Progression and Regression.

“Woohoo!” Paul shouted unabashedly as he gripped the door frame and swung his way into the office. “It’s a match!”

Paul is the full-time “media man” here at Body of Christ Ministries, and his computer sits just feet from mine in the office. At twenty-nine, Paul has been on the “marriage hunt” for a few years now. Approaching marriage the true Indian way, Paul desired a “good match” by means of an arranged marriage. He had one or two prospects recently, but for one reason or another, they fizzled out. Paul’s “list” seemed simple enough—a God-fearing woman who had finished her studies and was willing to serve alongside him in the ministry. Basic qualifications with one additional voiced hope, “it would be nice if she had fair skin.” Light brown skin is the standard of beauty here in South India—but Paul wasn’t pushing his luck too far.

In India, all it takes is a quick meeting with the “correct match” and the deal is sealed. You can decide you want to be married in October, and by November have a spouse at your side. With that cultural foreknowledge, it was no surprise that Paul left on Friday to meet a prospective match, Anita, and on Sunday he returned an engaged man.

Generally a match is selected by the parents, but Paul’s matchmaking can be attributed to a few nosy Americans—Justin, Rebekah, Tiffany and myself. While visiting Kerala, we met Anita—a beautiful twenty-three year old Indian woman who worked with Don Hargate at We Care International. Anita drew us in immediately with her genuine smile and sweet spirit. Over cups of tea she mentioned that her parents had begun “looking for her marriage.” She asked for our prayers and slipped in, “it would be nice if my husband had a good singing voice.”

One afternoon in the office (after returning from Kerala), Paul started humming a melodious Tamil worship song. As his humming melted into a chorus of singing, I suddenly remembered Anita’s words. “Wow, Paul has a great voice!” I said out loud. Justin and I glanced at each other and started brewing ideas of Paul, Anita, and holy matrimony. Apparently, this idea had already crossed Justin’s mind, as he had sent Paul Anita’s photo. The interest was there. It all seemed perfect. We laughed out loud at the idea of matchmaking in India. Funny as it was to us, Paul was entirely serious about the prospect. He urged us to “make the phone call." That next week, Justin called Don and from one American to another (and with God’s ultimate direction), plans were arranged for an official meeting—a meeting that ended in wild success (and a whole lot of excitement on Paul’s part). Now I can officially say I helped arrange a marriage…signed, sealed, delivered…it’s done.

Beyond matchmaking, there have been other encouraging moments of progress here on campus, like teaching a group of women swimming lessons in the evenings. Susannah, Pastor Paulose’s daughter, was first to show interest in learning. Rebekah and I spent hours with her, bobbing in the waves at a local sandy beach—dodging rocks and coral while we showed Susannah how to float, hold her breath underwater, and kick. At thirty-something, she was an eager learner and encouraged her four year old daughter to learn too. That afternoon at the beach sparked a daily swimming lesson routine that now takes place in the small lake on campus. Susannah’s private lessons have quickly turned into group lessons—with four women practicing their breaststroke and crawl stroke amongst the green muck and tadpoles of the campus lake.

Even with the exciting relational successes, there are other relationships that seem to be more regressive than progressive. More burdensome than thrilling. And yet, even in those encounters, the Holy Spirit urges me to continue on. I’ve felt that way in my friendship with Gheeta.

In her early sixties, Gheeta acts more like a child than a grown woman. She even has a tiny frame—less than five feet tall—and both of her hands can fit into one of mine. Her grey hair is coarse and rarely combed, and most of the time her sari is hiked up on one side, revealing her undergarments—though she doesn’t seem to notice or care.

Gheeta’s been living in the room below me for over a month now. The first few days after her arrival she would smile at me, gesture a “hello” with clasped hands, referring to me as “foreign lady” or “foreign madam." Soon after, she learned my name and began taking care of me in little ways like offering her umbrella when the rain began to drizzle. She certainly has a nurturing nature. I’ll often walk home and catch her with one of the girls from the orphanage tangled in her arms as she reads a story with a calming tone. Her voice is smooth, but worn. Gentle, but raspy as cellophane.

It was Gheeta’s voice that made me want to know her story. A voice that is generally tender, but spent from bouts of yelling and screaming. She never screams at people. Instead, she takes her anger and pain out on an empty room or externalizes her frustration under the guava tree outside my window. She yells multiple times a day. She yells until she cries—then weeps uncontrollably till there are no tears left. Sometimes, I find her coiled in a heap in the corner of her room or near the base of the guava tree—exhausted from her battles of yelling.

What is wrong with this woman? I kept asking myself for days— until I was tired of trying to figure it out on my own. I began praying for Gheeta, asking the Holy Spirit for insight and understanding, and attempting to befriend her in little ways—helping her boil water for tea over the fire or giving her hugs as I passed her room. Hugs aren’t common in Indian culture, but Gheeta always welcomes them without reserve. Just another reason she reminds me of a child.

One evening, Gheeta came to my room with dark circles under her eyes—eyes that were tiny slits from relentless crying. She wasn’t able to sleep. She hadn’t slept soundly a single night since arriving on campus. “Tablet, tablet” she kept repeating. She was asking if I had any sort of medication to aid her desperate quest for rest. Two of the girls from the orphanage were with her. I welcomed them into my room and Gheeta sat down and began sharing her heart without hesitation. Sundhia, one of the girls translated as Gheeta gestured her way through her story. Her husband, a Hindu, had recently left her. She had no family. Her only son committed suicide two years ago by hanging himself with one of her saris. She gestured by circling her hands around her neck, reliving the horror. Gheeta stopped for a moment with a terror-filled expression as her heart was breaking all over again. Suddenly I understood her bouts of yelling—her pent-up anger. To Gheeta, every day meant another day dealing with the past—reliving her husband’s rejection and her son’s premature death. She sat cross-legged, staring at me like a small child begging for comfort.

What do I do, Lord? This is beyond me! I had nothing to say. I could have prayed, but prayed what? I didn’t know how. How do you pray for a woman with no hope who has lost everyone close to her and witnessed her own son’s suicide? A woman who is wasting away from no sleep and no appetite. A woman who is wearied from yelling and screaming at the demons of the past who won’t leave her alone. How do you share hope with a woman who has been left alone in a society who deems her worthless because her own husband left her? I felt useless for a moment. All I could think is where in the world has my faith led me that I have nothing to say—nothing to pray—to bring this woman God’s peace? Gheeta tilted her head forward and grabbed both of my hands, placing them on her head. “Prayer,” she said. But I didn’t know how.

I sat there, perplexed and overwhelmed for a moment. Then I heard a voice—I have come that they might have life. It repeated again and again—that they might have life. That Gheeta might have life. I looked at her. Crumpled low to the ground, her head buried beneath my hands, she looked like death. Her hair was tangled in an unkempt heap; her body hunched in a position of defeat. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they might have life, and have it to the full. Jesus didn’t die for Gheeta to relive death daily. He died that she might live. I began praying for her to seek life—for Jesus’ healing to enter her life, to break every bondage and bring freedom. Aren’t you good enough to bring this poor woman life again, God? As I prayed, Gheeta rested her head in my lap like a baby. Sundhia prayed in agreement, and before long took over. Sundhia prayed loudly—with the most beautiful faith I have seen in a long time. She shouted her prayers with boldness, her hands clasped to the side of Gheeta’s nightgown. Sundhia prayed with her whole heart. At ten years old, faith came as naturally as breathing to her. She prayed with empathy in her voice—as if she understood every detail of Gheeta’s mind. And maybe she did. Sundhia has no mother or father—they both died years ago. She too is alone in the world and, because of that, she understood Gheeta's world. She knew just how to pray. It was an incredible sight—a young girl pouring prayers over a grown woman.

After praying, Gheeta looked up. There seemed to be more peace in her face—though she still looked worn. She smiled at Sundhia and I. “My daughters,” she told us, holding both of our hands. After a fixed moment of looking at each other, Sundhia helped Gheeta to her feet and walked her back to her room. Only ten minutes passed before I heard yelling reverberating through the floor below me. Gheeta was screaming again. Her screaming voice had no authority behind it. She sounded helpless against the demons she was battling in her mind.

Gheeta still yells. She still refuses to eat. And yet every time I see her, she places both of my hands on her head to pray. Some days I grow weary of praying with little affects—at least ones I can see. The battle continues.

Gheeta’s battle reminds me of a story I just finished reading. A biography of a woman, Joanne Shetler, who spent her life as a missionary living amongst the Balangao people of the Philippines. I’ve only been praying for Gheeta for a month, but Joanne spent years praying for the Balangao’s with little avail. The Balangao’s faced similar demons that Gheeta is facing. Joanne speaks of her felt frustration on the day she returned to her hometown in California after her first five years spent with the Balangao people:

“The people in my home churches in California kept throwing their arms around me and telling me they loved me and were proud of me. But I was distraught, thinking, Even though I’ve got quaint stories to tell about cultural differences, that’s not enough. These people have supported me for years: they want ‘eternal fruit’. But only two people have turned to worship the living God. Will they think it’s been worth their investment?

Then, not knowing what else to do, I unloaded my frustrations. ‘I just don’t know what to do to make these people believe!’ I said. I told them about how evil spirits had a grip on these people’s minds. They wanted to believe, but were afraid what would happen if they stopped appeasing the spirits.

The home team finally got a clear picture of the problem: we were in a spiritual battle and our weapon was prayer. Simply praying, ‘God bless the missionaries’ wasn’t enough. They started praying as if life depended on their prayers. ‘God, show the Balangaos that you’re stronger than the spirits. Make the Balangaos desire you. Help them believe your word’.”

I can understand Joanne’s desperation. I have that same desperation to see Gheeta be freed from the enemy’s grip—to find life and healing and truly know Jesus. I also desire to see prayers awakened back at home for women like Gheeta and for the countless individuals in India who are still seeking life but not finding what it means to truly live. I ask for your prayers. Please pray with me for Gheeta. Daily I have been asking God for a faith like Sundhia had that evening in my room. I want to hope that Gheeta’s wearied yelling will turn into songs of praise. I want to see Gheeta step from death into true life forever.

"Our great desire is that you will keep on loving others as long as life lasts, in order to make certain that what you hope for will come true. Then you will not become spiritually dull or indifferent. Instead, you will follow the example of those who are going to inherit God's promises because of their faith and endurance."

- Hebrews 6:11-12

Entering the Lion's Mouth: Encounters in Orissa

The following post is an account of the stories Pastor Israel shared with me about his recent trip to Orissa. Please continue to keep the people of Orissa in your prayers.

It all started with a prayer. Israel had been capturing glimpses of the horrific persecution going on in Orissa through scattered media reports, but it wasn’t until he started praying that an intense burden for the victimized began to develop in his heart.

Israel’s burden for the Christian victims in Orissa continued to grow until one evening, while evangelizing in Nepal, he received a phone call from his brother, Billy. Billy, on an annual fundraising trip in the US, had been sharing the news of Orissa with American churches—churches that ultimately wanted to know more. General media only revealed small shards of information, evading the harsh reality of the persecution situation. In attempts to seek the truth, Billy asked Israel to go—to investigate the Orissa situation firsthand.

Willing to go, but also fearful of the looming threats and potential danger for Christians in Orissa, Israel considered the situation in prayer. Feeling God’s calling, he cancelled his ticket home from Nepal and trekked his way to Orissa—one bus to the next—until he arrived two days later in Andhra Pradesh, a state bordering the west side of Orissa.

Israel was just steps from Orissa, but with no knowledge of the Oriya language. An answer to prayer, Pastor Jacjeevan from Andhra Pradesh decided to join Israel. Jacjeeven had already visited the aftermath of the persecution more than once. Together, they crossed the state borderline and entered Padalachamathi. Padalachamathi, they found out, was the same city that sixty Christians had fled to just days earlier after the burning of their homes in Kandamahl district. A local pastor took Israel and Jacjeevan with him to distribute new Bibles to this group of people who had so recently lost everything.

“When asked if there was anything they needed,” Israel said, tears welling, “all they wanted was Bibles. That was it. They didn’t even mention the ‘bare necessities’ like blankets or food. Getting the word of God back into their hands was their first priority.” As Israel and the other pastors handed out the new Bibles, people held them close to their chests recognizing their precious value. Thrilled words were shouted back and forth—even the children were hugging and gripping their new Bibles with wide smiles. “I couldn’t understand a word they were saying,” Israel mentioned, “but I was so powerfully moved by their excitement over the word of God.”

Just before leaving, Israel had the opportunity to pray for the crowd—a crowd that had lost everything they physically owned and yet received so much more through the gift of their new Bibles. After praying, Israel shared, “In your time of need, since you gave priority to God’s word, He will never leave you…He is your provider.” What Israel didn’t share was that his brother had just called from the states informing him of a church body that had donated money for the very purpose of supporting Christians in need in Orissa. Without saying a word, Israel and the other pastors left. That evening, they bought unlimited supplies to bless the sixty, now-homeless believers with. After filling a truck with tarps, blankets, mosquito repellent candles, vegetables, biscuits, and three hundred kilograms of rice, they traveled back to the same area. With enthusiasm, they were able to deliver the unexpected “gifts of provision” to all sixty people—people overwhelmed with thankfulness.

After such a touching encounter, visiting the next village proved to be a tremendous challenge. This village wasn’t filled with smiling faces—it was relatively empty. Deserted. The houses were dilapidated— burnt to the ground in piles of cinder and ash, only the remnants of their frames standing. Out of the mass of blackness, a tarp stood, fixated within a burnt housing frame. Underneath the tarp, a family was living—rebuilding their life with very little to survive on. Israel and Jacjeevan approached the family who began to tell them the story of the village’s attack.

The village had been aggressively burnt to the ground during broad daylight by around five hundred Hindu radicals. First, the Hindus scouted out the pastor’s home, attempting to kill him on the spot. Miraculously, the pastor was able to escape and run into hiding. After the pastor fled, the radicals targeted at their next priority—the destruction of the local church. With petrol, firewood, and a bomb blast, the church was completely destroyed. After the church burning came the village burning.

“We lost everything,” a concerned mother told Israel. “My son just graduated from college—now his diploma and everything representing his education is gone.” Everything was gone. Not a house was left standing. Every cross and representation of Jesus was utterly destroyed. Amongst the wreckage, Israel stood powerfully moved. “For what reason are they doing this; it makes no sense!” he kept questioning, overwhelmingly frustrated with the outcome of rubble he was staring at. “Every person killed or hurt was innocent…all were innocent!”

Empathizing with the hopelessness this village must have felt, Israel was fighting back tears. While leaving the village, he met a young man who, despite the loss of his home, had a genuine hope to one day attend a Bible college. An enthusiastic desire to minister exuded from him—even after all the turmoil. This boy’s profound passion for the gospel was a spark of hope in the middle of a crushed pile of rubble and looming despair.

With a heavy heart and an overwhelmingly burdened mind, Israel and Jacjeeven continued another fifteen kilometers to see yet another village—destroyed even beyond the last. The only way to this village was through a very narrow road, dodging trees and road obstacles to reach the entrance. Beyond the inaccessibility, it was also an extremely dangerous area. A predominately Hindu village stood just behind the remains of this village, and if Israel or any of the other pastors were seen—they would be questioned and their lives would be at risk.

At the village entrance, a Believer met Israel and Jacjeeven, taking them on a very quick walk through the rubble. They roamed through a literal ghost town, previously home to over forty families.

The local believer led Israel and Jacjeeven to the entrance of the church, now wrecked and smashed in on all four sides—a pile of burnt bicycle parts and unidentifiable blackened objects lining the church’s exterior. As the three men rummaged through the remains, they found remnants of human bones scattered—their white color standing starkly against the black ash.

The believer began to share the tragic truth behind the bones. Hindu radicals had come to attack the village late in the night. In their rage, they locked a family of four inside their home. The innocent family was cornered and the radicals threatened to burn the father in front of everyone in the house. Before they began, they shot the father in his lower back, the bullet traveling through him and into the mother’s hand. A second bullet was directly aimed at her. The daughter was cornered and lost one of her limbs to the Hindu radical’s machetes. The only family member left untouched was the son. Crying and screaming, the entire family watched their father as he was tied up and doused in gasoline, then burnt alive. The bone remnants in the pile of outstanding ash were all that remained of this man’s martyrdom.

Israel and the other pastors gripped pieces of bone in their hands and, with tears, remembered the heroic faith of the martyred father. Just minutes later, they had to flee out of safety. On the road again, they were headed to a relief camp for displaced Christians.

At the relief camp, cooking fires struggled to keep a-flame while pelted with heavy rains. Crowds huddled under limited tarps—coverings replacing their homes for the time being. When Israel explained he was from Tamil Nadu and visiting to be a source of encouragement, many of the refugees began to openly cry. “You are the only people who have come to visit us,” they shared. They expressed their deep gratitude and thankfulness towards the visiting pastors. One refugee shared how they had been running for safety for three days in the nearby jungles without food or water. Returning to their villages was just too dangerous. Hindus awaited them, ready with threats to forcefully convert. Even the children couldn’t return to their schools without being beaten for refusing to convert to Hinduism. Some of the elderly members in the camp were frail beyond fixation—ready to die from their lack of food and water. One older woman sat, squatting on the floor, hands clasping her ears and a look of horror painted on her face. She was literally going crazy from fear. Fear prevailed throughout the refugee camp. Hundreds of homeless people living in the memories of the horrors so recently endured.

Upon visiting a second relief camp, Israel met the son of the martyred man whose very bones he had held in his hands. In his early twenties, the young man’s eyes were reddened with lack of sleep. He shared how incessant nightmares were plaguing him at night and visions of terror followed him throughout the day. Traumatized, he asked for prayer. Israel prayed, fighting as hard as he could to hold back tears as not to provoke more tears from the helpless young man.

Immediately after leaving the relief camp, Israel and the other two pastors cried together for hours. Weeping, their prayers were beyond words—groaning was the only expression that escaped their mouths in that moment. That night, Israel couldn’t sleep—visions of bones and the burning body of the young boy’s father plagued his imagination.

Every village and relief camp the three pastors had visited were in Gajapathi district—they hadn’t even entered the epicenter of destruction and violence, Kandamahl district. Filled with fear, Israel was ready to turn around. But something kept him moving forward.

Just before entering Kandamahl, they returned to Padalachamathi for an afternoon to meet with a man who had requested to see Israel. Assuming this man was a Christian man interested in God’s work, Israel went alone to his house. Upon arrival, the man pelted Israel with several ministry questions. An uneasy feeling began to grow in Israel’s stomach. Soon, the man revealed he was a Hindu. Israel said that within minutes the man was raging with anger and screaming, he locked Israel inside his home. Israel winced in response to the outrage, then began to think of the immediate danger he was in. The man began to drill Israel with questions, “Why are you here? Why are you going to Kandamahl? Haven’t you heard what is happening to pastors there? Do you want the same to happen to you now?” He proceeded to threaten to kill Israel. Somehow, in his fear, Israel experienced a moment of peace. “Jesus”, he prayed, “it’s all up to you…you do what you want. I have no control.” After praying, Israel was flooded with peace. That very moment, the Hindu man’s wife pulled him aside and started begging him to let Israel free. Convinced by her words, he opened the door in an impulsive moment and told Israel to leave immediately. The Hindu man’s wife yelled after Israel, telling him to run.

Israel took off in a sprint. After running about one hundred feet, the Hindu man was filled with a second wave of anger and began chasing him. Israel ran through the streets, dodging back and forth through different alleys in a thick sweat. He could hear the Hindu man screaming, making a dangerous scene and threatening to have other friends join him in Israel’s “hunt”. Israel continued to run, even faster, until he completely lost the Hindu man. Looking around, he had no idea where he was. Struggling to make his way back to the other pastors, Israel’s imagination played tricks on his mind. Every face he passed looked like an enemy. Head down, he continued to track his way back to familiarity. In those fear-filled moments, Israel was able to empathize with the terror that so many other Christians were presently facing all over the state of Orissa.

After the narrow escape in Padalachamathi, Israel and Jacjeeven prepared to enter Kandamahl. Israel thought to himself, “After all we’ve seen…we are foolish to continue in to Kandamahl. We are entering the very mouth of the lion!”

As soon as they crossed into Kandamahl, a threatening, frightening atmosphere was present. The area was torn apart. Forests were cleared and trees lay toppled into the roadside, cut down for the purpose of creating roadblocks to trap Christians in their very villages in order to successfully destroy them completely.

Traveling into a local pastor’s village, they greeted the pastor in a pile of burnt ash. Every home in his village was destroyed. After living in the jungle for nearly a week, the pastor was now residing separately from his family for increased safety. Israel asked him how he felt and how his faith was enduring in the midst of the horrific trials. With a wide, unexpected smile he replied, “I lost everything, but I have the love of Jesus in my heart…and that’s all I need. I am stronger than ever before to serve God. I still follow Him and believe He is good. I’ll never turn away.”

Surveying the situation, Israel and Jacjeeven were burdened to help provide the pastor’s village with relief supplies. Some of the villagers had been living in the same clothing since the attacks. The pastor was moved, but mentioned the dangers of their intervention. He took a sum of money instead and promised to pass relief supplies on to his congregation.

Before leaving Kandamahl, Israel and Jacjeeven were stopped in a nearby city and forced to find a place to stay for the evening. Checking into a hotel, the suspicious desk worker began questioning Israel. Jacjeeven told the desk attendant that Israel was his brother and they were just “passing through”. That night, they stayed in a room sharing a wall with a group of rowdy Hindu radicals discussing their plans of destruction. Praying until they fell asleep, Israel and Jacjeeven left the hotel quickly at the break of dawn. That afternoon, they heard that two hundred Christian homes were burnt to the ground just after their departure.

Israel swallowed the news with horror as he traveled back to his home in Tamil Nadu. He recounted the glimpses of hope seen in believers—hope after losing everything, hope rising from piles of ash, hope that can only come from a gracious God of new beginnings. Simultaneously, thoughts of Christians being overwhelmed with paralyzing fear, trapped in their very homes filled his head. Memories of terrified faces stood sharply in his mind. Reminders that the battle in Orissa is not over. Reminders to act and to pray.

Animal encounters and the "escape" to Kerala.

Just over a week ago, my roommate, Bekah, and I returned to our bedroom some time after dark. With a quick flip of the light switch, I caught a glimpse of a meandering tail moving from beneath my purple dress hanging by the window. Without a thought, I exhaled in relief assuming it was only an iguana. (You know you are in India when a wandering lizard in your bedroom is nothing newsworthy). But, after my dress started dancing on its own, a shuffle and skitter of feet revealed the tail’s owner— a fat rat swinging mid-air from its front claws. A rat is world’s different than an iguana. Let the lizards congregate in my bedroom. But if a rat even so much as pokes a whisker through my door, it is better off dead.

Squeamish when it comes to potential disease-carrying rodents in foreign countries, I froze for a moment in the doorway before running frantically (and aimlessly) as far away from the rat as possible (forgetting there was a small flight of stairs just ahead of me). Bekah, raised on a farm in central Oregon, laughed heartily as she watched me fly for a moment, landing hard on the cement below. Fearless, she marched back in our room to grab the rat by its tail—not giving rabies or external parasites a second thought. As she reached her right hand out to grab the wiggling pink tail, Tiffany leapt into the room armed with a stick screaming, “Don’t touch it, Bekah! It will bite you!” Meanwhile, I had climbed up our shelving unit and was perched on the second-highest shelf, my fingers turning white with their grip and my face turning whiter with fear. With a slight wind-up and forceful swing of her stick, Tiffany whacked the rat somewhere in its middle, attempting to kill it with one firm blow. Just as I heard the noise of the mangled stick hitting the rodent, the power went out. After a second or two of silence, Bekah, Tiffany and I started screaming simultaneously. There we were in total blackness, a loose rodent scurrying somewhere out of sight. With my over-active imagination I pictured the worst: a bloodied rat (injured from its recent “beating”) running aimlessly across our bare feet—or worse—up a pant leg. After thirty or so terror-filled seconds, the lights came back on. The bulbs flickered at first, giving the feel of some twisted and fearsome fun house. A moment later, the electricity returned completely revealing the rat’s obese furry body still hanging from my purple dress. Bekah grabbed the dress, wrapped the creature in it and ran out our door, flinging the rat from the cloth in a parachute-like manner off our balcony, its body flailing mid-air as it disappeared into the nighttime darkness. I managed a muffled, “sick” then began to laugh with Bekah at the absurdity of the situation. “It could have been worse,” Tiffany said, Bekah and I agreeing. “It could have been a monkey or something.” I told her I’d rather have a monkey in my room than a rat any day.

Never say things like, “I’d rather have a monkey in my room than a rat any day”. From recent personal experience, I’ve found that statements like that have a way of triggering God’s clever humor. Sometimes instantly. The day after the rat incident, a monkey was found perched on the ledge just outside our door. When I say “monkey”, I am not referencing some sweet, furry, banana-eating Curious George stuffed animal-type monkey. No, Indian monkeys are quite the opposite. Nasty, greedy and manipulative, it seems they find their greatest pleasure in tormenting human beings. Last October, a deputy mayor in New Dehli was even attacked by a “horde of wild monkeys”, thrown from his roof and killed. Indian monkeys are seriously vicious. This monkey was no different. After an evening of twenty or so girls in the orphanage chasing the monkey with sticks, he finally left the property. The strangest part was that monkeys are no where to be found on Rameswaram Island. They don’t live here. The girls concluded that this one must have hitched a ride on a fruit truck, conveniently choosing the ledge outside our room as his final destination the day after we thanked the Lord our rat visitor was not a monkey. Such luck.

After one too many animal encounters in our bedroom, I was feeling ready to breathe some “new air” outside the compound walls. But, because of the current dangerous political circumstances, and after a lot of prayer and personal surrender, I had finally realized that venturing outside the compound walls was not going to happen. Soon after I had come to terms with staying put and focusing on the work God has given me here on campus, Pastor Appa called to tell me to pack for three days because Justin, Bekah, Tiffany and I would be taking a road trip to Kerala (the state just west of Tamil Nadu). A timely answered prayer. We were ecstatic at the thought of leaving campus for awhile and exploring Kerala—a state who’s rumored beauty we had all heard about more than once. Pastor Appa told us only two things, “You will leave tomorrow for three days” and “you will bring back a male goat” (the extreme short-term notice and request to bring livestock back from a vacation once again reminded me just how far away from home I am). The appointed three days turned into a week of visiting destinations all over Kerala—a few of which I wrote about in my journal. The following are selected excerpts from the trip:

September 29, 2008

After nine hours in a diesel van—the majority spent in extreme car sickness, rolling around like a loose marble in the back of the van without a seatbelt (I don’t do well with rigid switchbacks and potholes half the size of the vehicle)—our team arrived in Kerala. I had missed most of the sites as we bobbed along, swerving in and out of cattle, pedestrians, and logs in the road. What I could see was limited to the perceptual view point of my back as I lay flat on a grass mat in the rear of the van between towers of luggage. As night approached, I noticed winding mangroves, bent date palms and coconut palms growing in a canopy of green above us. I sat up to get a better view. Reuben, our driver, told us, “We’re in Kerala now!”

I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, where she steps out of black-and-white Kansas into Oz in Technicolor. Kerala was just a border line from Tamil Nadu—but worlds different with its endless greenery, waterfalls, and rigid cliffsides. Even the air felt fresher. It reminded me of what I would imagine a jungle in South America might look like.

Reuben stopped at a banana stand to buy fruit for the remainder of our journey. “Kerala is known for bananas,” he told me as he stepped from the van, pointing out yellow, green, purple and red varieties—each a different size. In my “fruit naivety” I had always assumed there was only one type of banana—the “normal” type you find in the produce aisle at an Alberston’s in Washington state. I felt enlightened. Reuben stepped back in the van, dropping a newspaper parcel wrapped in twine on my lap. I unwound the twine and peeled back the newspaper revealing fifty or so miniature bananas no bigger than my thumb. We laughed as we ate the bananas, marveling at their miniscule size.

Tired and road weary, we watched darkness seep in from our respective window views before we reached our hotel this evening. Kerala is beautiful at night. I can’t wait to see it in tomorrow’s light.

September 30, 2008

Today there was more driving and more banana eating. We also ate cubes of papaya while sipping on cardamom tea at our first stop in Amboori—We Care International—a nonprofit devoted to the education of widowed and abandoned mothers and daughters.

When asked if we’d like fresh papaya, I didn’t expect “fresh” to mean a man literally scaling a papaya tree, his arms and legs wrapped around the trunk the way a toddler clings to the calves of their mom or dad. After scooting his way to the leafy top, he whacked a fruit stem with his curved knife, and crawled back down—as easily as he went up—with a gourd-shaped papaya, speckled in yellows and greens.

While eating the papaya, its texture dissolving quickly on our tongues into a lingering mild sweetness, we listened to the founder, Don Hargate, tell us his story. How he came to Kerala, how his wife, Carol, is a part-time professor and a full-time human rights advocate, and how he dearly loves the women and young girls that he serves like they are his own family. Don was one of the first white people we had seen since arriving in India. It was both strange and refreshing greeting someone with a handshake and not having to pause or repeat words for clarity.

After hours of discussion on the veranda of We Care International, we prayed with Don and his Indian “family”. Just after the “amens”, Reuben pointed to the top of a mountain we could see from the view of the veranda. As I was pondering the beauty of the curved mountainside, Reuben told us to head back to the van. “That’s where we’re going,” he said. “To the mountain?” Bekah asked.
“Yes…we’re going to climb.”

We did climb, for two or three miles, up rigid switchbacks in our flip flops. Ben, our Indian “guide”, was in his polished loafers. The lack of appropriate hiking foot wear was obvious as at least one of us managed to slip and slide every few minutes. At one point I lost all grounding and fell directly onto by backside to which Ben (who knows very little English) shouted out “Booty protection!” I just laughed, perplexed at how he thought of such an accurate phrase. Thank the Lord for blessing me with more-than-adequate “booty protection” for such spills.

The higher we climbed, the broader the view became. Bekah and I paced ahead, reaching a grassy outlook at the peak. We stood, wind-blown and awe-filled at the valley and rivers far below us. To our left was a large Hindu temple—its hall-like entrance covered in empty coke bottles filled with coconut oil and half-burnt incense sticks. Hindu shrines and temples are often intentionally built at the highest crowns of hills or mountains.

Assuming we had conquered the mountain, Bekah and I sat on a knobby rock covered in sun-burnt grass, waiting for the rest of the group to reach us. Twenty minutes later, we took a short “walk” along the cliff’s edge, only to find another higher peak beyond us—crowned at the top with a giant white stone cross. “How did we miss that?” we asked each other, shocked. Justin had already made it to the summit as he was perched on the cross, his legs dangling off the edge of the stone statue.

The last leg of the hike was the hardest, steepest, and most overgrown. I couldn’t help but reflect on the blatant symbolism shining through it all—how we assumed we were at the “top”, but realized the true summit was found in the presence of the cross. The road to the cross was difficult to reach, but once we reached the peak, we could see so much more from that vantage point. It was powerful. There was a sense of reverence at the top of that hill.

October 2, 2008

After a morning of walking along a lake side in a scenic park, watching mugger crocodiles and eating salted gooseberries, our van made its way to the Kerala ocean side. We stayed at a populated beach until sunset.

As the crowds tapered, a work-worn Indian woman with a basket resting on her head repeatedly approached us in attempts to sell us her fruit. After two or three refusals, she continued to follow—until we set a grass mat on the water-pressed sand and sat down to read. Her name was Chanda, Tiffany found out after agreeing to buy a pineapple.

Chanda cut the fruit in angled slices as she told us about her family—two sons and two daughters. With sincere graciousness, she thanked Tiffany for being her first and only customer of the day. Sales were hard—even on a popular beach. “And what about your husband?” Tiffany asked. A question that triggered trembling cheeks, Chanda’s hand lifting her purple sari over her face to fight tears that had already sprung from little droplets into streaks covering her face. She told us he had died just two months before from a heart attack.

We were able to pray for Chanda there on the grass mat. We prayed for increased hope, but my stomach felt sick at the prospects of her life—a single mother of four providing for her children through weak fruit sales. I imagine there are days she sells nothing at all—returning home with a basket of rotting fruit and a crushed spirit. I really wanted to believe that God will supply that hope to Chanda, but it hurt to look at her with her eyes shut as we prayed, tears still rolling and lips still trembling. After we finished, Tiffany bought the rest of the fruit in Chanda’s basket. She couldn’t stop smiling at Tiffany’s kindness. I was thrilled to see a glimpse of hope in Chanda…hope for today.

The days in Kerala were full. Full of a variety of experiences, from riding elephants through coconut groves, to visiting tea plantations, to moments of personal connection with people like Chanda. Another nine hours in the van brought us safely back to the compound in Rameswaram after a week on the road.

The day after returning from Kerala, Tiffany approached me at the desk in the office with a small shoebox. She lifted the lid and peeled back a black t-shirt lining the inside to reveal two newborn chipmunks, their eyes still closed. “Look what I found in my room this morning,” she said smiling, “They crawled through a hole above the air conditioner—I can’t find their mom anywhere.” She was convinced that we could be their new “moms” and pulled out an eyedropper that she had been feeding them milk from. Just another animal encounter to remind us that we were back on campus. Admittedly, the chipmunks are quite adorable…and I will take them over a rat any day.

Our new "pet" chipmunks, Jack and Olive.

The view after a long hike
One of Kerala's beautiful beaches Tiffany, Chanda, and I

Overlooking the tea fields at sunset
Three stages of tea