ENTRY 8
“Goooodbyyy! Goooodbyyyy!” children are waving frantically as I leave one of the many Danish Missionary schools in the area. I’m pretty sure my skin and eye color is what has given me such celebrity status, but I hope what sticks is what they have just seen and heard: Jesus.
Pastor is taking me to various schools to perform sections of The Gospel of John. Once the passage is read (or summarized) in their native tongue, I then put the words to action. Somehow--by the grace of God--they are captivated. Language barrier and all.
“I didn’t realize there were so many missionary schools,” I comment to Pastor as we step into the car and ride to our next location. “There are more Christians here than I thought.”
“No, da children dey are not Christian,” the Pastor shakes his head. “Maybe two, tree. Dat is all.”
“Oh…” I say. So that is why so many of the students had the face markings. “Why would their parents send them to Christian schools then? The education?”
“No, no,” Pastor shakes his head again. “Dat is da only school in da area. Hundred years ago, Danish missionaries start da school and da children come.”
“Oh…” I say baffled yet again. “Are the parents okay with them learning about Jesus? Are they allowed to talk about him?”
“No,” Pastor says. “But da teachers do a little anyway.”
And so do I.
At this moment I am thankful to have come into the country as a single. Apparently the group that just arrived from Illinois was obligated to sign a contract saying that they wouldn’t preach. I’m under no such mandate. Bring it on.
As we make our way through the busy streets Pastor points to large crowd ahead of us. “Sahtahn festival,” he says. “Dey are drest as da gods.” I look at the various people--decked from head to toe in colorful makeup and outlandish costumes, parading next to various statues that they are pushing alongside them on tacky wheeled mounts.
We turn onto another street where Pastor points out Tiruvannamalai’s most famous Ashram (temple), and I am taken aback. Since there aren’t really mirrors here, I am not used to seeing white people anymore. But here, on what I know refer to as ‘White People Row’, the street is lined with other fair-skinned folk.
“Hundred years ago, foreigners dey come here to preach Gospel,” Pastor sneers. “Now dey come to worship Hindu gods!”
I look around at all my fellow foreigners--foreginers who are seeking spirituality, who are embracing a call to ‘go to the nations’ (to do drugs and yoga, that is), and I wonder where all my fellow Christians are. Why aren’t we the ones coming?
“So many missionaries dey come and dey want big convention,” Pastor tells me. “Afterward dey have big sign—'we baptize TWO TOUSAN'! But dese people dat dey baptize—dey already Christian!” Pastor shakes his head and groans. “We need da missionaries to come and talk to da people who don’t know Jesus. All da missionaries go to da big cities: Chennai, Bangalore… We need dem in da small towns like dis—in Tiruvannamalai.”
I smile to myself as I peer out the window, Those who are faithful with little will be faithful with much—this has been the very lesson the Lord has been teaching me day after day as I pour into the orphans and wonder when I will have my time to ‘go’. And now—in His perfect timing—the Lord has blessed that small faithfulness with a big day like today. In da small town like dis—in Tiruvannamalai.
“Goooodbyyy! Goooodbyyyy!” children are waving frantically as I leave one of the many Danish Missionary schools in the area. I’m pretty sure my skin and eye color is what has given me such celebrity status, but I hope what sticks is what they have just seen and heard: Jesus.
Pastor is taking me to various schools to perform sections of The Gospel of John. Once the passage is read (or summarized) in their native tongue, I then put the words to action. Somehow--by the grace of God--they are captivated. Language barrier and all.
“I didn’t realize there were so many missionary schools,” I comment to Pastor as we step into the car and ride to our next location. “There are more Christians here than I thought.”
“No, da children dey are not Christian,” the Pastor shakes his head. “Maybe two, tree. Dat is all.”
“Oh…” I say. So that is why so many of the students had the face markings. “Why would their parents send them to Christian schools then? The education?”
“No, no,” Pastor shakes his head again. “Dat is da only school in da area. Hundred years ago, Danish missionaries start da school and da children come.”
“Oh…” I say baffled yet again. “Are the parents okay with them learning about Jesus? Are they allowed to talk about him?”
“No,” Pastor says. “But da teachers do a little anyway.”
And so do I.
At this moment I am thankful to have come into the country as a single. Apparently the group that just arrived from Illinois was obligated to sign a contract saying that they wouldn’t preach. I’m under no such mandate. Bring it on.
As we make our way through the busy streets Pastor points to large crowd ahead of us. “Sahtahn festival,” he says. “Dey are drest as da gods.” I look at the various people--decked from head to toe in colorful makeup and outlandish costumes, parading next to various statues that they are pushing alongside them on tacky wheeled mounts.
We turn onto another street where Pastor points out Tiruvannamalai’s most famous Ashram (temple), and I am taken aback. Since there aren’t really mirrors here, I am not used to seeing white people anymore. But here, on what I know refer to as ‘White People Row’, the street is lined with other fair-skinned folk.
“Hundred years ago, foreigners dey come here to preach Gospel,” Pastor sneers. “Now dey come to worship Hindu gods!”
I look around at all my fellow foreigners--foreginers who are seeking spirituality, who are embracing a call to ‘go to the nations’ (to do drugs and yoga, that is), and I wonder where all my fellow Christians are. Why aren’t we the ones coming?
“So many missionaries dey come and dey want big convention,” Pastor tells me. “Afterward dey have big sign—'we baptize TWO TOUSAN'! But dese people dat dey baptize—dey already Christian!” Pastor shakes his head and groans. “We need da missionaries to come and talk to da people who don’t know Jesus. All da missionaries go to da big cities: Chennai, Bangalore… We need dem in da small towns like dis—in Tiruvannamalai.”
I smile to myself as I peer out the window, Those who are faithful with little will be faithful with much—this has been the very lesson the Lord has been teaching me day after day as I pour into the orphans and wonder when I will have my time to ‘go’. And now—in His perfect timing—the Lord has blessed that small faithfulness with a big day like today. In da small town like dis—in Tiruvannamalai.
ENTRY 9
I suppose after the day you feel like Super-Missionary, it’s probably healthy to follow it up with one where you feel like you suck. Today is that day.
Sleepless night. The previous day’s wonderful Indian hospitality also meant that I was graciously treated to coffee/tea at each of the schools. Needless to say, I am caffeinated and wired. My mind won’t shut off, and my body feels like it is on fire. From the mosquitos or itchy sheets or just my “thorn in the flesh”, I don’t know. Either way, I realize: crap, I had such a great day--I’m in for it, aren’t I? Yup.
School tour: day 2.
As we wait for the rest of the classes to filter in, I shake hands of the kids who are waiting politely for the program to begin. One by one we exchange names… but then I realize, now I have started something. I have to do this with every class. And the kids… keep… coming. I notice the snickers and the dead silence as everyone watches me go down each row, but I feel like I can’t stop now.
At the second school, I am thrilled to see familiar faces. It’s our kids’ school! They wave at me excitedly; I wave back. Then they ask. In front of their friends. “WHAT’S MY NAME!?!”
Apparently, I didn’t learn all their names.
I ignore the question. Except for one—which I get wrong anyway.
I had such a wonderful idea to pray regularly for the kids by name, which I did… for a while. And there are even a few names that I, admittedly, let slide. Too bad I didn’t use my countless non-sleeping hours the night prior for a refresher. And now, I feel awful. I can’t stop thinking about the names I missed as another large flock of kids comes to me and asks me theirs. Which I know. All of them. But these aren’t in front of their other friends. Oh God, please work this for good… somehow.
When we get back, Pastor picks up on my sleepiness. I confirm that I didn’t really sleep the night before. “Mosquitos?” his friend asks. “Well yes…” There are definitely those, but that wasn’t last night’s issue. Doesn’t seem to matter, though, because these guys are on it. Pastor’s American guests who flew in for the sister’s funeral have now left (hence the start of the tour), and so they call children to go and fetch one of their beds for me. (Apparently being a foot off the ground means less mosquitos?). Anyhow, I am embarrassed. Right outside my room are people sleeping on the floor of the dining hall and here they are bringing in a large frame and cozy mattress pad for me. I am not sure how to respond. I don’t have any language to try and convince the girls that I am not demanding this. I already feel pampered enough with a room all to myself. I try a weird mix of this-is-really-not-necessary but I-am-so-grateful since I am unsure how most appropriately to respond. Overwhelmed by not knowing ‘the right answer’ in how to maneuver Christ-likeness to all the various types of people packed into my now-princess chamber, the Spirit’s conviction to focus on honoring Him brings focus to my concern over how to address the potentially gargantuan range of others’ opinions. I know, I know, Lord—you want me to just receive… doesn’t mean I like it!
Pastor then instructs me to nap the rest of the day (good luck), but that I must eat lunch first. No, no not lunch… I am already full from an oversized, late second breakfast. Pastor bought me “special bread” to eat since he heard I have been having stomach issues. Unfortunately, ants quickly invited themselves over to the feast they heard I was having, so I ate a protein bar instead. I told Pastor, but he cooked me another meal anyway. Definitely a man-sized portion. I have been slightly resentful all day for yesterday’s conviction to eat whatever they put before me (thanks a lot, Luke 10).
Now it’s lunch, and I find Pastor and his friend eating some sort of spicy rice concoction in the kitchen. I sit down to join and Pastor tries to stop me—“you, omelet--this spicy, bad for your stohmach.” Spices aren’t the issue, though, and in an attempt to keep true to yesterday’s conviction (and selfishly because this actually looks pretty tasty) I assure him that I am fine, and I join in. I even think I can muster up the strength for a little more and reach for the serving spoon. “No, no” Pastor says “Your omelet comeen.” Oh no… Sure enough, Miss brings over my meal. Oops. I force the eggs down—thinking well of myself that I kept my commitment, until Miss comes over and asks, “Why you not eat dat?” and points to a small chunk of gee (homemade Indian “butter”). She and the Pastor both read from my face that I’m not thrilled with the idea of stomaching straight-up gee and, even though I can read their disappointment, they tell me not to eat it.
Miss then walks back to the stove to make herself a plate
(seeing her in this serving role is strange to me), and then she goes to sit at
the floor by the door. I realize I am in her chair and offer her my seat. The
men look at me funny, “No no! Dat eez her place.” Come to think of it, I am a
woman, too. I think I may have unintentionally crashed man-lunch. This class
thing drives me nuts, but it would certainly help if I at least understood the
rules that I don’t like keeping.
Pastor tells me to go nap, but first I go sit briefly with Miss. Soon after, Pastor comes over to her, too, and stoops down to sit with Miss at “her place.” Just when I thought I was starting to catch on. I finally go back to my room and lay down on the bed that I’m not sure if I feel guilty or grateful for. I catch myself with a fleeting wish that I could just turn off my time here like a bad movie, but I remember yesterday and remind myself that God is, in fact, at work. As I drift off, I sense the Spirit speaking into my unspoken concern: I was with you today.
I definitely needed to hear that.
Sometimes I wonder if these sorts of days—the kind that feel most unfruitful—are really the ones where God is up to some of his finest work. He’s just waiting until we get Home to tell us about it.
ENTRY 10
I go to bed early—telling Miss in case they are looking for me to try and feed me. Miss is yelling at the girls for something. I don’t want anything to do with it.
I wake praying into my day’s interaction with Miss. My mind starts up with the old tricks—Are you sure she’s following the Lord? I mean reaaaaally where’s the fruit? Patience, kindness... come on!
(As Miss says, “Satan, he get in da mind you know.”)
It is Satan who wants to divide us, Jesus to unify. Even though I know this, I am still bothered, and so I pray for conviction for Miss. For the Spirit to do his thing... He does. In both of us.
Someone comes to find me after I get back from my back-and-forth run behind the house. “Miss is looking for you!”
I bet this is about skipping dinner.
“Why you not eat?”
Yup, it’s about skipping dinner.
“I go to look for you but your room eet was dark,” Miss scolds me.
“Sorry, I—“ I start to say, but then Miss interrupts. “It’s okay, it’s okay—you tol me you were goeen to bed early.”
Phew, close call!
“Sorry about las night,” Miss says sincerely. “How I get angry.”
I have to keep my mouth from dropping, I have never heard an apology—for something that isn’t some sort of cultural faux paux or misunderstanding that is.
“Da girls had phone—boys at school gave,” Miss informs me. “Dey have been useen it to talk to da boys at night. Pastor catch dem.”
Another reminder (how many do I need?) of how much I judge with the little I understand.
“So much dat would jus shock you eef you knew bout dese girls,” Miss shakes her head and sighs. “We had dis one girl. I see her talkeen wid da boys, and I tink okay okay no problem, eet ees justa leetle talk. But den—she pregnant! Fourteen.”
At some point Miss had to learn to catch the little foxes, too.
After breakfast Miss asks if I will be accompanying her and Pastor to the dentist. She wants me to, so I go. As is custom we kick off our sandals at the front entrance before entering to sit silently in the waiting room. I can’t help but notice how quietly and orderly everyone seems to be. Except, well, Miss. We sit with Pastor across from his dental chair until the doctor politely motions us back to the waiting room. Miss sits and the cushion isn’t right so she switches chairs. She fully rotates her body to the side and cranes her neck to get a glimpse through the darkened window of what they are doing to Pastor’s mouth. Miss talks; the others just sit. And maybe nod a little. I can’t help but chuckle to myself—you can’t help but notice ‘the one who is not like the other’. The non-marked forehead not being the only distinguishing factor.
It seems to me that God often calls unruly people. Stubborn people. Frustrating people. A real comfort to a punk like me. And then, somehow, he does something marvelous in them. And through them. The girl waiting on us? “My old student,” Miss tells me. Were it not for Miss? Who knows if this girl would even be alive right now. Alright God, you win—I’ll quit playing judge.
After the appointment Miss tells me she is getting us all ice cream. I tell her, “I think I am your Ruth.” Miss laughs, “Where you go I’ll go?” Me, “Exactly.”
When Miss and I get back to the orphanage we pull out our purchased treats to enjoy at what Miss just called “our place” (the balcony Miss sat on for lunch the day before). I stare at the large milk and sugar packed popsicle that all my natural instinct is screaming at me to avoid. Miss notices. “Dis ees helty,” she points to the packaging. “No salt.” I sense the Spirit’s whisper, Eat it all. I do. Miss even spoons some of her chocolate waffle cone (uninvited) into my mouth. I know in that moment that the Lord is teaching me how to receive at the same time he is teaching her how to give.
At post-ice-cream lunch Miss laughs as we slurp up the salty soup smothering our rice. “I not like dis wid uder people,” she tells me with a big grin. “Jus angry.”
I suddenly feel the honor they keep trying to bestow upon me. The Lord has has been using Miss to teach me how to sit, but He has also been using me to teach Miss how to dance.
ENTRY 11
This evening Miss takes me to Tiruvannamalai’s famous Ashram (temple). “To pray,” she tells me. Then clarifies, “Een your mind.”
We pull up to White People Row. As usual, the street is littered with foreigners. All of which have a foggy, vacant look in their eyes, long unwashed hair, and flowy clothes. (This is a description, not an intentional stereotype). Miss points to a group of them sitting outside before we enter. “Dey come here to do da crack.” Accurate.
Immediately upon entering, I am struck by the ratio of white tourists to native Indians worshipping in the temple. It seems like at least half, if not more, are white people, most of which have applied the red/white face markings. Many of them are seated Indian style doing some sort of meditation while they look towards the city’s big mountain—the one the Hindus worship as a god.
“I am worried about dese people,” Miss looks at them and shakes her head. “So many foreigners dey come—an look at what we are giveen dem.” Miss points to a mother with her two just over toddler-aged daughters. “And der children.”
A strange, low-note chanting song fills the air along with a potent, smoky incense. Miss has me peer inside the room that the stench is protruding from. I see people seated all over the floor, facing toward the back where a statue sits draped with a yellow-flowered garland. A separate group of people lines up around that statue, each taking a turn to dip something into a fire pit. I don’t ask questions; I get the general idea: creepy.
Miss and I walk toward an open courtyard where a few people are seated. Though they are conversing here, there is still a weird, quiet haziness to people’s interactions. Except for when Miss runs into a few friends. Her lively, genuine greeting feels like a light piercing through the falsely reverent fog. It strikes me how clearly Miss loves the individual people alongside her hatred for their religious system.
After her friends depart, Miss points out a few behind-bars statues. One of which being a cow draped with a yellow garland. Miss groans.
As I start to sing a hymn to myself, a man sitting off in a corner by himself notices us. He comes up to meet us and there is something so… off. The hazy look in his eyes, the vague manufactured friendliness in his speech… But for some reason he is talking about knowing Miss has a church and wanting to come. Nevertheless, something feels… not right. Eventually Miss asks if he is a Christian. He says, “I believe Jesus is one of the many saints, yes.” “Saint no,” Miss responds, “Son of da liveen God.” “The One True God,” I chime in. The man looks flustered quickly after scurries off. I wonder if he’s going to tell Satan about us and do some sort of weird voodoo. Miss, on the other hand, confidently asserts that a seed has been planted for him to think about later. I’m thankful that at least she cares about this man that I, for one, was ready to get away from. Convicted, I realize I should probably say a prayer for him. So I do--just a teeny one though.
Miss takes me to another barred up little shack. “Go look at da man’s teengs,” she instructs me. An older man near us turns and rebukes, “Teengs, NO! Relics.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I go look at ‘da teengs.’ Behind bars a framed photograph of whatever man these people are apparently worshipping is being showcased. A black and white image of some skinny old guy laying out like a playboy model wearing a teeny white loin cloth, which is draped in a yellow garland, of course.
“Dat man—my father knew him,” Miss tells me as we walk away. “Used to play togeder in da mountains. Good man. He would never say he was god. It’s da people—dey say dat.”
“So why do the people worship him then?” I ask.
Miss gives an I-dunno-shrug and suggests, “Fooleesh people.”
I laugh; then Miss does, too—the vibrant sound piercing through the somber silence. I feel like the kid in the crowd who just told everyone the Emperor has no clothes. Later in the car Miss brings this up. “Your laugh—God like dat.” Then she turns on the sarcasm, “Doooon you know Kaltee, diiiiis eeeeez a teeeemple.” We laugh again.
As we drive along, I start to hear Miss softly singing to what sounds like the tune of the eerie chant from before. Oh no! They’ve gotten in her head!
“Under da feeeet, under da feeeeet,” I start to make out the words. “All of dem idols--UNDER DA FEET!”
I burst into giggles. So does she. Then we sing her song together, until the tune changes.
“I cry all da time,” Miss tells me. “For da peoples. I feel so sorry for dem. Poor peoples.”
“Doesn’t anyone ever ask questions? I mean, it doesn’t make sense.” I say.
“I try to talk do dem about it,” Miss says. “But dey don want to hear it. So I jus keep liveen da life an prayeen--all dat. Planteen seeds.”
We make a stop to buy some flour, and Miss points out another smaller temple. “Where dey worship da monkey god.” I get out to take a quick peek before getting back in the car.
“You see da monkey?” Miss asks.
“It’s ridiculous,” I answer. I can’t help it--I laugh again. So does she.
Miss translates our interaction for our driver. He chuckles and Miss interprets, “He say—dey worshipping stones!”
Yes, stones—that’s exactly what these Hindu gods are: stones. Laughable.
The people, though--trapped by the laughable lies--they make Miss cry. “Da peoples” --she loves da peoples.
I think maybe just maybe, I’ve just seen a glimpse of the Lord’s heart tonight.
ENTRY 12
Yesterday—Sunday, a day of rest. Fervent prayers “not to become weary of doing good.” Pour your Spirit into me, Jesus, so that I will be able to pour out into others. Oh Jesus, may I faint not. Keep me going until the end!
Today--I wake refreshed. Thank you, Jesus!
After a short time in the Psalms, I sense the Spirit’s subtle prompting to switch up my routine. Run first today. I lace up my sneakers and walk with one of the orphan boys to a small strip of road behind the orphanage that is used as a walking path by the people who live nearby. I wonder if I will run into Chandra.
Chandra. I remembered her name.
On one of my first morning runs, I met this woman—middle-aged, quiet, forehead bearing a simple red dot.
A few days later, I see her again. “Chandra?” I say. She smiles--I remembered her name. How? A miracle, truly. Her name flew out of my mouth, having never been rehearsed in my mind. I know this is the Lord’s favor. I make note of this.
That day, we walk. We talk. Very limited English, but just enough for us to discuss food. A welcome subject.
Since this day, Chandra occasionally surfaces to mind in prayer. I wonder if I will ever have the opportunity to tell her about the true food: the Bread of Life.
Today is that day.
Chandra is walking. I intend to give her a simple ‘hello’ as I go about my run. But my bun is driving me nuts. I stop to fix my hair, putting my Spanish New Testament between my legs as I rework my tangles. “Hair—mess,” I say. “Me too,” she replies. Not true, but okay. Chandra watches me awkwardly try to rearrange my frizz while simultaneously balancing the Bible between my bowed knees. Saving me, she takes the book to hold onto for me.
“Bible--Spanish,” I tell her. “About Jesus.”
Already quite reserved, I notice an added guard go up. Even so, she is looking at the cover. As I finish the last loop of my hair tie, she reads, “Tes-ta-ment-o… What is testamento?”
“Spanish—testament,” I say. She doesn’t understand. “Uhh, testament.. witness, account…” Still not registering. “History… true story.”
True--she gets that, but doesn’t seem to like it so much.
“Jesus loves the people,” I say with motions. “Us—God, separate. We—turn from God. God loves the people. He came—man, Jesus. Died, rose. So God and people—together.”
“All are gods,” she says to me with more English than I thought her capable. “Adults, not sinners. Only children-- sinners.”
Well that explains a lot. I didn’t realize how much I take for granted how revolutionary our affected-by-the-Gospel cultural values are. Jesus’s heart for children, his honoring of women, his acknowledgement of sin…
“Sin… well, I see sin in me all the time,” I say. “Greed, jealousy, anger…”
Not to mention all the wars, violence, corruption caused by adults all over the world, but let’s keep this personal…
“But God, he understands,” I search for the right words as we walk. “He has compassion on the people.”
“Cahm-pa-chun?” she asks. “What eez cahmpachun?”
“Uhh… love? Mercy, grace, forgiveness…” I answer. How am I supposed to describe compassion? “Love that understands… and forgives.”
All of this doesn’t make sense without the sin piece. His extraordinary forgiveness and love need the right backdrop.
“But the sin—I think all that comes from us not trusting him,” I tell her as we walk. “So God showed us that we could trust him. Before Jesus died he said to his disciples, ‘I will not leave you as orphans, I will come for you.’ Then when Jesus rose and they saw him, they knew they could trust him when he said he was coming back.”
I point to the Bible—this is those disciple’s ‘testament.’
“God has compassion on the people,” I keep going, unsure how many of these words she is even catching. “He knows this world is hard.”
Suddenly a friend of Chandra’s comes to join her on the path. They start to chat and I sense the Lord wanting me to do a scene for them--from John (I’ve already told her about why I am called to India). I shove out the thought. It comes back, nagging. Finally I ask her and her friend, “You want to see? From John?”
She hesitates but agrees.
I start the Lazarus scene. I know they are catching almost none of the words, and their expressions are certainly not pleasant. They appear anxious, restless. I keep going, anyway. From a distant field I start to hear, “Kalseee! Kalseeeee!” A man I met briefly on the path a few days prior has remembered my name. He wants me to come over. But I keep going with the scene. Since he can’t get me to come to him, he comes to join us instead. Just in time to see the tail end of Mary and Martha’s interaction with Jesus—which has finally captivated everyone’s attention. They are hooked.
“Jesus said, ‘Unbind him and let him go!’” I finish strong; it feels glorious!
But now I have no idea what to say. So I nervously kill the moment with: “Me—actress. Me—actress.”
They nod. After an awkward silence, Chandra motions for me to keep running, “You—go.”
I wonder if I should have said something else. Altar call? But the Lord reassures me with Miss’s words from a few days prior: “Someteen to tink about. Planteen seeds. Planteen seeds.”
As I turn around for another lap, I see Chandra—now alone--walking back to her house. Before stepping inside, she calls me over and says with an added warmth, “Tomorrow, you come—my house.” I’m shocked. “What time?” I ask. “Seven—tirty?” she offers. I put my hands together and bow my head, “It would be an honor.”
Not only have I planted some seeds, but maybe just maybe, the Lord will let me in on a little of the harvest, too.
ENTRY 13
I am not allowed to eat in a Hindu’s home while I am here—my hosts are afraid they will poison my tea or something. Thankfully, I am given this rule after I already have. After Chandra.
Once I have finished up my morning devotions, I head to the walking path—praying as I go. I do not see Chandra—she must have already finished her morning laps. I knock on one of the two houses I remember her walking into. At the first, a boy brings over his English-speaking mother to speak with me. She does not know Chandra. She is literally a few feet away from you—how do you not know her?! I knock at the gate of the second house. A young woman about my age peers down from the balcony. I ask for Chandra; she has no idea who I am talking about. She calls down to a woman walking; they discuss. Then she points me to a red house down the way. Hmm, that doesn’t seem right… But I go look anyway. By this time, a couple boys from the orphanage—my usual run-accompaniments—have joined me. We ask around. Nobody knows Chandra.
Except—the young woman on the balcony. She now has an adult man standing on the balcony with her… and Chandra. She calls me over. “So sorry,” the young woman said. “You said Sandra”—no, I didn’t, but okay—“This is CH-andra.” Then they invite me in; the boys wait outside.
The man keeps laughing. Probably over the whole misunderstanding. Chandra is in the kitchen preparing bowls of fruit for me. I attempt conversation with Mr. Nervous-chuckles. It’s not working so well (I suck at small talk even when it’s in English).
“Uhhh…” I stare at the grapes I’ve just been given by Chandra, who has just gone back in the kitchen to fix me a drink. “What is… your favorite fruit?”
“Fay-vrit?” the man looks puzzled. “I don understand.”
Great. “Umm… like, what you like most? A fruit you like a lot?”
“[Insert name of fruit that I’ve never heard of here.]”
“Oh, we don’t have that in the States…”
Awkward silence. Dear Lord, please give me what to say!
“So, ummm… What is your favorite thing about this country? About India?”
“The Ashram,” he says. Then clarifies, “The temple.”
Bingo… Except, now I have no idea what to say again.
“Uh huh...” I pause and quick-pray again. “So what is your favorite thing about the temple?”
“The statues,” he replies.
“So why do you like the statues?” I ask.
He doesn’t really have an answer. He says he worships them but doesn’t tell me why, how he feels, what they do…When I am out of question ideas he asks me, “Do you like da statues?”
“No,” I say. Gotta be honest. “I understand why you would, though. Our hearts are made to worship God. We need something to fill that space. But these statues, they can’t .talk, they can’t feel or think.”
I fidget. I look around. I squirm. I have no idea what I’m doing.
“A person wants to know and be known,” I tell him. “That’s why God came as a person—Jesus—so we could know him.”
The man stares at me. Not laughing anymore, “There is One God of all.”
Yes!
“Muslim, Hindu, Christian—one God.”
No… Well, technically yes. Not in the way you mean right now—we aren’t worshipping the same God--but that’s not what you said, so let’s go with it!
“One God, yes! There is only one God,” I respond. “God is over and made all the people—Muslim, Hindu, Christian, everyone. And he made one way for us to know him: Jesus.”
By this time, Chandra has invited the boys waiting outside to join us. She feeds them cookies and tea. They are watching this, too. Oh, Lord Jesus, come!
I know there must be something from these people’s own religion that points to Christ, so I ask him about his religion. Looking for an entry point.
“Tell me about your gods,” I say.
His daughter has entered the conversation at this point. They both look each other; neither has an answer.
“We worship them,” the daughter says. “They are who the Hindus believe in—that is who we worship.”
“Tell me about them,” I say, genuinely interested. No response. “What are they like? What do they do?”
No response.
“What about Shiva?” I suggest. “Tell me a bit about Shiva.”
Nada.
“What is Shiva like? Personality? What do you know about him?”
The daughter looks like I am speaking a foreign language (well, I guess I am) but answers as best she can, “Well it is just what we worship. That is all.”
So you don’t know what you worship… and you say it’s your favorite thing about your country?
Oh how I long for these people to know the knowable God—through Jesus!
“Would you like to see a little bit of the performance I am doing?” I suggest. Chapter 3—the interaction with Nicodemus which leads into the ever famous God-so-loved-the-world section—has been on my heart this whole time.
I ask for a stick. They long for one. We make jokes about it and laugh as I dance with it pre-show. I perform. The daughter is loving it—she even has her camera out. Good, she can rewatch this later and really get the English! I look to Chandra. She is reserved, per usual, but she is taking this in. Something has struck her heart, I know it.
Like yesterday, I awkwardly follow up with “Me—actress; me—actress.” But this time I add, “Would you mind if I pray for all of you before I go?” They don’t (or at least they say that they don’t), so I pray. That they would come to know Jesus.
As we leave, I ask the boys if they know why I wanted to talk to Chandra about Jesus. They don’t understand my question. One of them is throwing rocks at a dog or something. The other, always intrigued by me, says yes and places my hand on his head. I am reminded of when this boy asked me to pray a blessing over him my first week here. Such a sweet boy (in the midst of a wolf pack). I smile and hope he understands something of what I am saying, “We all need the love of God.” I point to my heart. “We all need Jesus.”
As we reenter the orphanage, I remember my last entry. I suppose I won’t get that glimpse of the harvest like I was hoping for.
As I am about to walk inside, the sweet boy turns to me, “Auntie!” He points behind us. “Chandra house.”
Yes, Chandra’s house. I may not ever go back… but I am not the one always here. I kneel down and look the boy in the eye, “Every day, when you see Chandra’s house, I want you to pray, ok?”
He nods.
I point to his heart, “Your job: you pray. For Chandra. You pray--Chandra, okay?”
He nods again, “Yes! Yes!”
Okay.
You know, maybe I have seen some of the harvest, after all. Maybe it’s right here. In this little boy. In these children. These disciples. Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, someone once said. My time here is running short, but these children have many years ahead. Besides, it’s not me who Chandra or anyone here needs, anyway—it’s Jesus. And who is to say that she won’t come to know Him as the Lord listens to the prayers of one little boy. Oh, Lord, send laborers into the harvest! Bring your people Home!
Pastor tells me to go nap, but first I go sit briefly with Miss. Soon after, Pastor comes over to her, too, and stoops down to sit with Miss at “her place.” Just when I thought I was starting to catch on. I finally go back to my room and lay down on the bed that I’m not sure if I feel guilty or grateful for. I catch myself with a fleeting wish that I could just turn off my time here like a bad movie, but I remember yesterday and remind myself that God is, in fact, at work. As I drift off, I sense the Spirit speaking into my unspoken concern: I was with you today.
I definitely needed to hear that.
Sometimes I wonder if these sorts of days—the kind that feel most unfruitful—are really the ones where God is up to some of his finest work. He’s just waiting until we get Home to tell us about it.
ENTRY 10
I go to bed early—telling Miss in case they are looking for me to try and feed me. Miss is yelling at the girls for something. I don’t want anything to do with it.
I wake praying into my day’s interaction with Miss. My mind starts up with the old tricks—Are you sure she’s following the Lord? I mean reaaaaally where’s the fruit? Patience, kindness... come on!
(As Miss says, “Satan, he get in da mind you know.”)
It is Satan who wants to divide us, Jesus to unify. Even though I know this, I am still bothered, and so I pray for conviction for Miss. For the Spirit to do his thing... He does. In both of us.
Someone comes to find me after I get back from my back-and-forth run behind the house. “Miss is looking for you!”
I bet this is about skipping dinner.
“Why you not eat?”
Yup, it’s about skipping dinner.
“I go to look for you but your room eet was dark,” Miss scolds me.
“Sorry, I—“ I start to say, but then Miss interrupts. “It’s okay, it’s okay—you tol me you were goeen to bed early.”
Phew, close call!
“Sorry about las night,” Miss says sincerely. “How I get angry.”
I have to keep my mouth from dropping, I have never heard an apology—for something that isn’t some sort of cultural faux paux or misunderstanding that is.
“Da girls had phone—boys at school gave,” Miss informs me. “Dey have been useen it to talk to da boys at night. Pastor catch dem.”
Another reminder (how many do I need?) of how much I judge with the little I understand.
“So much dat would jus shock you eef you knew bout dese girls,” Miss shakes her head and sighs. “We had dis one girl. I see her talkeen wid da boys, and I tink okay okay no problem, eet ees justa leetle talk. But den—she pregnant! Fourteen.”
At some point Miss had to learn to catch the little foxes, too.
After breakfast Miss asks if I will be accompanying her and Pastor to the dentist. She wants me to, so I go. As is custom we kick off our sandals at the front entrance before entering to sit silently in the waiting room. I can’t help but notice how quietly and orderly everyone seems to be. Except, well, Miss. We sit with Pastor across from his dental chair until the doctor politely motions us back to the waiting room. Miss sits and the cushion isn’t right so she switches chairs. She fully rotates her body to the side and cranes her neck to get a glimpse through the darkened window of what they are doing to Pastor’s mouth. Miss talks; the others just sit. And maybe nod a little. I can’t help but chuckle to myself—you can’t help but notice ‘the one who is not like the other’. The non-marked forehead not being the only distinguishing factor.
It seems to me that God often calls unruly people. Stubborn people. Frustrating people. A real comfort to a punk like me. And then, somehow, he does something marvelous in them. And through them. The girl waiting on us? “My old student,” Miss tells me. Were it not for Miss? Who knows if this girl would even be alive right now. Alright God, you win—I’ll quit playing judge.
After the appointment Miss tells me she is getting us all ice cream. I tell her, “I think I am your Ruth.” Miss laughs, “Where you go I’ll go?” Me, “Exactly.”
When Miss and I get back to the orphanage we pull out our purchased treats to enjoy at what Miss just called “our place” (the balcony Miss sat on for lunch the day before). I stare at the large milk and sugar packed popsicle that all my natural instinct is screaming at me to avoid. Miss notices. “Dis ees helty,” she points to the packaging. “No salt.” I sense the Spirit’s whisper, Eat it all. I do. Miss even spoons some of her chocolate waffle cone (uninvited) into my mouth. I know in that moment that the Lord is teaching me how to receive at the same time he is teaching her how to give.
At post-ice-cream lunch Miss laughs as we slurp up the salty soup smothering our rice. “I not like dis wid uder people,” she tells me with a big grin. “Jus angry.”
I suddenly feel the honor they keep trying to bestow upon me. The Lord has has been using Miss to teach me how to sit, but He has also been using me to teach Miss how to dance.
ENTRY 11
This evening Miss takes me to Tiruvannamalai’s famous Ashram (temple). “To pray,” she tells me. Then clarifies, “Een your mind.”
We pull up to White People Row. As usual, the street is littered with foreigners. All of which have a foggy, vacant look in their eyes, long unwashed hair, and flowy clothes. (This is a description, not an intentional stereotype). Miss points to a group of them sitting outside before we enter. “Dey come here to do da crack.” Accurate.
Immediately upon entering, I am struck by the ratio of white tourists to native Indians worshipping in the temple. It seems like at least half, if not more, are white people, most of which have applied the red/white face markings. Many of them are seated Indian style doing some sort of meditation while they look towards the city’s big mountain—the one the Hindus worship as a god.
“I am worried about dese people,” Miss looks at them and shakes her head. “So many foreigners dey come—an look at what we are giveen dem.” Miss points to a mother with her two just over toddler-aged daughters. “And der children.”
A strange, low-note chanting song fills the air along with a potent, smoky incense. Miss has me peer inside the room that the stench is protruding from. I see people seated all over the floor, facing toward the back where a statue sits draped with a yellow-flowered garland. A separate group of people lines up around that statue, each taking a turn to dip something into a fire pit. I don’t ask questions; I get the general idea: creepy.
Miss and I walk toward an open courtyard where a few people are seated. Though they are conversing here, there is still a weird, quiet haziness to people’s interactions. Except for when Miss runs into a few friends. Her lively, genuine greeting feels like a light piercing through the falsely reverent fog. It strikes me how clearly Miss loves the individual people alongside her hatred for their religious system.
After her friends depart, Miss points out a few behind-bars statues. One of which being a cow draped with a yellow garland. Miss groans.
As I start to sing a hymn to myself, a man sitting off in a corner by himself notices us. He comes up to meet us and there is something so… off. The hazy look in his eyes, the vague manufactured friendliness in his speech… But for some reason he is talking about knowing Miss has a church and wanting to come. Nevertheless, something feels… not right. Eventually Miss asks if he is a Christian. He says, “I believe Jesus is one of the many saints, yes.” “Saint no,” Miss responds, “Son of da liveen God.” “The One True God,” I chime in. The man looks flustered quickly after scurries off. I wonder if he’s going to tell Satan about us and do some sort of weird voodoo. Miss, on the other hand, confidently asserts that a seed has been planted for him to think about later. I’m thankful that at least she cares about this man that I, for one, was ready to get away from. Convicted, I realize I should probably say a prayer for him. So I do--just a teeny one though.
Miss takes me to another barred up little shack. “Go look at da man’s teengs,” she instructs me. An older man near us turns and rebukes, “Teengs, NO! Relics.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I go look at ‘da teengs.’ Behind bars a framed photograph of whatever man these people are apparently worshipping is being showcased. A black and white image of some skinny old guy laying out like a playboy model wearing a teeny white loin cloth, which is draped in a yellow garland, of course.
“Dat man—my father knew him,” Miss tells me as we walk away. “Used to play togeder in da mountains. Good man. He would never say he was god. It’s da people—dey say dat.”
“So why do the people worship him then?” I ask.
Miss gives an I-dunno-shrug and suggests, “Fooleesh people.”
I laugh; then Miss does, too—the vibrant sound piercing through the somber silence. I feel like the kid in the crowd who just told everyone the Emperor has no clothes. Later in the car Miss brings this up. “Your laugh—God like dat.” Then she turns on the sarcasm, “Doooon you know Kaltee, diiiiis eeeeez a teeeemple.” We laugh again.
As we drive along, I start to hear Miss softly singing to what sounds like the tune of the eerie chant from before. Oh no! They’ve gotten in her head!
“Under da feeeet, under da feeeeet,” I start to make out the words. “All of dem idols--UNDER DA FEET!”
I burst into giggles. So does she. Then we sing her song together, until the tune changes.
“I cry all da time,” Miss tells me. “For da peoples. I feel so sorry for dem. Poor peoples.”
“Doesn’t anyone ever ask questions? I mean, it doesn’t make sense.” I say.
“I try to talk do dem about it,” Miss says. “But dey don want to hear it. So I jus keep liveen da life an prayeen--all dat. Planteen seeds.”
We make a stop to buy some flour, and Miss points out another smaller temple. “Where dey worship da monkey god.” I get out to take a quick peek before getting back in the car.
“You see da monkey?” Miss asks.
“It’s ridiculous,” I answer. I can’t help it--I laugh again. So does she.
Miss translates our interaction for our driver. He chuckles and Miss interprets, “He say—dey worshipping stones!”
Yes, stones—that’s exactly what these Hindu gods are: stones. Laughable.
The people, though--trapped by the laughable lies--they make Miss cry. “Da peoples” --she loves da peoples.
I think maybe just maybe, I’ve just seen a glimpse of the Lord’s heart tonight.
ENTRY 12
Yesterday—Sunday, a day of rest. Fervent prayers “not to become weary of doing good.” Pour your Spirit into me, Jesus, so that I will be able to pour out into others. Oh Jesus, may I faint not. Keep me going until the end!
Today--I wake refreshed. Thank you, Jesus!
After a short time in the Psalms, I sense the Spirit’s subtle prompting to switch up my routine. Run first today. I lace up my sneakers and walk with one of the orphan boys to a small strip of road behind the orphanage that is used as a walking path by the people who live nearby. I wonder if I will run into Chandra.
Chandra. I remembered her name.
On one of my first morning runs, I met this woman—middle-aged, quiet, forehead bearing a simple red dot.
A few days later, I see her again. “Chandra?” I say. She smiles--I remembered her name. How? A miracle, truly. Her name flew out of my mouth, having never been rehearsed in my mind. I know this is the Lord’s favor. I make note of this.
That day, we walk. We talk. Very limited English, but just enough for us to discuss food. A welcome subject.
Since this day, Chandra occasionally surfaces to mind in prayer. I wonder if I will ever have the opportunity to tell her about the true food: the Bread of Life.
Today is that day.
Chandra is walking. I intend to give her a simple ‘hello’ as I go about my run. But my bun is driving me nuts. I stop to fix my hair, putting my Spanish New Testament between my legs as I rework my tangles. “Hair—mess,” I say. “Me too,” she replies. Not true, but okay. Chandra watches me awkwardly try to rearrange my frizz while simultaneously balancing the Bible between my bowed knees. Saving me, she takes the book to hold onto for me.
“Bible--Spanish,” I tell her. “About Jesus.”
Already quite reserved, I notice an added guard go up. Even so, she is looking at the cover. As I finish the last loop of my hair tie, she reads, “Tes-ta-ment-o… What is testamento?”
“Spanish—testament,” I say. She doesn’t understand. “Uhh, testament.. witness, account…” Still not registering. “History… true story.”
True--she gets that, but doesn’t seem to like it so much.
“Jesus loves the people,” I say with motions. “Us—God, separate. We—turn from God. God loves the people. He came—man, Jesus. Died, rose. So God and people—together.”
“All are gods,” she says to me with more English than I thought her capable. “Adults, not sinners. Only children-- sinners.”
Well that explains a lot. I didn’t realize how much I take for granted how revolutionary our affected-by-the-Gospel cultural values are. Jesus’s heart for children, his honoring of women, his acknowledgement of sin…
“Sin… well, I see sin in me all the time,” I say. “Greed, jealousy, anger…”
Not to mention all the wars, violence, corruption caused by adults all over the world, but let’s keep this personal…
“But God, he understands,” I search for the right words as we walk. “He has compassion on the people.”
“Cahm-pa-chun?” she asks. “What eez cahmpachun?”
“Uhh… love? Mercy, grace, forgiveness…” I answer. How am I supposed to describe compassion? “Love that understands… and forgives.”
All of this doesn’t make sense without the sin piece. His extraordinary forgiveness and love need the right backdrop.
“But the sin—I think all that comes from us not trusting him,” I tell her as we walk. “So God showed us that we could trust him. Before Jesus died he said to his disciples, ‘I will not leave you as orphans, I will come for you.’ Then when Jesus rose and they saw him, they knew they could trust him when he said he was coming back.”
I point to the Bible—this is those disciple’s ‘testament.’
“God has compassion on the people,” I keep going, unsure how many of these words she is even catching. “He knows this world is hard.”
Suddenly a friend of Chandra’s comes to join her on the path. They start to chat and I sense the Lord wanting me to do a scene for them--from John (I’ve already told her about why I am called to India). I shove out the thought. It comes back, nagging. Finally I ask her and her friend, “You want to see? From John?”
She hesitates but agrees.
I start the Lazarus scene. I know they are catching almost none of the words, and their expressions are certainly not pleasant. They appear anxious, restless. I keep going, anyway. From a distant field I start to hear, “Kalseee! Kalseeeee!” A man I met briefly on the path a few days prior has remembered my name. He wants me to come over. But I keep going with the scene. Since he can’t get me to come to him, he comes to join us instead. Just in time to see the tail end of Mary and Martha’s interaction with Jesus—which has finally captivated everyone’s attention. They are hooked.
“Jesus said, ‘Unbind him and let him go!’” I finish strong; it feels glorious!
But now I have no idea what to say. So I nervously kill the moment with: “Me—actress. Me—actress.”
They nod. After an awkward silence, Chandra motions for me to keep running, “You—go.”
I wonder if I should have said something else. Altar call? But the Lord reassures me with Miss’s words from a few days prior: “Someteen to tink about. Planteen seeds. Planteen seeds.”
As I turn around for another lap, I see Chandra—now alone--walking back to her house. Before stepping inside, she calls me over and says with an added warmth, “Tomorrow, you come—my house.” I’m shocked. “What time?” I ask. “Seven—tirty?” she offers. I put my hands together and bow my head, “It would be an honor.”
Not only have I planted some seeds, but maybe just maybe, the Lord will let me in on a little of the harvest, too.
ENTRY 13
I am not allowed to eat in a Hindu’s home while I am here—my hosts are afraid they will poison my tea or something. Thankfully, I am given this rule after I already have. After Chandra.
Once I have finished up my morning devotions, I head to the walking path—praying as I go. I do not see Chandra—she must have already finished her morning laps. I knock on one of the two houses I remember her walking into. At the first, a boy brings over his English-speaking mother to speak with me. She does not know Chandra. She is literally a few feet away from you—how do you not know her?! I knock at the gate of the second house. A young woman about my age peers down from the balcony. I ask for Chandra; she has no idea who I am talking about. She calls down to a woman walking; they discuss. Then she points me to a red house down the way. Hmm, that doesn’t seem right… But I go look anyway. By this time, a couple boys from the orphanage—my usual run-accompaniments—have joined me. We ask around. Nobody knows Chandra.
Except—the young woman on the balcony. She now has an adult man standing on the balcony with her… and Chandra. She calls me over. “So sorry,” the young woman said. “You said Sandra”—no, I didn’t, but okay—“This is CH-andra.” Then they invite me in; the boys wait outside.
The man keeps laughing. Probably over the whole misunderstanding. Chandra is in the kitchen preparing bowls of fruit for me. I attempt conversation with Mr. Nervous-chuckles. It’s not working so well (I suck at small talk even when it’s in English).
“Uhhh…” I stare at the grapes I’ve just been given by Chandra, who has just gone back in the kitchen to fix me a drink. “What is… your favorite fruit?”
“Fay-vrit?” the man looks puzzled. “I don understand.”
Great. “Umm… like, what you like most? A fruit you like a lot?”
“[Insert name of fruit that I’ve never heard of here.]”
“Oh, we don’t have that in the States…”
Awkward silence. Dear Lord, please give me what to say!
“So, ummm… What is your favorite thing about this country? About India?”
“The Ashram,” he says. Then clarifies, “The temple.”
Bingo… Except, now I have no idea what to say again.
“Uh huh...” I pause and quick-pray again. “So what is your favorite thing about the temple?”
“The statues,” he replies.
“So why do you like the statues?” I ask.
He doesn’t really have an answer. He says he worships them but doesn’t tell me why, how he feels, what they do…When I am out of question ideas he asks me, “Do you like da statues?”
“No,” I say. Gotta be honest. “I understand why you would, though. Our hearts are made to worship God. We need something to fill that space. But these statues, they can’t .talk, they can’t feel or think.”
I fidget. I look around. I squirm. I have no idea what I’m doing.
“A person wants to know and be known,” I tell him. “That’s why God came as a person—Jesus—so we could know him.”
The man stares at me. Not laughing anymore, “There is One God of all.”
Yes!
“Muslim, Hindu, Christian—one God.”
No… Well, technically yes. Not in the way you mean right now—we aren’t worshipping the same God--but that’s not what you said, so let’s go with it!
“One God, yes! There is only one God,” I respond. “God is over and made all the people—Muslim, Hindu, Christian, everyone. And he made one way for us to know him: Jesus.”
By this time, Chandra has invited the boys waiting outside to join us. She feeds them cookies and tea. They are watching this, too. Oh, Lord Jesus, come!
I know there must be something from these people’s own religion that points to Christ, so I ask him about his religion. Looking for an entry point.
“Tell me about your gods,” I say.
His daughter has entered the conversation at this point. They both look each other; neither has an answer.
“We worship them,” the daughter says. “They are who the Hindus believe in—that is who we worship.”
“Tell me about them,” I say, genuinely interested. No response. “What are they like? What do they do?”
No response.
“What about Shiva?” I suggest. “Tell me a bit about Shiva.”
Nada.
“What is Shiva like? Personality? What do you know about him?”
The daughter looks like I am speaking a foreign language (well, I guess I am) but answers as best she can, “Well it is just what we worship. That is all.”
So you don’t know what you worship… and you say it’s your favorite thing about your country?
Oh how I long for these people to know the knowable God—through Jesus!
“Would you like to see a little bit of the performance I am doing?” I suggest. Chapter 3—the interaction with Nicodemus which leads into the ever famous God-so-loved-the-world section—has been on my heart this whole time.
I ask for a stick. They long for one. We make jokes about it and laugh as I dance with it pre-show. I perform. The daughter is loving it—she even has her camera out. Good, she can rewatch this later and really get the English! I look to Chandra. She is reserved, per usual, but she is taking this in. Something has struck her heart, I know it.
Like yesterday, I awkwardly follow up with “Me—actress; me—actress.” But this time I add, “Would you mind if I pray for all of you before I go?” They don’t (or at least they say that they don’t), so I pray. That they would come to know Jesus.
As we leave, I ask the boys if they know why I wanted to talk to Chandra about Jesus. They don’t understand my question. One of them is throwing rocks at a dog or something. The other, always intrigued by me, says yes and places my hand on his head. I am reminded of when this boy asked me to pray a blessing over him my first week here. Such a sweet boy (in the midst of a wolf pack). I smile and hope he understands something of what I am saying, “We all need the love of God.” I point to my heart. “We all need Jesus.”
As we reenter the orphanage, I remember my last entry. I suppose I won’t get that glimpse of the harvest like I was hoping for.
As I am about to walk inside, the sweet boy turns to me, “Auntie!” He points behind us. “Chandra house.”
Yes, Chandra’s house. I may not ever go back… but I am not the one always here. I kneel down and look the boy in the eye, “Every day, when you see Chandra’s house, I want you to pray, ok?”
He nods.
I point to his heart, “Your job: you pray. For Chandra. You pray--Chandra, okay?”
He nods again, “Yes! Yes!”
Okay.
You know, maybe I have seen some of the harvest, after all. Maybe it’s right here. In this little boy. In these children. These disciples. Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, someone once said. My time here is running short, but these children have many years ahead. Besides, it’s not me who Chandra or anyone here needs, anyway—it’s Jesus. And who is to say that she won’t come to know Him as the Lord listens to the prayers of one little boy. Oh, Lord, send laborers into the harvest! Bring your people Home!
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