garden is gone. Feeling like the confession is my own, I tell Pastor.
The money isn’t what concerns me—it is the child, the orphan who never trusts there is a constant parent who will provide. But it isn’t even just this child who concerns me—it’s me. I wonder about how many little foxes I have let go. The little foxes trying to eat up my heart—hurting both me and those around me. I don’t want sin to be real. But it is. And I don’t want to just be a photo-taking tourist of it. I want to hate sin, because I want to love the Lord. I want to love his people.
People. People. People. They are everywhere. Lining the streets. Streets filled with ridiculous statues--hand-crafted, ugly, tarnished, laughable “gods”. As we draw near to one of Tiruvannamalai’s most famous temple-sites, I suddenly see white-people row. Foreigners who fly in from all over the world to pray to this nonsense. And for what? Has anyone told them that they are worshipping a lie? So easy for my eyes to see…but what about the sin in me. The sin I’ve gotten used to. The sin that causes me to look away when I have seen another steal, because in that moment I cared more about me than another. I cared more about me than God. The true God. The only one who deserves our worship, and yet we so often throw it away to another.
“Dat is why we must pray—all deez idols,” Pastor tells me as he points yet another shrine. “Paul een Acts—he see da statue ‘One true God’ and tell dem dat eet eez Jesus Christ. That eez what happen here—in Tiruvannamalai.”
I look around… temple after temple… So many uncaught little foxes, and it appears that the Garden is gone. But our God sees, and he cares. About his name. About his people.
“Dat is why we teach da cheeldren,” Pastor says to me. “Den dey will know Jesus and—“ he makes a growing motion with his hand. Fruit-bearing. Discipleship-making. Light shining… Through the little children.
Little children… but if these children can’t trust those who are caring for them here, how will they ever learn to trust their unseen Father?
Dat eez why we must pray… Dat eez why we must pray…
“Da yelling,” Miss tells me, “Eet eez because de cheeldren dey are only playeen. Skipping der classes to go be at de friend house. Not doeen der homework. Nuteen.”
I am reminded once again of all the things I initially mis-judged…
“We must do dees so dey weel have some fear,” she says. “Or else dey weel just go to da streets. Not good.”
And then I see.
Miss has been catching the little foxes I keep trying to set free. Miss cares for the garden. Miss cares for these kids… And so, maybe not all fear is bad. Fear that keeps the kids safely in the protection of one who—whether they know it or not—has their best interest in mind. Food, clothing, shelter, education—so much provision. So much demonstrated care. Hopefully, with time, one day their self-protective, mistrusting hearts will heal and they will finally know they don’t have to fear at all. When they finally learn that they are loved.
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