Leaving India (week 4)

ENTRY 14

“Why God not let Moses enter da Promised Land?” Miss suddenly looks up from the game on her phone as we drive down the dusty village road. “In your opinion, why he not get to enter?”

Bible question—awesome!

“Actually I was just talking to someone about that,” I respond excitedly. “First of all, it was his consequence for not trusting God, right? Hitting the rock and all that.”

Miss “mmmhmm”s in a ‘yeah, yeah, yeah—and…’ sort of way. This answer isn’t sufficient for her; it isn’t for me either.

“But I also think it was the grace of God,” I continue. “All the longing for the Promised Land, God knew that would never be satisfied here in this world. I think—in some ways--God was protecting Moses from disappointment. Is this really what I have been waiting for? It wasn’t the true Promised Land, you know?”

Miss “mmmhmm”s in a ‘okay, okay, I get that’ sort of way. This answer has left her with something more. Not fully satisfying, but enough.

God’s consequence was really God’s grace. A way to keep him waiting—to keep him hoping—for the true Home.

I, too, am waiting for the Promised Land.

A land where large spiders won’t fall out of my shirt as I get dressed in the morning. A land where I won’t find rats scurrying out from behind a rusty toilet as I attempt to take a bucket shower—only to find there is no more water. A land where I won’t see images of fat, manmade gods superstitiously plastering every wall.

I, too, am waiting to go Home. And I am not talking about America.

Because, ultimately, I’m not just waiting for a place where I can have a spiderbite-free morning, a refreshing, ratless shower, or a statueless doctor’s visit. I’m waiting for a place where none of us will have to fear being bitten at all, where we will already be clean, and where there will be no need for a doctor because we will all be healthy… worshipping the One True God. Living in the light and love of Jesus. Together.

The Promised Land will never fully be reached on this side of things. Our Hope is not in a better-governed, more civilized America. If that’s all we were waiting for, we would be severely disappointed. I know I would. Jesus wouldn’t be there, and I want to be where He is. Ultimately, He is my hope. He is who I want to see, and I want everyone—those of every tribe, tongue, and nation—to see him with me. So I’m willing to stick around a little while if, by his grace, He might use me in some way to help others see Him, too. And not only Him, but each other—in freedom. When I close my eyes and imagine what it will be like to see all of the people I so love and treasure as they were always meant to be—without fear, robed in His righteousness, and bright shining in love—the long journey Home finally feels worth it.

“You know ‘The Transfiguration’—when Jesus takes three of his disciples up and they see Moses and Elijah?” I bring the story to Miss’s mind. She knows it. “Well, some people believe that Moses was actually the first one to see the true Promised Land. Right there—with Jesus. In glory.”

One day, by the Lord’s grace, I’ll be there in glory, too. With you.

ENTRY 15

“No, no rocks,” I say to the gentle-dispositioned boy. He is the only one accompanying my morning walk today—along with the neighborhood dog who unfortunately has become his target practice (Gentle boy has apparently been a little too “discipled” by his trouble-seeking companion).

Gentle boy looks at me, he looks at the dog; he looks at me; he looks at the dog—the skinny, non-reactive, just-wanting-to-tag-along dog. Gentle boy finally decides to attempt petting the dog. The dog is unsure at first—a little skiddish—but after a few pats the dog becomes noticeably happy. As soon as Gentle boy gains the dog’s trust he gets bored of this, looks at me again, picks up a rock, and throws it. Goodbye dog.

I imagine this young boy has encountered some situations where rocks were necessary for his and others’ protection. I remind myself that I have no idea what he has seen and encountered throughout his time on the streets. So for the time being, I let it go. Nevertheless, Gentle boy knows: I don’t like the rocks.

We arrive—dog-less—at the path. I’ve already gotten up early enough to have some time with the Lord in the Word and prayer. To prepare for my time with Chandra. Every part of me is screaming to turn around. I, again, have no idea what to say, what to ask, how to navigate our conversation... But I have just enough faith—small as it feels right now—to step onto that path and to trust that the Lord will make the way. As usual, he does.

We walk without much talking for a while. We discuss the chill air, her favorite color: blue, the sky. I wait for her to lead us into the next topic. She asks me if I have any brothers and sisters. I tell her—one brother, one sister. She, too, has one brother and one sister. But then she tells me, her brother passed away. Twenty years ago. I can tell, this still affects her. A lot.

And then I remember: Lazarus. Chandra’s whole demeanor changed when she saw me encounter Jesus as Martha. Wondering why he didn’t come for her brother. And how Jesus, so graciously met her in her frustration. How Jesus reminded her that if she believed she would see the glory of God… and she did. She believed, and she saw. No wonder Chandra invited me to her house that day… She saw. Did she believe?

“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say. We walk in silence for a while. Then, prompted, I add, “That is why I am so grateful for Jesus. The hope we have in him.”

She looks at me.

“Through Jesus, no more death,” I tell her. “In Him, we have life forever.”

Chandra looks at me as if she has never even considered the possibility of life beyond this one. From the little I know about Hinduism this surprises me—since they are constantly talking about being resurrected into new lives. But then I realize, not only does this ‘belief’ have no hold because it isn’t rooted in truth, but even if it were true, that means that we will never see each other as each other again. Who we are as we know it is forever gone. And who others are as we know them are forever gone, too. We will never see our brother again. Where is the hope in that?

And then I get it. Oh, Jesus, you really are the only Way. Without you, we have no hope.

But with Jesus?

“Whoever believes in me, though he die yet shall he live. And whoever lives and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?”

Oh, Lord, I pray for belief in you! Here in India, in Chandra, in all of us. Not just so that people can have life after death, but also so that the people can have life here! True life, a life with hope. Praise be to Jesus <3



ENTRY 16

There has been little laughter this week. Miss appears crankier than usual. Well, maybe not (-er), but our upward trajectory has certainly disappeared. Or so it seems.

I can’t help but wonder if this is about me. Not to be conceited—I have certainly been wrong before—but I also know how much we tend to shove away what we are afraid will be taken from us. We always want to be the first one to call a break up so our hearts won’t get broken before we do.

This week started off with more than one allusion to my staying. “Don’t you like it here? Da girls dey love you!” Point of desperation: trying to convince me to have an arranged marriage with an Indian man. Though partially joking, if I showed any interest I know Miss would be on it.

But I’m not staying, and she knows that. Miss doesn’t want me to leave, but she’s not so keen on facing me right now either. I get it, but I don’t know what to do with that.

I have been praying into John 16. Jesus told his disciples it was better that he left so that the Holy Spirit would come. Jesus—the man—could only be in one place at one time while in his earthly body, so why not pour out his Spirit so that we can all experience Him all the time, anytime?! Better! If that is the case with Jesus, then of course it would be better for them if imperfect me left! If that means the Lord will send his Spirit behind me, that is. And I am praying that He will. I want these kids, these people, this Miss to know Jesus. Oh, Lord, pour out your Spirit onto this place—into these people!

Just as I am writing these very words, Miss calls me over. We chat—nothing monumental, no big revelations. But as we do, her pout erases, her face softens, her eyes brighten, her laugh returns.

Pastor comes over to us and says to me, “Today—two school. Because you leave Sunday.”

“Yes, so sad,” I confirm (or think I am confirming, that is).

“No, not sad,” Pastor waves his hand to dismiss my comment. “We are same in da Spirit. Not sad. One in da Spirit wherever we go.”

Gosh, I really don’t give these people enough credit! Or, rather, I don’t give the Spirit enough credit—he’s working in them, too. One in da Spirit.

“You keep contac wid me while you gone,” Miss instructs me, then adds with a smile. “Or else I weel leest you up.”

“What?”

“Leest you up,” she repeats then puppets a phone with her hand. “I call an say, Kelseeee when you come here an bring da oder believers?”

I laugh, delighted. She gets it. It isn’t me Miss needs—it’s Jesus. It’s the Spirit. And she already knows. She’s ready for more of Him. More of His people… And I can’t wait to bring them to her.

We are one in the Spirit; we are one in the Lord. We are one in the Spirit; we are one in the Lord. And they’ll know we are Christian by our love. By our love. And they’ll know we are Christians by our love.



ENTRY 17

Miss and I sit in silence for a while post-lunch. I stare off, soaking everything in. Miss is playing on her phone. Without looking up she asks me, “So where eez your Adam bone?”

Me, “What?”

“Your Adam bone?” Miss grins and looks up at me as she raises her eyebrows … suggestively. “I find your Adam bone. He eez here.”

We both laugh. A lot.

Still hoping I will stay, huh? I need Pastor to come give her a refresher of our recent ‘One in the Spirit, wherever we go’ lesson.

Later today Miss and I are sitting in the car on our way back from the Widow’s center. Breaking the silence, I cry out sharply, “OOOOOOOW!”

Miss turns abruptly, “WHAT?!”

“No bone,” I smirk. Then I laugh; Miss does not. She groans (but she’s smiling).

ENTRY 18

Oh, no not the rocks. Gentle boy is my morning accompaniment once again, and apparently this poor dog is on the lowest totem pole of India’s cast system.

“No. No rocks,” I say and look the boy in the eye, my brow furrowed with concern. “This dog—not hurting us. Rocks make dog afraid, then dog—mean. Be kind. No rocks.”

Gentle boy sees in my face what he perceives as my disappointment with him and hangs his head. He looks defeated. I so badly want the boy to understand that I am not disappointed with him—rock-throwing is what he knows. Fear is how he has been trained. This boy has been caught up in the same system as so many of these dogs. This boy may have started it with this poor puppy—one who has never wanted anything but tag along—but somewhere along the line, this boy learned fear and rock-throwing, too. But right now, I don’t have the language or his attention enough to explain.

And it is time to meet with Chandra.

Chandra. I learn she used to be a nurse. We talk about the hospital, various sicknesses she has seen—leading me to express the simple yet often ignored fact of life: these bodies will fail us.

“Thankfully, Jesus offers us new bodies,” I tell her.

“New bodies…” Chandra mulls over these foreign yet hope-filled words.

“Yes, new bodies,” I affirm. “But first we need a new heart. Our hearts are sick, too, and they need the Good Doctor.”

After our walk—Chandra left to process—I see that Gentle boy’s disposition has not lifted. We walk back quietly. Just before entering the project, I see the scrawny dog, sitting with his head bowed in similar sad form. I point him out and kneel down to Gentle boy, intending to encourage him with a better explanation.

“This dog is scared—afraid—because people are mean to him. Mean—afraid—mean,” I do a little charades to help him understand. “But if we are kind to the dog and he learns he can trust us, he will be kind, too. Kind—trust—kind.”

Gentle boy still looks wounded. He is afraid I am mad at him. I smile and reassure, “It’s okay. I am not mad at you. It’s okay, okay?” The boy nods, unsure I mean it. I keep smiling and reinforce, “It’s okay. Okay?” He nods with a little extra confidence. Smile brighter this time a playful laugh breaks through, too, “Okay!?!” Gentle boy looks at me and nods. “Okay.”

Fear. Mean. Fear.

Kind. Trust. Kind.

Is it really that simple?

ENTRY 19

Final morning at the orphanage.

I have been praying all week for the Lord to finish up this time well—for Him to prepare the way and to strengthen me to walk in it. I want to see his faithfulness, and I want to be able to share that with all of you—that somehow you may also be blessed… but I need His strength to do that. I so often want to run away. To abandon the path. To turn in early. At the end of a great day, I often am immediately met with the fear that tomorrow won’t be. As if the Lord’s faithfulness had a limit. As if His glorious light were just a flickering candle that I had the power to snuff out. Oh, my faith is so weak. Thankfully, He is more faithful than I am faithless. And so I pray, Lord help me to keep faith, to go the distance with you—all the way Home.

And so I walk—with the Lord. And in this moment—with Chandra.  I talk to her even more boldly about Jesus, and the Spirit nudges me to include the warning:

“If you follow Jesus, there is a cost,” I say. “He calls us to give him everything… but he is worth it.”

“Worth it…” Chandra repeats, thinking it over.

“Yes, worth it.”

Chandra invites me to come into her home for tea, but I decline since I will soon have to leave for church and—whether I agree or not—I am still under the authority of my hosts who have instructed me not to take "potentially poisoned" drink from non-Christians. I tell her the next time I come, I would love to take her up on that offer. Before I leave I give her a Bible. The next time we meet, I look forward to tea in her home—as a Christian.

I go back to the project and finish packing everything up, going in and out of my unlocked room as I gather up my various items scattered all around the property (typical me).  Kids keep coming up to me, sad that I have to leave. I remind them that any good they have seen in me is the Lord’s Spirit in me, and that same Lord Jesus is available for them to get to know all the time, any time. I point them to Jesus, but I also tell them that I do hope to come back and see them again (on this side of eternity). I think about so many of Paul’s letters—how he longs to be with the people he loves, to see them again. I love how Jesus shares his love—how he creates this longing in us not only for Him, but also for each other.

I walk back into my room with a loving-and-loved-by-others high… which is suddenly deflated when I discover: no phone. I knew I had it in my room, because I had it on my walk. With my Bible, which is sitting unaccompanied on my bed. Oh no…

I search my bags, hoping I had accidentally tucked it away in the midst of my packing. Still no phone. I search the house, the bathroom, outside even. No phone.

They were just waiting until the very end, waiting to pounce, the thought creeps in my head.

I shove the thought out. Even if this is true for one of them, it isn’t true for all of them. Besides, it still could just be misplaced. Regardless, I don’t want a stolen phone to be the last taste of this journey—not in my mouth, and especially not in theirs.

Some girls come to tell me it is time for church. I know I have to tell them, I can’t find my phone. Miss knows what this means. She is not happy. Oh, no, please let me find it for their sake… Some of the girls come into my room to help me look.

We go through my bag on my bed once again. No phone. But then, one of the girls lifts my bag. Underneath… there sits… the phone.

I should be celebrating, but instead I think of the kids. Oh, I hope that they haven’t felt accused… May they know that they are so much more valuable to me than a silly phone…

I go out and find those who were not with me in my room to show them that I have found it, and they are all sitting silently in front of Pastor and Miss. I try to give a glad “See! No problem—it was my fault!” But the air of accusation has not lifted. “We were jus yelleen at dem,” Miss says. “No, no! But I found it—see!” I wave the phone in the air. Miss and Pastor have not shifted their mood. “But your money—dey still took dat. We tell dem abou dat. How can dey—“

“No, not they!” I say, pleading for grace. “It was just one of them who took it, not all.”

I look at the kids’ heartbroken, fear-filled expressions and say to them, “And I pray forgiveness for whoever that was, anyway. I am not mad at you. None of you.”

Desperate for them to understand I look them all in the eye and use as many charades as I can muster to make my point clear, “I want you to know that when I think of you, I only think good things. I take you back in my heart and only remember good. You make my heart smile. I love you all.”

In case they don’t get it, I make one of the girls translate for me, “Tell them! I LOVE YOU.”

Their countenances have changed. They get it.

At the end of the day, love washes over all of the wrongs. When the new day comes, we will be received Home with grace.


ENTRY 20

I read in the Prophets—shepherds shut down for getting fat off the food they should have used to feed the sheep. I feel convicted.

Am I a fat shepherd? I wonder. Stuffing myself with words when there are so many people who need only one? The Word: Jesus.

“I want to start a Christian college here in Chennai,” my latest pastor-host tells me his life-dream on our way to an encore performance for his church friends. “When I was studying at Wheaton, there were so many resources. Shelves of commentaries and theology books… we don’t have any of that here.”

So much harvest to be reaped in this country. Where are the laborers? Fighting over the scraps in another?

“I know of so many churches in the States who are over-employed and don’t have the finances to keep everyone on—they just don’t want to let anyone go,” I admit. “I pray that the Lord will send laborers to the harvest—maybe he will call some of them here.”

Here. To India. Where the absence of Jesus is constantly in your face. Literally painted on the faces of almost everyone you meet—foreheads smeared red. Like blood. A continual reminder. So many lives. So many lost… just waiting to be found.

Here. Just waiting for a shepherd to feed them. I have the words, Lord, just give me some ears.

This pastor sets me up to perform at an arts college in town. He warns me in advance, “This college is technically Christian, but the student body is very secular. They have guest performances often—but never Gospel-focused. Nothing like this.”

Prepared, I walk into a large group of skeptical young adult girls. One of the ladies’ dorm’s mandatory activities. Mandatory being the key word—I can read the “I-have-to-be-here” all over their less-than-enthused faces.

And then... I perform. No music. No real set. No real props. Just the Word.

And the Word is all they needed.

Girl after girl approached me that night. Crying. Sharing. Asking for prayer. So many girls. So many thirsty hearts just waiting for someone to give them a drink, and here I am with access to the living water. I have a responsibility to give that to them.

The next day the college calls this pastor, asking if I can stay around one more day. They want to host an all-campus performance for their 3000 thirsty students.

“This never happens,” the pastor tells me wide-eyed. “There are so many hoops this college has to jump through to make any activity happen. But after last night, the college is doing whatever they can to get you to come back.”

Thirst is a powerful motivator. We will do just about anything for water.

But I have a flight to catch. I have pointed them to where their thirst is to be satisfied. Not in me, in Jesus. His Word is available to them, whether or not I am the one speaking it.

Nevertheless, I assure them, “Lord-willing, I will come back.”

Lord-willing, I will come back... Quite honestly, I am far more comfortable leaving this land behind, but I know I won’t be able to forever. If the sheep are starving, I can’t just close my eyes and stuff myself with what should be their share.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asks. I do. “Feed my sheep.” Knowing that this will cost me, I answer, “I will.”