A changed heart.

I have been blessed to interview and write over twenty individual's stories while I've been staying here in Kolkata. Stories of doctors, patients--children and adults, nurses, orphans, pastors--each with an incredible personal testimony of the powerful miracles that have happened in their lives. It has been a sobering two weeks. I have been moved to tears time and time again in interviewing and praying with each of these precious people. Their faces and stories will forever remain etched in my mind. Though every story drew a different degree of emotion, there is one story that especially touched my heart. The story of little Chanda, a ten-year-old girl from the slums of Serampure who was given the gift of life through a miraculous heart surgery. Chanda has been in the healing process for the past sixth months, and last week we visited her village on the edge of the Ganges River. Morgana and I received special permission to take Chanda back to Kolkata with us for three days. During those days, we took Chanda shopping for new clothing and shoes and gifts to give to her entire family. It was a heart-rendering sight to watch her petite hands receive each gift with such overwhelming thankfulness. Chanda saw and experienced new things she had never in her life seen before-- from a fancy sit-down dinner, to snapping hundreds of photos with Morgana's Nikon D-300 SLR camera, to jumping with us on our beds and laughing late into the night. One of the pastors in Kolkata told us, "You have no idea the significance of what this meant to Chanda. A person of her social status and level of poverty would never even been given a second glance by those around her". But Chanda received much more than our love and attention for a few days--she received the miracle of new life. Calcutta Mercy Ministries was able to give her a life-altering heart surgery. Chanda's story is one that testifies to our great God who knows us deeply and intimately, even the numbers of hairs on our heads. He saw Chanda's need and provided just the right connections to bring her what she needed most: the gift of new life.

Below is Chanda's story, written after an afternoon of observing her typical daily-life in her village of Serampure.

Chanda Paswan: A Changed Heart
Concrete buildings melt into rich greens of trees and fields the further we travel from downtown Kolkata. There is a new freshness in the air and the noise of the metropolis has subsided, at least a little. Four of us are huddled in a van headed to Serampure, a destination I am told we are only minutes away from. Minutes tick by quickly, and we are still searching for the city. Our minivan is almost too wide to travel through the cramped alleyways bustling with bicycles, stray dogs, and mothers carrying children on the bump of their hips. Samir, the driver, stops for a moment, stretching his neck out the window to ask directions from a lady selling cucumbers and ginger on a small, threadbare tarp. “Serampure?” he questions. The woman points her longest finger straight ahead. Ten minutes pass and we are still lost. Once again Samir asks for directions, this time to a young man carrying a burlap sack of guava fruits with his left hand and gripping the tiny hand of his son with his right. He seems more confident in his navigation and begins to rattle off a series of turns in Bengali, his head bobbing to the right and left because of the preoccupation of his hands. The directions proved accurate and before long we reached Serampure, parking in the crevasse of a narrow alley.

Serampure, or at least the alley of Serampure we are in, is beyond filthy. The smell of urine rises and sits heavily in the muggy heat. A rat scurries past my feet and crawls into a hovel underneath a barred door. Just beyond us, the Ganges River moves steadily, carrying tree branches and plastic garbage in its quickening current. But this area is far from prime “waterfront property”. It is dismal. Squalid. Slum-like. With the wave of the Samir’s hand, we shuffle quickly to the front of a school building, which looks more like the entrance to a cave cut from a concrete wall. With such intent haste, you would think we were a team of archaeologists or miners searching relentlessly for some rare, delicate jewel. As assumption not far from the truth. The precious stone we are searching for is actually a ten-year-old miracle named Chanda Paswan—a beaming emblem of life tucked in the center of a neighborhood that speaks otherwise from its visible conditions. I glance up at the sign posted above Chanda’s school. “Monimala Trust: School for the Underprivileged” it reads in painted lettering. Moni, in Bengali, is the word for a dirty, misshapen rock that has been polished into a precious gem. Mala is Bengali for “garland”. “The vision behind Monimala is to take the poorest children from the slums and give them free, non-formal education and the chance to live a life of dignity,” Robin Behura tells me, the director of Monimala. Robin opens the door to the school and we enter, in search of Chanda, our precious gem.

Guided through a dimly lit hallway, we enter a school room with an eclectic assortment of children—all ages and sizes—standing in unison like a well-trained miniature battalion, each wearing a simply-sewn matching uniform vest over their colorful clothing. All at once they all greet me, “Hello, Auntie. How are you?” Their voices chime and meld together into one glorious warm and welcoming sound. Morgana, a photographer, walks in just after me to hear the same greeting repeated loudly. The children’s smiles are wide and infectious, but one especially stands out. A teacher places her palm on the head of the little girl with the shining grin. “This is Chanda,” she tells us. Morgana, who has met Chanda once before nearly a year ago hardly recognizes her. “She looks completely different,” Morgana mutters. Not much has changed in Chanda’s four foot figure, except for one very important piece—her heart.

Chanda’s heart was “fixed” several months ago in a life-changing surgery funded by Calcutta Mercy Hospital. Born with a condition called Cardiomegaly, Chanda’s enlarged heart had gaps between the chamber walls, causing weakness and extreme fatigue. This “hole” in Chanda’s heart kept her from doing basic chores like lifting a bucket to participating in what she loves more than anything—dancing. Robin Behura’s wife, Bani, a medical missionary working with the Monimala trust, was the first to notice the abnormality in Chanda’s behavior due to her condition. “She was always hunched over, pale and fatigued, and she fainted frequently,” Bani tells me, her face painted with a grim expression as traceable memories of the “old Chanda” enter her mind. “She was also extremely underweight.” I ask Dr. Bani what would have happened if Chanda was not operated on. “Eventually, she would have died,” Bani tells me. I fixate my attention on Chanda. There is nothing about death written on her perpetual smile directed at Morgana. Morgana smiles back, frequently repeating her amazement at the change in Chanda’s energy level.

The team of four I arrived with moves into a back room, much smaller than the one we were just in, the walls lined with old sewing machines and educational posters. Monimala’s dance teacher steps in, her swift movements and sheer red scarf contributing to her already graceful demeanor. “The children would like to show you their newest dance,” she tells us as she guides us to a row of plastic blue chairs. “This dance is preformed to a Bengali song about the beauty of butterflies,” she mentions before firmly pressing the play button on top of a dusty CD-player. Four children stand in opposite corners of the room, frozen in a pose with their pointer fingers held high above their head. Chanda is in one corner standing tall, her eyes reflecting a sparkling pride even before she begins. As the soft music plays, the children begin flapping their arms like the wings of a decorous monarch. Chanda is the glittering star. She moves as if she were created for dancing. She is in her element and nothing is stopping in her. Just six months ago this would have been impossibility. For a moment I am struck with the beautiful symbolism of Chanda and the butterfly dance—before me a little girl is flittering and spinning with new life. Chanda is truly a new creation.

After a sturdy applause, the teacher tells us that three of the four dancers are Chanda’s siblings. Two boys and two girls, so close in age, I found myself a bit shocked. Dr. Bani continues to tell me that Chanda lives in a family of nine. “Eleven if you count the two goats,” she says laughing a bit. My curiosity is spinning wildly. “Nine?” I ask for verification. “Yes, seven children,” Bani repeats, “Chanda’s mom was just given a hysterectomy free of charge by the Monimala community health clinic.” But seven is already an army, considering Chanda’s family’s living conditions.

Guided by Chanda along the edge of the Ganges River, just down the street from her school, we are led in to a hovel of a home resting in the center of a muddy alleyway saturated with the smell of rotting vegetables. The molding food is likely Chanda’s dinner. With a family of nine operating only on the miniscule salary of Chanda’s father, a rickshaw driver making less than twenty-five dollars a month, discounted foods are all they can afford— even if it means they have gone bad. “Chanda’s brothers and sisters come in to our clinic frequently with stomach infections because of the food,” Bani and Robin explain to us. “The problem is, Chanda’s father spends all of his money on alcohol, leaving nothing for the provision of his family.” My eyebrows point in disbelief at what I’m hearing. An abusive alcoholic, Chanda’s father frequently beats his wife. But their home is too small to hide anything from the children who usually huddle on a plank board of a bed in the attached room. The bed sleeps all seven children. It’s mass, though not much bigger than a twin sized bed, takes up the majority of the largest room. Beyond it is a smaller room with clothes hanging at different levels from shoddy ropes and a simple fireplace. I’ve never seen a house so little—and dismal— for such a large family. Chanda’s mom gives us a gracious smile. She is thin and frail, her gaunt face making her look much older than her thirty-some years. Her prized youngest daughter, Sitara, just a baby, sits in her arms wearing nothing but a tiny t-shirt. After brief greetings and a few photographs, Chanda grabs my hand pulling me out the door as she waves haphazardly at her mom and baby sister. The collective group follows Chanda, our intent little leader.

“Chanda wants to show you our home,” Robin and Bani tell us. “She’s been living with us while she continues to heal.” Something within me sighs with relief as we walk away from the stone and mud shanty that Chanda’s family lives in. Trying to imagine Chanda recovering in such congested conditions is unbearable. But eventually she will have to return home. My heart wrenches with pain for Chanda’s precious family as we drive away from the scene—her mother waving to us as we circle the corner until we can see her no more. Little time is left to ponder as, minutes later, Chanda rips us back out of the van, both hands tugging Morgana and I faster than we can shuffle our legs to keep up with her. Like a seasoned tour guide, she points out a steel-barred elevator, presses the “up” button and hops on. As we travel to the third floor, Chanda’s foot is tapping in anticipation. Clearly, she is restless to show us what will emerge from the opening elevator doors.

As the elevator peels open and the steel bars separate, Chanda runs to the front door of Robin and Bani’s apartment. She stands in front of it, her right hand attached to her hip in a proud position. As we walk inside, I glance quickly around the four-bedroom apartment. Chanda runs to her room, sprawling on her oversized bed—each arm and leg pointing a different direction. I stare at her as she lays on the massive mattress, her bed at home only a fraction of the size and without the little luxuries like throw pillows and a warm blanket for covering. With a semi-somersault, Chanda rolls onto the ground and walks across to her own private balcony. Sitting in a cushioned chair like a petite queen on her mammoth throne, Chanda stares across the rooftops of buildings stretching to the edge of the Ganges. “Chanda likes to sit out here,” Dr. Bani says, “she can see her house from up here”. Chanda just below an outstretching tree in the distance; her home is just below it. Comfortable and lavish as her temporary housing situation with Dr. Bani and Robin may be, it is clear that Chanda’s constant concern for her family never subsides. “She is always talking about her family,” Bani tells me, “every night at dinner she prays over each one of them by name. She used to save bits of her dinner to bring home to her family, too.”

I bend over, grabbing Chanda’s petite midsection in a half-embrace and stare into her eyes, “you are one thoughtful little girl,” I tell her. Her smile turns up slightly on one side before she runs to the dining room table, pulling our chairs out and motioning for our team to sit down and eat. Chanda waits until we’ve finished our tea and afternoon snack before she takes her turn eating. We share a glance from across the table, her face covered in the crumbs of the samosa she is eating. As the adults begin chatting, our cups being refilled with chai, Chanda’s eyes slowly grow heavy until she surrenders to her sleepiness and travels to the sofa to lie down.

Glancing across the room minutes later, Chanda is coiled like a snail on the couch cushions. In her curved positioning, she looks half her size, her feet tucked carefully underneath the hem of her skirt. Staring at her petite sleeping figure, I look closely to see the pink line of a scar emerging from the top of her collar. A mark that will never fade. A mark that will forever speak of the miracle of Chanda’s new life. Laying there in stillness, Chanda has a sweet glow on her face—the unique glow of a newly polished precious stone.

Chanda with four of her siblings

The things above me.

It’s a peculiar thing calling a hospital “home”. Even stranger, is knowing that while I am sleeping, above and below me patients are sleeping—or trying to sleep. My bed is directly beneath the pediatric ward. Every night as I sprawl my body like a starfish on the twin-sized bed wrapped in hospital sheets, I wonder which children are on the next floor. A light sleeper, I lay awake, listening to things being wheeled above me—an IV scooting along, guided by a nurse, a bed shifting closer to the wall to make room for a new patient, the harshness of a metal meal cart unpleasantly squealing as it is pushed across the tile floor. The wheeling noises remind me I’m not alone in this house of a hospital—I am sharing my home with the sick and the dying. For a moment I’m overwhelmed with my healthiness. I shift in my half-sleep, my mind more restless than my body.

To satiate my night-time curiosity, I had to explore the pediatric ward above me. Today I walked in just after lunch, my arms brimming with crayons and coloring books, an excuse to visit the children. Twenty beds lined the walls, stark white metal set against bright oranges and yellows—choice colors to bring some sense of cheer to the children’s eyes. There were no separate rooms, no dividing curtains, no corners of privacy. Instead, a mass of mothers and children filled the room—each mom cuddled closely beside her child. Kids were nursing, crying, sleeping—some were screaming with pain while others were preoccupied with giggling as their mother’s entertained them.

Not knowing where to go first, I inched towards a little boy whose eyes immediately caught my attention. One was gazing forward while the other danced in circles, twitching relentlessly and periodically positioning in the opposite direction. He looked weak in his hospital gown which covered him like an oversized pink pillowcase. I handed him a blue crayon dulling at the tip. “Color?” I asked. He nodded without a smile. Wincing with pain, he lifted his right hand, wrapped like a mummy in surgical tape and gauze—a thick needle positioned just right in his vein followed by a cylindrical tube ready to be connected to an IV. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Mohammad Das,” he said in a raspy, oatmealish voice. I had wondered by his mother’s clothing if they were Muslim, but the name gave it away.

“Malaria,” Mohammad’s mom told me. “Brain malaria.” I kept staring at his eye—erratically jolting like a marble in a pinball machine, but I was even more distracted by his mother. She was strikingly beautiful with naturally outlined eyes and flawless skin. She was the kind of beautiful you can’t help but stare at. Her head-to-toe black clothing revealed only the oval of her face, but even with a small window, it was evident she was young. Considerably young. She couldn’t have been older than twenty. It is likely she was married at fourteen or fifteen. She looked at me and smiled. I grinned back. Two women, around the same age, with radically different stories connecting in a moment of friendliness.

After a few minutes she stood up, patting Mohammad firmly on the head, and grabbing the palm of my hand. She gently pulled me across the room to another Muslim woman, hunched like a black cloud over her baby wrapped in white. Mohammad’s mom had an expression of grief on her face as she watched the infant with maggot white skin. Beyond his paleness, he was premature—his head petite and only slightly larger than a Satsuma orange. His body was coiled in a network of tubes. One tube protruded from his nostril, another connected to his stomach. A third tube ran from an IV directly into his thumb-sized arm. “Twenty-two days old”, his mother said, her eyes pooling with water and wrinkled from lack of sleep. It was hard for me to watch her anguished expression. Clearly she was loosing hope. In her limited English vocabulary, she continued to tell me that it was her son’s first day out of the ICU. That it was her first time seeing him since he was born. She was overwhelmed with emotion. She kept repeating, “He is so weak. He is so weak.” She was right. He looked like he had no energy to continue to fight. His tubes were the thin line separating him from life and death. I watched his eyes, small as peas, slowly blink. Every blink was a grain of hope for the life ahead of him. I asked his mother if I could pray for him. Kneeling down, I placed my hand on him—completely overlapping his entire body. I began to pray and his mother kept watching him with concern. I prayed for healing, for new hope, for his little life to have big purpose in bringing his family to Jesus. I prayed for a miracle.

When I finished, I stood up and noticed the time. Four-o-clock. Visiting hours were over. I wasn’t ready to walk away from Mohammad and the beautiful young Muslim mothers. I had so much I wanted to share with them, and so much more I wanted to ask. Most of all, I was reluctant leaving the baby. With a final goodbye, I left the ward and walked down a single flight of stairs to my room.

Six hours later I am back in my bed. Laying with my head facing the ceiling, I continue to pray for the baby above me, only a few feet separating my room from his hospital bed. I imagine his mom, sprawled over him like a protective tent. I begin praying for the Holy Spirit’s presence to enter that crowded room of children and mothers—some sleeping, some lying awake in anguished pain. With such limited contact and no knowledge of the Bengali language, prayer is the most powerful weapon I have here. I continue praying, unable to sleep, expecting great things from God and knowing there is no limit to what He can do. The longer I pray, the more my faith begins to rise.

Things begin to hush into a nighttime silence. It is quiet, except for occasional wheeling sounds above me. Reminders that God knew just what He was doing when he placed me in this hospital—for now, my home.

Beyond what is seen.

Every morning I unscrew the lid to my malaria medication, grab a pill between my fingertips, and swallow quickly with water. I’ve found that the pills substitute for a great countdown device. There is one for each remaining day in India. So far, I haven’t made a dent in the heap of pink pea-sized pills—evidence that I’ve just barely scratched the surface of my time here. The new malaria pill countdown gives whole new meaning to the “glass half-full” phrase. I can’t figure out if I want this glass to be half-full or half-empty. In some ways, I wish there would be no end to the pills so I could stay in this place forever.

The day before yesterday was one of those days. Morgana told me we would be leaving in the afternoon to visit the “Divine Fellowship School for the Blind.” Five of us hopped into the hospital van to travel the short distance across town. Raul, a volunteer, sat next to me with a bag brimming with balloons, ridged paper, acrylics and peacock feathers—all tactile objects possessing definitive texture for the students to explore, feel, and create art projects with. An emerging feather tickled the surface of my leg and goosebumps immediately grew on my skin—a reactive combination of the feather’s movement and my nerves.

Ten or fifteen minutes through an agglomeration of typical Kolkata traffic—horns incessantly wailing and throngs of pedestrians dodging taxi cabs—we arrived at a gate painted in royal blue reading “Divine School of the Blind.” I shared a locked glance with another volunteer before the gate began to inwardly open. A security officer waved us on to park just outside a building where children were affixed to their books, reading diligently in braille. With the sound of the approaching car, a number of them glanced upward, their smiles intensifying from wiry close-lipped smiles to full-toothed grins. Highly contagious, we started smiling too.

Many children were standing outside in anticipation of our arrival. Instead of approaching us, they stood in a huddle, cautiously awaiting us to venture closer to them. The moment I extended my hand to the young boy in front of me, he gripped it tightly and began shaking it up and down like a toy rattle, his smile beaming and his eyes moving from still and rested to blinking in a hundred different directions.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I am fine, thank you, Miss,” he replies, continuing to recite the extent of English that he knows. “My name is Bittu. I am in reading class, level two. Your name is?”

“Abbie.”

“Abbie, Abbie”, he repeats smiling. His hand remains attached to my wrist the entire time.

After a few minutes of greeting, I turn around to see eight children lined up seated biggest to smallest—like a Russian nesting doll—on a nearby wooden bench.

“These are the children you’ll be interviewing,” Morgana tells me.

I had a few hours to ask each of the eight questions about their blindness, their families, their hobbies, their life at the school—all for the purpose of raising information for potential donors. Most of the children’s families have absolutely nothing; certainly not enough to provide their children with the medical attention and treatments they need.

The first girl I interviewed, Pinky, was newly seven years old. Pinky had very limited speech and could only speak two words—“yes” and her name, “Pinky.” One of the school teachers told me a bit of Pinky’s history; her mother just died two months ago and she was new at the school. Before arriving, she didn’t know how to walk. In just a few months she was walking completely on her own.

Pinky’s interview was interrupted by a small set of hands wrapping themselves around my right leg. I looked down to see who was squeezing so tightly and I saw a little girl dressed in orange, latched like a leech below my knee.

“That is Supda,” the teacher told me smiling. “She is very, very loving.”

Loving was an accurate word. I bent down and looked at Supda in the eyes. Though she couldn’t see me, she smiled, her long eyelashes beautifully encasing her deep brown saucer eyes. Supda had incredibly smooth skin, with the exception to a protrusive red bump bulging from the center of her forehead.

“That one came when she fell down,” the teacher explained, pointing to the injury. “Supda is very active. She loves to dance. Sometimes I think she forgets she can’t see. She is constantly hurting herself from dancing.” Even then, Supda was smiling wide as she was swinging back and forth in a rhythmic motion. “Supda has only been blind for two years,” said the teacher, “it was completely unexpected.” My heart turns a bit. I bend down and give Supda a tight embrace. She immediately hugs back without a hint of caution or reservation. After a brief pause, Supda reaches for my head, placing her hands like bookends on my face—one on each cheek. First she kisses the right side, then the left, before hugging me again. I hug her right back. Supda can’t stop smiling as she rattles something off in Bengali.

“What did she just say?” I ask the teacher.

“She said, ‘This miss is very sweet. She really loves me’.” Supda was right. How could love not be the response to such a precious little girl who was so willing to give her heart quickly. Supda was a refreshing light to the other children around her. During our entire stay, she was continually marching up to other children and showing them affection, holding their hands to guide them, or giggling with them about little secrets. I look at Supda and over the entire crowd of blind children. This is a special group, I think to myself. By this time, the children had received balloons from Raul and they were all fascinated with them. Some were throwing and catching their balloons while jumping in place, some cradled their balloons like baby dolls; others blew loud sounds into the latex to feel the excitement of the unfamiliar vibrations echoing inside.

As I gazed over the balloon-fascinated crowd, one girl stood out to me for reasons I can’t describe. She was by far the smallest in the group, wearing a petite yellow dress with scattered blue flowers. She looked like a peanut with her cleanly shaven head and minuscule frame. She stood alone—like a little beacon in her canary dress. The Holy Spirit started prompting me to walk over to her. As I approached her, she began rocking back and forth, sensing my nearing presence.

“Hello,” I said. She didn’t reply, but smiled a bit. I grabbed her up in my arms and held her close to my face. Her eyes were completely shut—as if they were glued in place—without possibility of opening. Where Supda reached out to my face immediately to touch me, this little toddler held back. She didn’t struggle though, and it was obvious she loved being held. I asked her more questions. I asked her if she knew Jesus. Yesu. When I said his name she smiled, revealing two perfectly white rows of baby teeth. With that response, I began singing worship songs to her. The more I sang, the more relaxed she became. She leaned backward, her frame over my arms and her tiny legs dangling like shoestrings. She looked utterly at peace. Even though my English was incomprehensible, she wouldn’t stop smiling as I sang melodies about Jesus in her ear. I wish I could’ve seen what she was seeing in that moment. Regardless of the absence of sight, I like to believe she had a moment in Jesus’ presence. I imagined Him approaching her, overwhelming love exuding with each step he took closer, until he came right up to her, kissing her forehead. But that is just an imaginative venture. I am sure what she alone could see was something much greater—inexpressible. An encounter that I pray will change her life forever.

Reluctant, I set the sweet little one down to walk to the car. It was time to leave. We drove away, watching colorful balloons jump in the arms of waving children. My heart was heavy, but also full. I glanced at the stack of completed interview notes on my lap, internally praying for each of the eight names and the hearts that would be rendered by their stories.

Taking my malaria pill between my fingers this morning and checking off the seventh day since I left home, I remember the powerful encounters with the children at the Blind School. Part of me wants to put the pill back in the jar, in hopes it will buy me more time to stay.

Photos from our visit to the Divine Fellowship School for the Blind:

Getting love from Supda.

One of the children at the School for the Blind (notice Morgana taking photographs in the background).
The children and their balloons.
Tania, one of the interviewees.
The sweet little one (I never did learn her name).
The sweet little one, again.

The children reading braille in their classroom.
With two of the girls I interviewed, Sangita and Pinky.
Interviewing Bittu.
The children loving their balloons.
Some of the boys were incredible musicians. They played in a drum circle for us.

Kolkata: the train headed two directions.

I began turning restlessly in my bed this morning at 5 am, still unadjusted to Kolkata time. Reverberating Bengali music intermingled with noisy bird chatter, traffic horns, and the woman across the street washing her tin cups in a shallow basin. The strangeness of being back in India—and feeling a stranger in this place— has not subsided. It likely never will. Yet, there have been little touches of familiarity that also make this place feel like home again. This morning, it was the taste of Chai. Chai that is so different than anything available in the states. A taste that is sweet and spicy and redolent. Chai that makes the tin cup it’s in sweat. Chai that grows a thick layer of milk skin if you leave it for a moment, separating only when you blow the surface to cool it off. Drinking chai early this morning I sighed. I am blessed to be back here.

Of course, just because India is beginning to feel like a home again, doesn’t mean it presents the comforts often associated with “home”. This time in Kolkata has already proven to be anything but comfortable. I’m not referring to the discomforts often assumed with travel to a foreign place—the heat, the insects, the digestive issues. I am more uncomfortable with the personal style of living that seems so drastically opposite of the Indians that surround me. It is far different than the way I lived in Rameswaram three years ago (which seemed much more homogenized with the Indian way of life—more authentic). Currently, I am sitting two stories above the streets of Kolkata below me. If I look out the window, I can see smoke rising from an Indian man earning his living selling corn grilled over a small fire for just a few rupees a piece. Next to him is a young girl, maybe seven, carrying her half-dressed new born baby brother—an acting mother in a family that is probably too big to have adequate food or clothing. And here I sit, in an air conditioned room with clean running water enough square footage to comfortably fit five or ten more people. I have wireless internet at my desk. There is a TV in the room adjacent to mine. This is not the India I remember. I have to remind myself that this time around I am in the city. The style of living in India is drastically changing as you get closer and closer to the cities. The space is divided between the rich and the poor living side by side. You will glance out the window to see new construction being resurrected just next to a hut with a thatched roof. You may see a man in a business suit, chatting away on his cell phone, stepping over the top of an elderly beggar lying on the side of the road. Shiny new cars are parked next to rickshaws and rusted bicycles. Striking diametrical opposites.

The most acute description I have heard so far of this blatant divide between the wealthy and the poor of India is found in Arundhati Roy’s book “Power Politics”. An Indian herself, I was memorized with the way Roy was able to pinpoint the phenomenon that’s occurring in this nation:

“India lives in several centuries at the same time. Somehow we manage to progress and regress simultaneously…we greaten like the maturing head of a hammerhead shark with eyes looking in diametrically opposite directions…

…As Indians we subsist on a regular diet of caste massacres and nuclear tests, mosque breakings and fashion shows, church burnings and expanding cell phone networks, bonded labor and the digital revolution, female infanticide and the Nasdaq crash, husbands who continue to burn their wives for dowry and our delectable stockpile of Miss Worlds…in lane behind my house, every night I walk past road gangs of emaciated laborers digging a trench to lay fiber-optic cables to speed up our digital revolution. In the bitter winter cold, they work by the light of a few candles…

…It’s as though the people of India have been rounded and loaded up onto two convoys of trucks (a huge big one and a tiny little one) that have set off resolutely in opposite directions. The tiny convoy is on it’s way to a glittering destination somewhere near the top of the world. The other convoy just melts into the darkness and disappears…For some of us, life in India is like being suspended between the two trucks, one in each convoy, and being neatly dismembered as they move apart, not bodily, but emotionally and intellectually.”

After I read Arundhati Roy’s visceral description of the state of India, I suddenly had an image to digest. The picture of the two trains traveling in opposite ways couldn’t be more accurate. The irony sinks in as I sit here at my laptop while listening to a baby cry outside. Earlier this afternoon I threw my clothing in to the washing machine in my room, then walked to the front window to see an elderly woman dripping in sweat as she scrubbed and rinsed her saris by hand, hanging them to dry just outside her miniscule living space. The daily sights are hard to swallow. I am sure I will never stop thinking about what I am seeing—even after returning home. The more I ponder, the more I can’t help but yearn for the Kingdom of God to one day be established in place of this way of life humanity has set up. I am putting my stock in the promise that, “Not always will the poor one be forgotten, nor will the hope of the meek ones ever perish” (Psalm 9: 18). With Jesus Christ as ruler, he will “have mercy on the lowly one and the poor one, and the souls of the poor ones he will save. From oppression and from violence he will redeem their soul, and their blood will be precious in his eyes” (Psalm 72:13,14). Ofcourse, this promise of a new Kingdom is not yet fulfilled, but it is alive and well even now if we ask the Lord, “your Kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven” (Matthew 6:10).

God’s Kingdom is accessible even now. I lean in to that promise as I prepare to walk outside. “Nor will the hope of the meek ones ever perish.” Hope is enduring. Even in a place like this.

A few photos...so far.

Part of our team. (R to L): Me (lead writer), Cymon (pre-med student), Raul (art therapist), Chris (pre-med student), and Morgana (lead photographer). Missing: three of our architects; Charlyn, Ginna and Tina.

View of Kolkata (Calcutta) from the top of the Calcutta Mercy Hospital.

Morgana (the lead photographer on our trip) in her element: taking photos of hospital nurses that I interviewed for stories. This nurse, Rebika, is 22 years old.

One of the views outside my window at Calcutta Mercy Hospital.

Downtown Kolkata (Calcutta).

Ignite.

An excerpt from my journal, August 8:

God just keeps me laughing today. Maybe it’s His clever way of easing the ache that seems to be quickly seeping deeper and deeper into my heart and thoughts. If I pause, even for a brief moment, the faces I’ve just left replay in my mind and the pain of walking away resonate like a relentless fist squeezing my heart too tightly. So, I am thankful today for things to laugh about. The little things that have preoccupied my mind while traveling.

One of those laughable moments happened just before I left. Brandon, my boyfriend, and I were waiting in the check in line for American Airlines—both of us weary with the thought of having to say a final “goodbye” for sixth months. Right before we approached the counter, a starry-eyed, widely-grinning black woman wearing tight black jeans, a red scarf loosely tied around her neckline, and a tilted beret atop her head (the icing on the cake), marched with purpose directly to the counter. She had a checkered carpet bag in one hand and cradled her obviously prized guitar in the other. With utter confidence she nearly shouted at the airline assistant, “headed to St. Louis!” Nothing was stopping her. Brandon and I couldn’t stop laughing. She was movie-worthy. Her flare let off a look reminiscent of Maria in The Sound of Music crossed with a San Franciscan beat poet. She was full of vigor and hopeful for stardom—clearly just waiting for her big break.

A half-an-hour later, the time came for me to cross through security—the last chance to say goodbye to my family and Brandon. I walked through the security line and watched each of them fade into little dots, their hands waving me off the entire way. I grabbed my sandals and carry-ons off the conveyor belt and sighed deeply. Just as my eyes began to well with tears, I saw her again. The star-to-be. She looked at me with bright eyes, “Wow! I just love your textiles!” she said, pointing to my scarf and skirt. “They are to die for!” She proceeded to tell me about her week at the Puget Sound Guitar Camp—the “single most inspirational week of her life.” Music was clearly her reason for living. “I scrubbed toilets the entire week for tuition,” she said. Scrubbing toilets with the glittering dream of producing beautiful songs—her passion was clear. “Bottom line…” she said to me as we parted, “we just gotta keep making our music, sister.” Maybe this movie-like character of a star hopeful was more than just a reason to keep me laughing. Maybe we had more in common than I’d imagined. Two travelers, full of hope, desiring inspiration, and ready to spread it wherever it is we end up—St. Louis or South India. As a musician, she plays, but it is the composer of the music who inspires the notes that flow sweetly from her guitar. I, too, work with a great composer. Without His inspiration, I wouldn’t be leaving. With it, my only response is to go. It’s in me—I gotta keep making my music.

Time elapsed, and soon I was suspended somewhere over Scandinavia in a Boeing 777, next to a kind old man from the Punjab province. He was wearing deep red, with a brown-colored turban and wrinkles like river deltas, traveling across his forehead and face. He was warm and welcoming, pelting me with questions about my life and story. His inquisitiveness was interrupted by a flight attendant on the overhead speaker with an announcement. “Please kindly close your windows in the main cabin. Soon we will be flying over Scandinavian polar ice caps and the reflection is very bright”. This surprised me a bit, especially because the sky was dim in color, lit only by orange hues of the setting sun. My mind was turning with curiosity, so every five minutes or so I pried the window screen open half-an-inch. Nothing. Nothing again. Then, suddenly I discovered exactly what the flight attendant meant. A fiery light resonated from the area outside the plane. The brightness stretched and surrounded, creating an effulgent glow. It was beautifully striking and just as the flight attendant described it: bright. The light was penetrating and completely natural. There was nothing artificial about it. Even though the sky colors were quickly dipping into darkness, the reflective polar ice had no choice but to respond to the last hints of light and create an overwhelming glow. Creation naturally responding to its Creator.

Just like a musician responding to the notes of a beautiful composer, the ice responded to the light with an resonant radiance. I thought again of the apparent significance. Though I am entirely unsure of the stories that will be produced or the specific outcome that will result from my trip to India, I choose to go. I am responding to what I believe God called me to do. When a God that has so much overwhelming love for us asks something of us, the response is natural. Obedience results. We become an inspired musician or illuminated ice reflecting the mastermind of the creator, the composer, the director of our call. We begin to love because He first loved us, share because we have been so touched by what He has shared with us, give because He gave us the ultimate gift—His life. Suddenly, it’s natural. Something is ignited from within and ready to reflect its source.

“His word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed I cannot.” –Jeremiah 20:8-9

Trustworthy

I am cozied up in the corner of our living room sofa staring at the two pieces of luggage I have packed for India…filled to the brim and ready for international travel. I have zipped the last zippers, said most of my goodbyes, given my last hugs and embraces, and here I am. Waiting for Friday to arrive and the next sixth months of my life in India to unfold.

There are many (natural) uncertainties in leaving, but the one thing I am truly certain of is this: God loves me deeply, He is with me, and He is worthy of my trust. I choose to place my trust in Him over the next six months. I believe He will provide for the littlest of my needs, reveal to me just where to go next, and supply me with a daily renewal of vision and love for the people of India He loves so intensely and profoundly.

Thank you all in advance for thinking of me and praying for me while I am gone. Overall, pray that my trust in the Lord would continue to thrive. I am thrilled to share with you stories that (I know) will again and again prove just how worthy of trust our God is.

“I'm so glad I learned to trust thee,
precious Jesus, Savior, friend;
and I know that thou art with me,
wilt be with me to the end.

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust him,
How I’ve proved him o’er and o’er,
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus,
Oh for grace to trust him more.”

-Hymn—‘Tis so Sweet to Trust in Jesus