Welcome to India (Week 1)

ENTRY 1:

I am going to India. Alone. I have no idea what I am doing. What in the world have I gotten myself into?

My simmering anxiety reveals my unconscious questioning: will God provide for me or not?

When I first step out of the airport, I am instantly confronted with the fear that the answer is “not.” No one is there waiting for me. I have no wifi or cell service. Just me, my bags, and—if I’m not crazy after all—the Lord. With a strange peace that God really has sent me here, I walk forward past a line of Indian men using one of their few-learned English words “Taxi? Taxi? Taxi?” I shake my head no (oops, that’s not going to work here in India) and keep looking for my ride. One of the taxi men asks if I want to use his phone. I agree and call the pastor I will be staying with. Apparently he already sent me a message—because of his sister’s memorial service he isn’t able to come to the airport. He wants me to catch a taxi. Great—so much for telling people I won’t go anywhere alone. I suppose that technically I am not alone, since—if I am not crazy after all—the Lord is with me. Plus, so is the taxi driver. Promise unbroken, I go with him.

He pulls off on a busy street and gets us chai tea from a street vendor. Of course, I am the one paying. Surrounded by noisy street life, we sit and wait for a bit. I’m not sure why until a new guy comes along--he apparently is switching out drivers. I still have that unexplainable peace, so I go along with it. Not that I have any other option at this point.

Our lack of common words eventually pushes my attention outside the vehicle and I am bombarded by the noisy, people-cluttered streets. Honduras prepared me for this type of mass chaos—street vendors, honking, begging, dusty roads, trash everywhere, run-down buildings stacked side by side—these are nothing new, but the gaudy temples, statues of various god-figures, and all the Hindu forehead face markings sure are. Even so, nothing really shakes me, until I realize that the coughing from my taxi driver isn’t just from smoking. Suddenly I feel it, too—I can barely breathe. Looking up I realize the sky has no color. A cloudy gray has masked its clear blue. So this is the pollution I’ve been warned about... Oh, Lord, help me to breathe! My anxiety starts to kick in. Am I going to suffocate here? After all this, Lord, have you called me here to drown in rotten air? Breath by breath I pray for God to give me enough. “Blessed are the poor in spirit (i.e. breath)” has taken on a whole new meaning. I am learning how to trust God’s provision to my very core, and as I do my anxiety recedes.

When I finally arrive at the orphanage, I meet the pastor’s wife who I will be staying with. She says she is going to meet her husband at a prayer service for his sister who passed away. When I get into the car to join her, I notice that the driver has a red-white mark on his forehead—distinguishing him as a particular sect of Hindu. He has yellow flowers dangling from his mirror along with a chain bearing the image of a man (god?) with a creepy eye on his forehead.

Oh no, what have I gotten myself into?

I start to wonder if this pastor really is Christian after all. Have these people lured me here to make some sort of weird Christian sacrifice at one of their ceremonies?! I contemplate jumping out of the car, but in my spirit I sense the Lord’s peace and his gentle nudging to go with them. So I go.

Partway through the car ride, the woman asks me why I have come. Did her husband not tell her? Still conscious of the Hindu trinkets, I carefully pick my words saying I was asked by the pastor to come present a show I am doing. Somehow I realize that both of us are testing one another. She is the first to bring up faith: in her broken English she starts to talk about Jesus. As if some magic code word has been uttered, I breathe a sigh of relief. Only later do I come to realize: we are in a taxi.

During the prayer service, I find myself questioning God’s provision yet again on two accounts: sleep and bathroom. I can barely keep my eyes open and realize it may have been a full day since I’ve last ‘gone’. I start to wonder if I will die from toxins being built up from all my unreleased urine. It must be the lack of sleep. Even though I recognize how illogical I’m being, I still find myself praying through anxiety. Lord, help me! Finally everyone stands—prayer time is over. I ask a somewhat English-speaking young woman where I go to the bathroom. She leads me next to a bunch of wooden boxes out in the open. “Deez are for da sheeting” she tells me. Glad I don’t need those. The girl then takes me into a run-down building with a rustic looking toilet. No paper, but I’m just glad not to be in broad view.

When we get home that night, I tell the pastor that I am going to go straight to bed. Once I am already in my pajamas, I realize “da sheeting” needs to happen. Unfortunately the toilet in my room doesn’t seem to be working. Again, due to lack of sleep, my logic doesn’t seem to be functioning properly. I reason that since I am already in my pajamas I can’t possibly change again and go ask them where they keep their wooden boxes. So I take matters into my own hands (literally) and fish the you-know-what out of the toilet and put it in my once-was bag of trail mix to throw out later the next day. Thankfully I brought my own soap—which I use extensively.

In India, nothing is private. The next day a couple of girls tell me in the little English they have that they are switching rooms for me so I can be closer to a working toilet. I tell them it is no problem but they insist. I go upstairs and already find them grabbing my things. All I can think about is the bag in the bathroom. After they have a little laugh at my workout weights and Traveling teddy, I manage to dispose of the bag now masked by a cracker box unseen, but it is still a good lesson for me nonetheless: Kant hide yor sheet.

The new room they bring me to is a simple a mat on the floor (I told them—and meant—‘no problem’ when they couldn’t figure out how to bring the bed down.). No bathroom, big look-at-me window, no curtain--no privacy. But I’ve got a pillow and a blanket—yes, God has provided. And sleep—I actually sleep! For anyone who knows me—talk about some serious provision.

There is one thing in particular, however, that I still am having difficulties trusting God for. Ever since I announced my India trip, I have had multiple people freaking out on my behalf over me being sold as a sex slave. I, on the other hand, have always been more worried about what I am going to eat. In order to best “prepare”, I have accumulated what is likely $100 worth of granola bars, nuts, and other goodies. Has my fend-for-myself mentality ignored Jesus’ instruction not to be anxious about food, drink, and clothing? At the moment I am in a continual mental ping-pong match between choosing my food and theirs. Not that I have much choice. Culturally, these people are all about feeding me. A lot. All the time. And let’s just say, not up to health-conscious running-girl standards. Acne and stomach problems have proved to be my white girl cross. And since there is no real rhythm to their sudden meals for me, I find myself reaching for my own snacks in my hunger. Always finishing right before they come in with a plate full of something. If I weren’t so quick to satisfy my own needs, maybe I would have more space for their meals whenever they come along. I would be better prepared for their rhythms if I ate with the orphan children at their scheduled meal times, but that is not allowed. Some sort of honor thing. I have a hard time with this, but I am attempting (not always with much success) to embrace their culture and show Jesus through it. Not to overthrow it. As I let the Lord provide through them for my physical needs, it is my prayer that in some way he can provide through me some of their spiritual needs. But if I don’t receive their food, why would I expect them to receive mine? And so I sit, and I eat. And I sit, and I eat. Well, sort of. I am still not very good at this... But I’m praying about it (besides, they hover over me until I “Feeneesh! Feeneesh!”).

Of all the the things I most want the Lord’s provision for, though, it’s this: Oh, Lord, provide good works in advance for me to do that I may walk in them!  I came to be his servant, which I thought would mean through The Gospel of John (that was the invitation), but I’m starting to think the Lord means more for me to live it than perform it. Jesus took on a culture. He lived in that culture. He embraced that culture. And then—after much time and built trust—he did something so contrary to that culture: he washed his disciples’ feet. If I am to truly wash these people’s feet in a way that means something to them, I need to take my lead from the one who did it first. It is going to take time. And so, I have been spending my time with the orphan girls when they are out of school—learning their language, playing games, singing their songs, and going through The Jesus Storybook Bible. Since they already know these stories like the back of their hand—they enjoy the pictures that accompany the already-familiar characters. I am hoping that in some way the Lord can use me to bring the love of Jesus in a way that leaps off the pages and points them to the person of Christ. For his glory. They know the stories. But do they know him?

Oh, Lord, pour out your spirit. Pour out your love. Provide your love for me to love your children, and as you do, may that love be a light to this country. A country that needs your truth, your light, your love.

ENTRY 2:

I feel so utterly helpless here. People warned me about the shock that comes along with seeing India’s poverty… Due to selfishness, kinesthetic learning, or both, I have to admit that I never really got it until I started living in it. I am sick, I am dirty, I am achy, I am stuck.

I am pretty sure the bugs have smelled new blood because I am covered in bites. At night the mosquitos have already plotted war against the white girl. The kids have noticed and they keep pulling me over to fans and swatting them away on my behalf. The battle lasts through the night, though, and so I wake to a face and neck full of itchy sores. The children stare, I smile and say “no problem”, and so we keep playing. But I always know another night is coming.

And that is just the outside of my body. Based on the yellow color of my snot, the amount I have not gone to the bathroom, and the achiness my body feels, I know I’m not exactly a poster child for health inside either. In a place where washing dishes means rinsing off with dirty water and eating is done with unwashed bathroom hands, cleanliness isn’t really an option. Not even my room is a ‘safe zone’—bugs, dirt, unwashed mat and blanket. I feel stuck inside an incubated germ-box.

In my flesh, all I want to do is get out. Escape. Besides, these people are used to this. They don’t know any different, but I do. If they have never tasted clean air or pure water, what difference does it make? Why not just leave them as is—it’s what they know--and go back to where I feel my best? Where I feel safe?

In my spirit, though, I know that I must stay. I can’t ignore what I now know. And yet, what does staying mean? If I am as sick as they are what good will I be? I’ve prayed for the Lord’s protection, but even if he continues to allow this sickness, his goodness hasn’t changed and he will fulfill his purpose for me—whatever that may be. God has shown me that he wants me here; Satan, on the other hand, doesn’t and he is doing a number to try and get me to give up. I’m tempted, I admit. But though my flesh is weak, His Spirit’s strong in me (I’ve sung this aloud many times already). But if God really does want me here, then what does he want me here for?

Ultimately for Jesus—to know him and make him known. For these kids. For these people. I know I am here for them. And by the Lord’s grace and answer to prayer, I already am growing to love them. To truly love them. A love that can only be from Jesus, and I want them to know that love. His love. But how?

At a loss, all I can do is pray. Moved by his Spirit to do just that, I find myself crying out to the Lord in my room begging him to send his Spirit to this place and to form Christ in me that he may love these kids through me. I have so few of their words to speak, so I can’t just tell them who Jesus is, I need to show them. I need his Word to live in me--in who I am. As I am praying about this, one of the girls enters my room unannounced to bring me tea and sees me on my knees. “Sahree! Sahree to deesturb!” I assure her that she is welcome and ask how she is doing. She has a fever. I ask to pray for her, she agrees, kneels, and I place my hand on her forehead. Later that evening, other children gather to me. I wonder if my prayer for the girl has become known, because one little boy puts my hand on his head and asks if I can pray a blessing for him. I do. That he may know Jesus. Other children catch on and run up for prayer.

Prayer: something these kids are already familiar with in one sense but not at all in another. Every morning and evening they gather for group prayer. A ritual where the children all kneel in lines and chant memorized lyrics as the older girls (there are rarely adults here) walk up and down the lines and whack whichever kids they see not in perfect order. As I watch, I don’t always see the ‘disturbance’ that they do. A wandering eye? A slouched shoulder? A vendetta? I cannot tell. I say nothing—but my face reveals my displeasure. One of the older girls sees my expression and raises her eyebrow with a scowl and a slow, fear-inducing wiggle of her head, “Wat eez da problem?” I do not have a response at this time. My heart goes out to her, she was once one of these little ones, too. This is the prayer she knows.

And so I pray to the God I know. I still feel helpless, and I am—on my own. But God is not helpless, and He is our help. I need Him as much as they do. But here I am—wearing his name—so by the name of Jesus, may he clean my heart, my mind, and my life, so that he can use me to bring more health—more love--to this place. Somehow. Oh Jesus, make yourself known here!

As I finish writing these words, I hear the voice of the pastor’s wife “Katee! Katee!” (my name). I put down my computer, “Yes?” “Iyam wordeed aboud yor helt” she tells me. “My brahder weel take you to dahktr.” I agree, and as we wait she says, “Da girlz luv you. How long you stay—6 munt?” I smile faintly. “Just one.” What once seemed like an eternity is suddenly shrinking. As I drive off, I realize that these people are the ones caring for me. I’m not the only one who loves Jesus here, and I hope as the love he has gifted us rides off into town that maybe just maybe someone else will catch it. After all, it’s highly contagious.

ENTRY 3

I learned their names.

It strikes me that Jesus’s great commission was “go and make disciples of all nations” not “go and make converts of all nations.” Converts can come in masses and instantaneously; disciples are more personal and take time.

And so, I learned their names.

I’ve always been drawn to BIG—big ministry, big ideas, big exciting adventures. Activity, hype, go-go-go! I came to India thinking I would tour John—place after place. Hearing the Word of God leading to BIG revival! Surprise, surprise, God calls me to little, still, personal… time.

Jesus said, “Go and make disciples of all nations.” If I am going to make any disciples of this nation, I first need to know some names.

And so, I learned their names.

Names of orphans who have a Father who knows their name. I want them to know that they are known, and I want them to know the one who knows them: Jesus, I want them to know that he knows their name.

One by one I find them around the property-at meals, cleaning, studying. Then I take out my phone and ask, “Peekchur? Peekchur?” Then once the child’s photo is taken, I write the corresponding name in the pocket journal that I keep inside my fanny pack. Then, I study and I practice. Names like Bhanashvari and Jelashmanee certainly don’t come naturally. But how am I supposed to explain that Sara is easier for me than Priyadhrshini? I have no excuse with them—I either know their name or I don’t. And they love when I know their name. In fact, I bet they can count on one hand the amount of adults that know their name. And probably even less who care to. But their name is special—it’s the most personal thing they have.

“[The shepherd] calls his own sheep by name.” Jesus knows his children personally. “I know my own and my own know me just as the Father knows me and I know the Father,” Jesus says, “and I lay down my life for the sheep.”