Day 8 – Preachin’ Son of a Preacher Man

On this morning I had the hour of experiencing a first.  I got preach (sort of) from the pulpit.  It wasn’t a full sermon at all, and really can’t be.  In India, evangelism is illegal, and foreigners can’t “preach” at all.  Instead I was asked to lead a morning devotional.  I was asked to do it earlier in the week, with roughly 10 hours notice (right before bed), and I asked for a later day.  Normally I relish public speaking, and I script nothing.  I usually go up with a few bullet points outlined and adlib it. 

However given that I had a pretty negative state of mind, I didn’t know if I was in good shape to do that.  I got a two day delay and during that time, I was able to change the passages I wanted to speak on.  I had spent most of my trip thus far feeling pretty down because I hadn’t really served at all, and I didn’t have much confidence in the message I planned.  I prayed about it and God helped me see I had been planning mostly just based on what I thought would be easy to teach on with no experience and a down mindset. 

Instead, he called me to preach on some of my favorites, a few passages that have always been close to my heart, and speak with passion. So with a two day delay to help me get ready to speak, I decided to change my topic ten minutes before going to bed, with chapel at nine the next morning.  I’m quite comfortable with public speaking, enjoy it really, but I was still a bit nervous.  My confidence has been low because of the emotional turmoil, and I wasn’t really sure if I would be good at church speaking, that was a first for me. 

I started with something I hadn’t heard from the pulpit the whole trip: a joke.  Indian culture is not as comical as American culture is.  The people live seriously and don’t joke around much at all.  It’s great in the aspect that you get to see people raw and real, but it is disheartening in that you also see a lack of joy frequently, and laughter is somewhat rare.  I started with a crack about how if I didn’t speak well, to just blame the translator because my devotion was great.  The translator has written books in both Hindi and English and is one of the most respected preachers on the planet, so that certainly wasn’t the case.  Regardless, I got a laugh both before and after the translation, so I had accomplished at least one thing for the day, I made the congregation laugh, including the translator.

I spent the next few minutes going over the passages of Romans 12:1-2 and Isaiah 26:3-4, two of my favorites.  In what I took as a sign that I really did belong up there speaking, I was told I went a little long, which is the ultimate sign of a preacher’s heart.  Afterwards, my concerns and fears that I shouldn’t be up there at all were put quickly at ease.  Virtually everyone was telling me I did great up there.  I always feel good about my stage presence, but in this case I wasn’t sure about the content.  In classic Taylor form, I went up there without a single note, just my Bible and mental note about where to turn.

The encouragement I received afterwards was, by far, the largest boost I received on my entire trip.  I felt vindicated in that my aspirations for full time ministry might not be so far off after all, something my current job hunting struggles have caused me to doubt recently. 

In the afternoon, we took a short tour of the city that the main campus is located outside of.  I learned some interesting things on the drive, including the fact that “colony” is really just a word that is used to describe a little zone of housing, similar to how we might say neighborhood or development.  It then struck me that leper colonies were likely just neighborhoods in town. 

The city tour was just a time killer before we headed to the hospital that is operated by our host organization.  The hospital was a big pride point for them; they had invested a lot of time and resources into making it the best one in the district of about 1.5 million people.  What I learned quickly is that every American needs to stop complaining about their health care.  Our system isn’t perfect, but everyone who needs urgent care will always get it, and virtually everyone will receive adequate care.  The concerns at home aren’t about the quality of care, but the cost.

Keep in mind as I share the following information, that it is describing the best hospital servicing an area with a population that exceeds the entire state of Idaho.  Among the most impressive features in the hospital was the single dialysis machine in the entire district, which pretty quickly connects the mental dots to the fact that virtually everyone here that needs kidney dialysis will just die.  On a good day, they are able to get five different people on the machine. 

Additionally, the hospital features not one, but two surgery rooms.  That’s it.  If more than two people need scheduled operations, they wait.  The hospital also includes the only ICU in the region with air conditioning, so keep in mind that most people that come in for help, will end up sitting in 100 degrees while getting it.  As we toured the facility, we just walked straight through the ICU, with patients and their families just looking at us curiously.  In that moment, the revelation hit me that in our red tape burdened country; a hospital could be shut down for privacy violations for that one action, while the patients there were just happy to be getting real assistance.

One thing I learned throughout this trip was that we in America underestimate the durability of the human body.  These people had virtually no options for quality health care.  They eat primarily a diet that guarantees diabetes at some point because it’s so heavy on carbohydrates, and options for fresh, uncooked vegetables are almost non-existent because of the pollution and filth in the country.  The fresh water is also completely undrinkable here.  Few places have real indoor plumbing, and even when they do, the waste management system just ends up with it in a place that is bad for the general population.  India is the second most populous country on earth, 40% of the citizens live beneath the poverty line, and is the most polluted country on the planet.  Despite all this, the average life span is 66 years.  That’s obviously well short of most of the developed world, but given that every aspect of their life seems unsurvivable to the North American eye, it’s about 36 years longer than I think most of us think we could actually survive in the same conditions.

Later I got to share a lunch with the same teacher I had joked at the expense of from the pulpit that morning.  Unfortunately, I can’t really share too many details of that conversation, but it was a great encouragement as well.  He did give me some encouragement that there are ways that I could be helping their efforts on a permanent basis, and was hopeful we could speak again at a later time about some specifics.

In the afternoon, some of the preachers from the organization came to speak with us about their testimonies.  I had heard horror stories about persecution from India before, but hearing about it first hand is a different matter entirely.  Probably the hardest moment for me was one pastor who shared that he had once been beaten unconscious and his wife killed by attackers.  He was unconscious long enough that he did not even get to attend his own wife’s funeral.  That happened nine years ago, he had surely told the story countless times since then, and still he could not get through it without weeping. 

How can one process that?  In a country where so many don’t share their faith because they don’t want to get in a debate about it, or are scared of being judged, sitting in front of me was a man who still preaches in the same village where that attack happened because his belief that God wants him there hasn’t changed.  Again, as throughout this whole trip, people were ecstatic to have us pray over them.  Even this man, for whom I can’t see any real basis for caring about what a persecutionless American thinks or feels about his story, was overjoyed to have one of our own pray over him.  Our man couldn’t get through it without choking up himself.  That was raw and powerful emotion. 

Later, I was asked to pray over one of the pastors as well.  He spoke no English at all, and translators aren’t active during prayer, so no words get through to the person.  I was told later by someone else that the man I was praying over had tears in his eyes as I prayed for him (they were dry when I started).  I know God heard me, and my team did too, but his emotional investment in my power to help was so strange to hear.  He had a faith in both God and myself to truly bless him, and again I was blown away by how much simply hearing encouragement went to these people.

Throughout the afternoon we got to hear more horrifying stories that had incredible endings.  Among them were the stories of one pastor who woke up one morning to find that twenty babies six months or younger had just been left on his doorstep, all of which he was able to ensure were provided for.  The story of a baby who someone just randomly found out of curiosity inside a plastic bag on the street, and another taken in with the umbilical cord still attached as the baby was never even cleaned once born.  The most powerful though was of a man who watched a persecutor rape his wife right in front of him.  Two years later, as he persisted to preach in the same area regardless, he baptized that same rapist into his church.

Later that night, we attended their weekly youth group event.  It was pretty similar to all the other church or chapel visits we had made, and after the emotional exhaustion of the days other experiences, honestly didn’t leave much of an impression. 

Another day, another failure on the dog petting front, I was scolded away from one more, and had another chased off right in front of me by a kid who pelted a dog with a rock.  So that was sad.

The last observation I have for the day is that I want to point out the awesomeness that is the marble floors.  In the US, we look at this as a sign of luxury, marble is crazy expensive, and almost no one has it in their homes.  Here, it’s essentially carpet.  Every building that is at least a middle class household has it throughout, and even the lower income places seem to at least have it for the stairs.  It’s just crazy easy to come by here.  I find a simple beauty in the consistent contrast of the beauty of the floor itself, and the filth that often surrounds it.  The dirt here is essentially just reddish clay, and it tracks everywhere.  Floors are always coated with it, and usually there are beetles and flies everywhere.  The contrast of the marble and the filth being commonplace together is something I never seemed to adjust to throughout the visit, and always appreciated the simplicity and beauty of.

Day 7 - Raksha Bandhan

Grumpy Taylor emerged from bed hoping to be less grumpy today.  The morning didn’t start out so hot.  I’ve been shy on details about this subject thus far, but it’s time to address the obvious burning question: Taylor, how have your bowel movements been affected by the Indian food?  For the first few days, the answer was not at all, for the past two days, the answer has been “explosively.”

 

My Tuesday-Wednesday mostly consisted of eying the bathroom carefully and pondering whether or not I should dart towards it preemptively or not.  I’m living in fear of going anywhere that is more than 10 feet from a bathroom.  I brought some pills for this issue, and they work, but a bit too well.  Currently I’m playing the rotating game of letting everything just work itself out for about three hours, then taking the pills and letting everything get cloggy after I’ve ensured the tummy won’t end up overcrowded.

The point being that diarrhea isn’t really an attitude fixer-upper.

After 20 minutes of staring at my breakfast plate and processing the internal mental battle of hunger and fear, I ate one banana and slice of bread and called it good.  We were then off to prepare for VBS.  The majority of the group was beaming with excitement to get some kiddo time, but kids have never really been my gifting.  It was great to get to some real ministry work, and I was beyond ready for that, but the giddy “I WANT TO HOLD ALL OF THEM AND I CAN’T WAIT TO TAKE PICTURES OF ALL OF THEM!” effect isn’t really there for me.

Plus, I’m still grumpy, so everything is stupid anyways.

To start, we had some songs prepared to lead the kids in.  Yes, prepared.  There was no repeat of the “This Little Light of Mine” incident of 8/17/2016.  The songs were performed competently, the children sang along and danced to Father Abraham and I’ve Got the Joy, and then our musical peeps sang This is Amazing Grace for them.  Good times were had, and no mothers were left shaking their heads and pondering how America functions.  On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate about 800 points higher than the previous day.

We broke the children into two groups after that and one of our team members led a Bible study.  It was really wonderfully done, and she was able to relate to the children in a way I’m sure no American had before.  She was actually adopted out of India as a toddler, and this was her first time coming back, so she had the ability necessary to relate to the kids here.  Her story was about how Jesus considers all of His followers family, and that our family is more than just blood relation.

We broke into smaller groups after that, and I led a group discussion with about 10 children.  There was an awkward part at the beginning when I performed the essential introduction step of asking every child for their name.  I was greatly worried about this step, more so than any other, because between my knowledge of exactly two words in Hindi, and my generally inability to interpret anything spoken with an unfamiliar accent, I was concerned I’d spend all the time just trying to repeat their names once.  My worries turned out to be unnecessary, because one was named Joshua, and all the others were Ramabaski.

The small group discussion proved two very distinct things:

1. That these kids were listening intently to the story we shared in a large group setting, and know their Bibles incredibly well. 

2. That real conversation is tough to accomplish when your translator waits until everyone answers an open-ended question, and just gives you a summary of all of their answers at once.

Needless to say, the discussion was pretty short.  We had a short activity afterwards where art supplies were provided and we asked them to make a card to thank someone who has been family to them.  I ran out of construction paper before I got any, so I just used a piece of printer paper to make what has to be the worst card an adult has ever created for a friend.  Knowing that creativity is pretty well capped when you possess no artistic skills and only a single piece of white paper to work with, I set out to intentionally make it as bad as possible.  Backwards letters, occasional Spanish, misspelled words, you know, the works.  I’m proud of it, I wish I’d taken a picture before I gave it away.

After we finished the cards, two of the kids gave theirs to me.  I probably should have expected that based on everything else I’ve experienced on this trip, but it really caught me by surprise.  It warmed my heart to see how much love these kids have, that they can just easily give it someone whose main contribution to their life has been to mispronounce their names and then speak a foreign language to them.

We played a quick game, and then all the kids wanted to gather their cards up before going back to the large group.  One of the kids who had given me his card looked around the stack of cards confused for a bit, and then I showed him the one he had given me.  He responded by excitedly grabbing it, and running off to give it someone else.   Ce La Vie (probably spelled wrong, we’ve established that I’m not good with foreign languages right?).  Anyways, I’m keeping the other one, I’m special darn it!

After we rejoined true chaos ensued.  We had a game set up, wherein we split the kids apart, and put them on opposite sides of a room.  Then we dump 200 or so balloons in the middle and tell them the goal is to get all the balloons on the other team’s side of the room.  That would be loud and chaotic in any setting, but this is India, and a special environmental condition exacerbated it. 

As you can probably guess, it’s hot here.  AC is not in every room, and in several where it is, it’s not super effective.  No matter where you go here, if the room has power, it has a fan running on the ceiling.  In large rooms, like the one we’re in for the game, there are like 20 of them.  The next few minutes mostly consisted of kids accidentally knocking balloons into fans while about 190 of them became loud, bursting casualties of war.

After electricity killed our game, we got to witness the festivities of a national holiday called Raksha Bandhan.  That translates to whatever you decide is does.  How should I know?  I don’t speak Hindi. 

It’s a celebration of brother and sister, and the importance of familial bonds in this culture, a perfect complement to the story our team member had chosen of the Bible study earlier.  In it, the female goes to the male, ties an ornate bracelet (called a Rakhi) around their wrist, marks their forehead with that red dot you’ve likely seen, places a cloth on their head, and then gives them a bite of a sweet treat to eat.  This symbolizes their support and blessing for prosperity and well being for the brother.  The male, then gives a gift (which can be whatever is deemed appropriate for their relationship) to symbolize their support, love, and care for the sister.

It was fun to watch the kids go through a really cool celebration that is much more meaningful than how we usually celebrate most holidays back home.  Of course, kids will be kids and got anxious as they waited for everyone else to go.  They then started dancing on stage to some songs.  They all knew the dance to a song called “Stop and Listen.”  After that played, I learned that you can escape a lot of American things in India, but the Newboys aren’t one of them.  God’s Not Dead was next on the dance playlist, and I lamented that it had followed me across the globe to annoy my eardrums.

Once the ceremony was completed, every kid in the place jumped on stage to dance to the stop and listen song again.  Apparently the artist that recorded it had visited them just two weeks ago and taught them all the actions personally.  With that in mind, the This Little Light of Mine incident grew even more embarrassing than previously experienced.

Later in the day, we took a trip out to a village where there is a young church.  That was an absolutely phenomenal experience.  When we arrived, immediately, the villagers came forward to welcome us into their house and complete the Raksha Bandhan ceremony with us.  From a tourist perspective, it was a really cool moment to be a part of, I feel very lucky to have been here for not just one, but two national holidays that are specific to this country.

From a spiritual perspective though, it was just a further continuation of the things I had processed after watching the kids go through it earlier.  These were my brothers and sisters in Christ, and here were complete strangers that sought to bring me into their celebration to display that fact.  The pastor made me feel right at home as well by repeating the same joke over and over again.  I wasn’t just meeting new brothers and sisters, this guy reminded me of my dad too!  I’ve always believed that I had siblings through Christ all over the world, but now I have a bracelet to prove it.

After the ceremony, we went on a tour of the village, starting with the house we were in.  The house was very small, it featured a burn pit on the inside that is somehow a part of the job of the entire family.  We learned more about how they make a living, by making cigarettes.  The wage they earn for this work is 50 rupees, which is less $1, for every 1000 made.  Once acclimated to the process, an individual can feasibly make up to 1000 in a day, so the family is making no more than a $1 per day for each family member.  This is what true poverty looks like.

They showed me the rest of the property, which consisted of a bathroom outside and their farm animals. They later offered our group the opportunity to milk one of their cows.  It turns one girl in our group had that exact experience high on her bucket and was thrilled to oblige.  It turns out that it wasn’t a cow being milked at all, but a water buffalo.  Yep, consider that bucket list item obliterated, she just milked a freaking water buffalo.  I love this country.

As we proceeded into town, a small crowd of children gathered to see the white people, an occurrence we had been forewarned would likely occur.  When we had arrived at the village, the people gave us some flower leis, something we had grown accustomed to at most every step of our visit.  Of course flowers die fast, and I can’t hold 80 of these on my neck, so we usually give them away after wearing them for a bit.  Children are always happy to be the recipient, so we started handing them out to the kids.  That came with the unexpected result of groupies.  I think every kid in the village was following us at one point, not really asking for, or expecting anything else, just happy to see the rare sights. 

At one point a child somewhere in the pack started wailing and crying loudly behind the group, to which I reacted by saying “it’s okay, I’m not a ghost.”  I would later find out that it was a child reacting to one member of the group trying to give her lei over.  The member who made them cry?  Well, it was the Indian girl, who on sight would in my mind be the least threatening as she looks like everyone else in the village.

We were invited to look around in someone else’s house.  While there, the man of the house asked for our group to pray over him, which we did.  He offered to host all of us for dinner, which was case example number 4000 of me being blown away by the generosity of the people here.  When we get home, I fully expect to spend a week of this guy’s wages on one hamburger, and he wants to host 15 strangers for dinner to thank us for a simple prayer that we were happy to give him.  The generosity of the people here is something I’ll carry with me the rest of my life.

Outside his house, a dog peaceably laid by the door.  I’ve shared before about the general heartbreak the dogs all over India have generated inside me.  Well, I’d set my mind on petting at least one dog before I got on the plane back home.  My fellow travelers have not been supportive of this objective, frequently stating things like “that dog is going to bite you” and “you’re going to get rabies” and “you don’t know what kind of diseases that thing has” and “I can see the fleas on that thing from here” and “I can hear it craving blood.”  You get the idea. 

Regardless, I’m confident that rabid dogs will certainly warn me far before I enter petting range.  Also, I’m willing to risk it.  THESE DOGS NEED MY LOVE!  This dog let me get very close to it, but was looking at me with a lot of uncertainty.  As I was pondering whether or not to press my luck, a man came up and told me “no, no” while shaking his head and making a scratching motion with his hands.  The communication seemed pretty clear, but then he starting saying “good dog” over and over again.  As I tried to put together in my head the puzzle of

a. what was me hearing what I wanted through broken English and

b. how the scratching sign language could possibly not be a warning that this dog was likely to rip my kidney out

I was again interrupted by a scolding for an unsupportive group member.   “TAYLOR, DON’T PET THAT DOG!”  Again, the adults had conspired against me, and I moved on.

We passed a house that had the sweetest old hunchbacked lady I’d ever seen come to the door just to wave at us as we passed.  Next to her was a lovely young lady, spine all straight, waving with her.  It was a beautiful reflection of what this country is in so many ways.  Loving and generous in many ways, but wearisome and harsh in others.  It was like staring at a before and after picture at the same time.

We continued on a short ways, but were at one point turned back down the path by a group of people.  The details of the reasons here were not ever communicated to our group, but we had been warned prior to the visit that oppression was not without precedent in the village.  Our handlers take absolutely zero risk with our safety, so we were quickly turned back towards our bus.  Nothing violent or threatening appeared to happen, but it was clear that those villagers had no interest in being a part of our tour.

On the way back to the bus, another pettable dog entered my crosshairs.  This one got so close it still hurts me to think about.  I hunched and whistled at it, encouraging it to come closer, and it wanted to so, so bad.  It looked at me with its head down low, and still in a frightened stance, but was also wagging its tail so hard its body was wiggling up to the ribs.  This was a nervous, but optimistic, full butt shake.  A trademark of my own puppy, Nova, back home.  This was the dog.  The stars had aligned, sweet petting would be mine. 

But no. NO!  Responsible people had to happen.  A girl in the group straight up mom voice scolded me with a shout of “TAYLOR, THEY SAID DON’T PET THE DOGS!”  To which I responded by contesting that they did not say not to pet any dogs, just that last dog.  In the time I took to turn and defend my actions, the dog chose anxiety over full butt wagging optimism and scampered away.  Someday I will lay on my deathbed and wonder “what if?”

After we got back home, I spent some time in prayer, looking for a cure to grumpy Taylor.  God had been convicting me that I had been holding some anger against my pastor for my frustration about the trip thus far.  My blog has been mostly positive and light-hearted, but the fact that we had almost exclusively been served by the people instead of serving was not at all the experience I had expected, and it has caused me to feel guilty several times.

Oh, the freedom of confession.  We chatted for close to an hour about the trip, my personal walk with the Lord, my frustrations with my church (which we’ll explore further in a future blog.  Foreshadowing!), and my lack of direction in life at the moment.  You know what changed about every one of those things during the conversation?  Nothing!  Still I felt a weight lifted.  I’m hoping for better serving opportunities still, but in either case, my anger was gone.  We had a nightly devotion and off to bed I went, looking forward to a day ahead with a clear mind, and grumpless Taylor ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting India.

Other Day 7 Observations

• ·         Holy crap the bees are big and scary

o   They have a hive literally right on the other side of our bathroom fan

§  Yes, the kind of fan that just blows air out through a hole in the wall

·         As in, yes, they can fly into the allergic dudes room whenever they want

o   I’m glad I brought my epipen

• ·         The dogs outside at night are not ready to be pet

o   They have embraced the dark side

§  Puns!

·         Seriously though, you can hear them saying no through the walls

o   Aggressively.  Them rabid.

§  Did not attempt

Day 6 – This Little Light of Mine

Overall, this was not an impacting day.  We did more touring of the facilities here, including the nursing school.  Nursing, and really the medical field at large, is not my scene, so it wasn’t the most exciting couple of hours of my life.  One thing that did jump out to me however was, as usual, the contrast from American society.  Their anatomy lab, looked a lot like my high school biology classroom.  It seemed quaint in every way.  That’s not a knock against it by any means, it’s a highly reputable institution, but yet again was a glaring example of how much different things are here, simpler in nearly every way.

In that lab, I saw something that rattled me in a way I hadn’t been rattled in a long time.  Among the items visible in the jars on the shelves, were human fetuses.  I saw the five week one first, and that didn’t have much impact, however, there was a much later term one across the room that looked almost full term.  There in a jar sat a pale lifeless face that never quite was, and I couldn’t handle it.  I had to leave the room.  I’m always pale, so I guess my face went transparent.  The shock wore off quickly, but it’s been years since anything has overwhelmed me in that way in an instant.

Later in the tour, however, a much lighter moment occurred.  We entered into a different room in which a poster on the wall with several pictures emblazoned a headline of “different types of placentas.”  I had no idea that there were variations here.  I want to make a joke on that phrase using the alternate pronunciations of the word tomato here, but instead using the word placenta.  However, the words are typed the same, so I don’t know how to actually make the joke in literary form, so please do it yourself in your head.

Anyways, I, of course, wandered over curiously and started to study up.  After about ten seconds, a girl from our group walked up behind me and teased me by asking if I was brushing up on placentas.  For the briefest of moments, I thought I must have been the only moron who didn’t know that placentas were the uterus’ fortune cookie, until someone else walked up behind us stating “I didn’t know there was more than one type of placenta!”  I giggled to myself, moved on, then watched as one by one, about half our group did literally the exact same thing.  Before long, there were eight people studying the placenti options on the wall with curiosity that equaled my own.

In the afternoon, we had the opportunity to REDACTED.  They bring in impoverished children from the surrounding area and provide them with a bag of food for the week.  While they are there, they also do a Sunday school type interaction with songs, memory verse, etc.

Remember how I mentioned previously that they are big on just letting you know at the last moment that you’re going to be doing stuff?  Well, at the last minute, we were told to prepare lessons for the kids in small groups.  I got off the hook, because about half of our group had planned something for a VBS program already, since kids aren’t really my strong suit, I wasn’t one of them.  So I got to be moral support for someone who had.  He gave a great lesson, and then the kids didn’t feel like chatting at all, so it was over pretty quick.  One kid asked us to tell the story of Noah’s Ark, so again, I let the other guy go, because….. well, kids. 

He got through the first half no problem, then it became apparent that we were both a little hazy on the details of the birds being sent out.  The variation of the story that ended up being told was that a crow went out first and never came back, leaving the world to wonder how the crow population survived after half the species darted off into the night with no dry land, never to return.  We got the rest right, but those kids will now have questions whenever they see a crow, because unless they became asexual at some point, they should have been extinct a long time ago.

Also worth noting, before the small groups broke out, we were asked if we would like to sing a song for the kids.  We had prepared nothing, so obviously we said yes.  After a moment of awkward deliberation in front of the entire room, with microphones in our hands, we settled on performing the worst rendition of This Little Light of Mine in the history of earth.  Nay, in the history of everywhere.  It’s such a simple song, but we wouldn’t let that stop us from running that train off the rails. 

First, we started off key.  Check.  Secondly, I clearly don’t know how to operate a microphone, so really I’m leaving the two gals to go it alone.  Check.  Third, we didn’t really discuss hand motions ahead of time, so they kind of just happened completely out of sync.  Check.  Fourth, as it turns out, we had settled on singing a song none of us remembered well, so we just kind of slurred and gave up about three words into the third verse.  It takes a special sort of skill to make the hand motions to this song seem challenging, but we managed.  The audience gave a courtesy clap and all the mothers looked at us as if they were trying to understand how white people happened.

Early on the event, while all the kids were singing their songs, one little girl in a beautiful white dress caught my eye.  I’m not one to usually get excited over children and don’t tend to think every single one is the cutest thing to ever happen, but this girl was the cutest thing to ever happen.  As a matter of fact, I nudged my friend next to me and whispered to him “that girl in the white dress is the cutest kid I’ve ever seen in my life.”

This turned out to be pretty significant, because after the event was over, there was one girl in our group who was anxious to meet up with a very specific child.  She and her home group have been sponsoring a child through REDACTED, ensuring that she gets food at this event every week and helping with other benevolence as needed.  She was beyond excited to meet with the little girl and provide her with some gifts that they had sent over for her.  Well, guess who the girl was.  Yep, the cutest stinkin’ kid I’ve ever seen in my life, and watching them hug and exchange gifts was among the warmer moments my trip has generated.

In the evening, I got grumpy.  We tried to coordinate plans for VBS the next day, and I decided to just be grumpy for all of that.  The thing about grumpy Taylor is that he’s pretty easy to cheer up, all he has to do is let people know that he’s grumpy, admit he shouldn’t be, and then he feels better just knowing he opened up about it and people will encourage him to not be grumpy.  The hard part about grumpy Taylor is that he virtually never does that, and instead just sulks like a child in the corner.  My posture is generally pretty slouchy, so sulking Taylor looks just like normal future hunchback Taylor.  He just talks less. 

After a few hours of grumping through, it became apparent to me that I was not going to stop being grumpy, so I just went to bed the moment the opportunity arose.  I could elaborate more on the events and such, but I want this blog to be a happy place, so I just won’t. 

This day doesn’t have a happy ending, just Taylor going to bed grumpy.

Other observations:

•          The dogs here are still scared of me, but I’m determined to pet one before I go home.

o   I don’t have a healthy fear of rabies

•          There is a sign out front that was made welcoming our whole group by name.  Somehow, about a third of us got included by our middle name, so I’m Brother Nicolas Brandel.  Craig, James, William, and Anjela are among the other first name casualties.
•          I wish I had time to write more, because I’m skipping a lot but I’m also tired.

Day 5 – Genital Fragments

By comparison, being rattled and told to grab your things in a hurry while on a train, was a very calming way to start the day.  At about 4 AM, we gathered our things and made our way to the front of the train to await our stop.  The trains don’t really announce the stops or hang out for a long time while you decide whether or not to get off, so you have to be prepared when your stop comes close.  We ended up standing around in the squatty potty lobby for about an hour. 

Once off the bus we exchanged greeting with a bunch of the REDACTED, received a bunch of flowers, and then took a short bus ride to our destination.  An uneventful few hours of finding our rooms, eating breakfast, etc. followed.  Then we were off to chapel.

It’s worth noting here that advanced notice isn’t really a thing that is part of the culture.  While eating breakfast, you can expect to then be told what is happening 15 minutes later.  At no point in our days here has it been known by the group at large what to expect throughout the day with the exception of travel.  So that being said, the day was spent mostly hour by hour waiting to find out what’s next.

The events were not breathtaking, but mostly consisted of a tour of the campus for a children’s home and visiting with a few key members of our host organization.  Though one in particular really stuck with me, not because the story was overwhelming in any way, but because it is what I would love to do.  We spoke with someone who is from the United States, came to India as an adult, and now has a highly important role within the organization.  He has overcome barriers in language, culture, and color of skin to succeed in a role that he would have had every good excuse to fail in. 

That is specifically motivating to me.  I have a passionate heart for international missions, India specifically.  I’m not passionate about this country because I came here on a trip, rather, I came on this trip because I’m passionate about this country.  As a general rule, I’m actually against most short term mission trips.  For the price of me coming on this trip, I could provide substantial funding to indigenous people to further the ministry here in more powerful ways.  I’m here because I’m trying to find out if God has a calling for me permanently in foreign countries, and I believed leaving home at least once to see could be achievable for me is essential to find the answer to that question.

I know undoubtedly, that supporting foreign missions, whether by working in the field, or assisting in the states, is something I need to be a large part of whatever ministry role I end up in.  I’ve always been very resistant to pursue though for several reasons.  Chief among them is that I believe that the most qualified people to minister to foreign people are people from that culture.  I don’t speak the language, and I’m not a particularly quick learner, so I couldn’t for a while.  I’m open about being a pretty soft individual.  I don’t handle illness, poor conditions, or general physical challenges well.  My skin is nearly transparent, and there’s really no unreached population I could ever be a part of without it being immediately visibly apparent that I’m a foreigner.  Those barriers matter, and they’ve caused me to believe in the past that overseas missions could not be an option for me. 

This man helped me see that it’s not an impossibility to have an effective role with those same hurdles, and that was a great inspiration to me, I’m going to try to talk with him more this week about his transition and recommendations for further pursuing a similar path.

That was my inspiration during the day, with the night came inspiration of a different sort.

In the evening we packed into the van in order to visit the temple of Lord Shiva, the god of destruction.  We had visited a Baha’i temple last week, which was visually stunning, but experience-wise ended up being quite dull.  This was a radial contrast.  From the outside, the temple looks like nothing.  The architecture is unique, at least by western standards, but it’s not pretty.  The temple looks and feels old, it’s run down, and there are street vendors and markets leading literally right up to the doorstep.  There’s not a maintained set of grounds around it like you’d find at a mosque or at the Baha’i temple, it’s just crammed into town like another building. 

Our guide (more on him later) walked us through the outer area of the temple, and it affirmed the feeling of the outside, overwhelmingly unspectacular.  There were altars to lesser gods and goddess everywhere.  All of them were behind a dingy gate that could be opened and closed to provide a better view.  The idols were larger than the ones around town, but not really much nicer, just in a better setting, they seemed a little dingy, albeit cared for.  The temple is open air, with the exception of the main area housing Shiva, so when it rains the floor, both walkways and tiles alike get drenched and slick.  There are bugs crawling around everywhere, and at one point a member of our group wandered a bit behind an exhibit to find a rabid dog that proceeded to growl at us for several minutes after we had left its eye sight.  That is the feel of the temple.  It’s as dark, dirty, and sad as most of the country, it just doesn’t have the litter.

Before we get to Shiva’s altar, I have to share with you the story of Shiva himself.  Lord Shiva is the Hindu god of destruction.  His image is not an ornate person, elephant, monkey, etc. like the other Hindu idols you’ve likely seen before.  His image is based around a rather unique origin story. 

A long time ago somewhere of in the unknown space where Hindu gods roam the universe, Shiva was feeling a bit frisky one day.  He went to his wife and was ready to do some marital stuff.  

Unfortunately for Shiva, his wife wasn’t having it.  Unwilling to give up after the first pass, Shiva was all like “come on baby, I’m seriously needing this right now, I’ll buy you a drink.”  Despite his great offer, the wife was still all like “naw man, ain’t feeling it.”  Shiva then did what a god of destruction tends to do when he’s told he can’t get what he wants: he gets a little Jameis Winstony with it.  Shiva’s wife is legit though, she’s been through self defense classes, and grabs a knife.  You’d probably expect that in the story, she’d use the knife to kill Shiva or simply ward him off.  She doesn’t, rather, she decides to start slicing at his endowment like she’s chopping up a carrot for a stew. 

The fragments that are chopped off, called shivlings (that part is not a joke), fall to earth.  The shivling is the image that is the temple, and in case you’re wondering what it looks like, it’s just a black rock that someone has made a face on with flower petals.  A face with a slick handlebar mustache.  That story is not made up.  It really is the Hindu mythology behind this god. 

It is also, despite its ridiculous back-story and appearance, the most evil thing I have ever encountered.  In my preparations for this trip, I had read a book on the essentials of Hinduism, so I had a decent idea what I’d be walking into.  What I didn’t realize is that these gods of theirs had real religious ceremonies for worship, wherein large groups of people gathered.  I thought that people just kind of popped into the temple whenever, made their sacrifices and someone just cleaned up once and a while. 

Nope.  There is full on worship services, and they aren’t like the ones in the church I’m used to.  There is no singing of praise, there are no smiles, no warmth whatsoever.  We entered into the inner part of the temple, just a few feet from the altar, apparently they give guests positions of honor in the temple, and others stood outside to observe through the opening to the altar.  At 8 PM, worship began.  Two men started to bang on gongs rapidly and the mood immediately changed from one of laughter at that mustache someone put on a rock, to one of darkness and intimidation.  Two more joined in banging on loud drums, and the noise was deafening.  We were in a small space with stone walls, so the echoes were everywhere and contained.

Priests lit incense and stoically waved them around the altar, then carrying them outside for the other viewers to see.  A woman in front of me came close to the altar and bowed low in complete submission and reverence to a rock.  I turned to look outside as the drummers walked past me out of the inner temple area.  I was surprised to see not a few other white tourists, or a smattering of people there to pay respects, but probably 100 people looking on with as much reverence as the woman in front of me, and as much anger as the priests both at the same time. They were completely under the control of whatever force was in that temple.  Desperate to please it, fearing they may not. 

My stomach turned.  I know it’s just a stupid rock, but a stupid rock can’t possibly create fear in people like that, and it was obvious that was what this worship was: fear.  I locked eyes with that rock and began to pray to the only God that matters, cursing Shiva and asking God to destroy the demonic power that was clearly controlling these people.  Our guide walked us around the backside of the altar and explained a few other things about Shiva, and we left before the ceremony ended.  I was never scared of what I encountered in there, but I was depressed by it.  I know that this is not isolated.  What I saw is characteristic of 900 million people in this country, and while the idol may look different, the fear and hopelessness of the people worshiping it does not. 

The temple guide talked to us about Jesus.  He spoke English, but had never been taught the language.  He states that Jesus gave him English, and our hosts who have been to see him many times before told us that because of this, he has added Jesus to the list of gods he worships.  He had apparently been telling visitors this story for years, he loves Jesus.

Today though, I didn’t meet that guide.  His English seemed rather broken, it had been described to me by previous visitors as “perfect.”  Today he did not acknowledge Jesus as one of the gods, he actually specifically stated that he was not a god at all, but that he was his “good friend.”  He then acknowledged that he was having problems with his English and asked me to pray for him.  I will, but not for his English.

That guide, is in essence, the Hindu faith.  Living life in service to a god, seeking their rewards and approval, living in sacrifice and fear when those rewards stop, and seeking to earn that approval back.  There is no room for love, just merely trying to add up.  Our guide no longer looked at Jesus as a god, because his gift was weakened, Jesus was never truly a god to him, just a genie in a bottle.  That stuck with me the entire drive home and throughout the rest of the night.  As laid in bed that night, it wasn’t my inspiring conversation earlier in the day that plagued my thoughts, but just sorrow for the people wasting their lives in slavery to demonic, mustached rock.  

Day 4 - Room Number AK-47

Sleep has not been my friend since my arrival.  Normally I’m a night person, but now I’m an extreme morning person.  Most nights I wake up around 2 AM, and am just kind of done sleeping.  The time change is a factor, I don’t ever sleep well in new beds, which is also a factor, and occasionally there is a radical sleep interruption as well. 

Day begins in unique fashion at 12:45 AM.  There is a loud buzzing sound that startles me from my sleep.  Power outages are common here, as in daily, so I assume it’s just something resetting itself, and just lay back down.  It buzzes again.  No worries, sometimes it takes two tries for a machine to successfully reboot.  A third time!  It’s feasible the power just keeps going back out. A fourth time! Honestly, not good reasoning here, I just don’t want to get up, and I’m hoping it goes away on its own.  Fifth and sixth time in rapid succession.  I start paying attention to other things. 

I hear loud noises in the hallway, several voices; quite unusual here.  They aren’t Americans, and aren’t loud all the time.  They also have a seven day workweek and don’t make a habit of being out and about late.  The streets are pretty quiet by about ten.  I assume I need to answer the door and slowly start to get dressed.  A seventh and eighth buzz occurs, followed by a knock on the door.  It turns out the buzzing is a doorbell that the hotel staff uses to let residents know they hate them too much to knock.

When you answer the door at 12:45 AM after a night of quietly enjoying dinner and not leaving the hotel, I’m not sure what you’d expect to find on the other side, but it was exactly as I expecting: three cops open carrying AK-47’s demanding to see my passport.

Yep.  That’s how my morning started, how was yours?  Our local guide was with the cops and let me know that this was “normal.”  That was a surprise to my colleague down the hall who had spent six months in India previously and had never needed to randomly provide her passport at midnight.  I proceeded to go over to my roommate, who shall here forth be known as Ears of Steel, to wake him up and let him know that he needed to get his passport. 

I probably should have been scared, but for whatever reason, I just thought “no bigs, I’ll get them my passport.”  As they inspected said passport, they also held up a camera high in the air and snapped a picture of gorgeous two hours of sleep Taylor.  It was nice that they lifted it up high so I could get the Facebook angles thing going, but it later occurred to me that this was likely simply required for them to actually get my face.  They are after all, generally six inches shorter than me.

After confirming that the passports were in order, they and their lovely open carry AK’s, did need to come into the room and inspect my roommates backpack for whatever scary things make it through customs but are dangerous in a hotel room.  Obviously.  A few moments later, they left, and that was that.  Strangely enough, I had no issue going back to sleep within a few minutes.  I would later learn that most of our group got a similar experience, although not all of us.  That’s right, I’m one of the scary ones.

My morning started again around 5:30 the way any rational American would hope for after that experience: with the loud sound of “AAAALLLLLLLAAAAAHHHHHHH” blaring through their window.  Yep, that was my follow up to by AK-vestigated at midnight.  The loud noise was followed up by about three minutes of prayer at a similar volume.  Later in the day I noticed that the medians throughout the city streets have large speakers that sit on a pole above the.  They have different songs or speeches coming through on almost every city block.  Who controls these and determines their content, I’m unsure of, I do know that at least one of them likes to start his day by praying to screaming at Allah though.  I later learned that this is simply a traditional Muslim call to prayer, but being that Muslims may as well be pandas because of their rarity where I'm used to being, I had never experienced such a thing.

A breakfast buffet later followed.  To follow up on yesterdays food blogging, their juices and omelets are also better than ours, and my feelings that chicken could in fact replace all other meat was reaffirmed by chicken sausage.  They don’t bother with the cute American crap in their omelets either, they are always called “cheese omelets” because they are just eggs with a butt ton of cheese in them.  Delightful.  Unfortunately though, there was a bowl labeled “fresh fruit” that had stuff in it that tasted like tomatoes.  Kind of a jerk move India, I guess the food isn’t perfect.

Given the events of the night before, it was determined that the planned activities for the day of visiting the REDACTED would not be a good idea.  Instead we visited another inner city church.  Our bus decided to just power on down an alleyway to get us there, proceeding to convince one man to help us out by lifting a tent pole that was essentially the roof of his house out of the way for us.  Personally, I would have preferred to just walk an extra 200 feet, but my opinion wasn’t asked.  It was good for about five minutes of looking out the window and watching what felt like half the city laugh at us.  White people right?  Darn Brits.

Church was a similar experience as the past two days.  I’m still not super comfortable with the gifts or the attention but am happy to help make their day, even if it is just by being the hairiest ghost they’ve ever seen.  But remember how I wrote about how guilty I felt when they all wanted pictures with me the first day?  Well that was back, and after the selfies, one girl wanted my autograph.  That’s right, I was literally viewed as a celebrity for being American.  That broke my heart.  I almost cried right there while chicken scratching “Taylor Brandel” on a slip of notebook paper for someone who’s name I didn’t, nor likely ever will, know.

It’s heartbreaking to know that the situations these people are in are so sad that simply seeing big white guys handing Dum-Dums to kids inspires hope.  If you need someone to finish your leftovers, find dark humor in a situation, or represent you in some crazy trial-by-boggle justice system, I’m your guy.  Inspire hope?  I hope you’re collecting more autographs to be safe. 

After church, we found a different way back to the bus, which I assume must have been airlifted out of the alley I last saw it in.  Or we just boarded a new bus and the old one was just turned into low income housing.  I took an enlightening ride in a car with a local back to the bus from the church.  He drove like a madman.  Well, like rainman, it was brilliant.  He bulleted down that alley at like 30 MPH, on a dirt road, just swerving around bikes, pedestrians, mortal cars, and riskshaws like it weren’t no thang at all. 

That was entertaining but the enlightening part came when he pointed at the car ahead.  The rear window had a campaign sign in it, along with several cars in a convoy in front of it.  He pointed to the cars and said “those are politicians.  Crooks.”  Ah, corrupt politicians, the universal language.  Or so my colleagues and I thought, and said as much until he followed with this golden nugget of info: “that large face in the middle there, he just murdered someone last month.”  So that’s a thing.

The rest of the day was just more travel.  Three hours to go 40 km back to Delhi, boarding a train (my first train ride ever!), and buckling in for a 12 hour ride to the next city.  The train is a unique experience, like everything else here.  There are more people than seem reasonable to me but somehow it works.  Leaving Delhi was as exhausting as the bus ride.  There is no stopping, and instead of slowly taking in the whole town, you just look at the window as you see literally miles and miles of slums pass by your eyes with no breaks.  It’s the saddest I’ve felt on what has thus far been a trip severely lacking in joy. 

As I type this, I have just returned from my first trip to the squatty potty, which in case you’ve never experienced it, is a hole in the train you squat over and poop through.  As in it just drops to the train tracks below.  Note to self, do not play on the train tracks.  Also, I made the mistake of going to the “bathroom” without my shoes on, so now I have to take my socks off to avoid playing the game of “whose urine is in my sock right now.”  I joke because it’s how I deal with sadness.  Urine on my sock is gross, but that’s not even really dirty compared to the living situation I’ve seen literally millions of people in over the past 72 hours.  Don’t worry about the pee on my sock, pray for the people of India, that’s what I’m going to do.

Other Day 4 observations:

•         The pizza came with a ketchup packet.  I truly don’t know how to respond to this.
•          I saw a goat on the roof of a house.  Twice.
•          My friend Mitch truly has a gift for spotting people peeing on the street.  His count is at 32.  I’m just at 2.  I’m okay losing the contest.
•          40% of this city is just high rise apartments that never finished construction.  Seriously, I’ve seen like 100 of them.
•          I’ve seen enough limping dogs to last a lifetime in 48 hours.  My puppies are getting the biggest hugs of their lives when I get home.
•          Once you leave Delhi, the clouds are actually white again, and the sky is actually blue.
•          All Hindu gods that are Elephantic look the same to me. 
•          I think I was accidentally racist today, but it’s the hardest I’ve ever seen our pastor laugh, so I’m okay with it.

Day 3 - Food is Good

The morning started pretty similar to the day before.  A trip to a local church, this one again was beyond excited to see us.  I was blessed with the chance to be a part of their lively worship service.  At the end I was surprised to be called up by the pastor to lead prayer for the entire church…. With no translator.  I gave a good effort, knowing the only people in the building that would know my words were the ones I walked in the building with.  It was unexpected, but not really uncomfortable.  Apparently, this established me as the praying white guy, a bit more of a welcomed appeal factor than that of the albino giant from the day before, but a bit harder to understand.  I’ve been a reasonably large white dude for a while, but being the prayer guy was new. 

Post service, we lined up as everyone in the building again came by to greet us, sans selfies this time, but I had a few people ask me to pray with them instead.  Or for them.  I don’t really know, they didn’t speak any English, and I did not have a translator.  A few came over and gave the handshake and then said something to me.  I did my best to communicate with them, but it never really sank in whatever they were saying.  Eventually, they just placed their hands on my shoulder, closed their eyes, and leaned their head into mine.  That sign I picked up, and prayed over them, again knowing they understood none of it. 

It was obviously an awkward feeling.  I mean, what good does it do for me to pray for them when they can’t understand it?  Later on, I processed it and realized prayer isn’t about what they hear, it’s about what God hears.  Prayer is a chance to intercede on the behalf of others, to lift them up to God.  God hears it whether they know the words or not.  What’s more is that I may have a completely different perspective on their lives that they would ever conceive.  I can lift up to God what they might never think to themselves. 

Of course, it was still awkward. 

After church, we left for NAME REDACTED.  It’s a city about 40 kilometers away from Delhi, or, in my mind, it’s still just Delhi.  It’s really, really exhausting travelling here.  Those 40 kilometers took three hours to travel, there was maybe 3 miles of real highway driving on the entire journey, apparently we went through several towns, but it felt like we stayed in one. 

After a second day of driving all over the place, I started to notice more and more of the poverty around.  We had beggars coming up to the bus and tapping on the glass, I saw more limping dogs, one had a severely bloodied face, and another dog was road kill in the street.  It really says a lot about how numb I had already become by the surroundings that I didn’t start bawling when I saw that.  The filth was everywhere, and the church we visited was in an area with open sewage drains.  I caught that horrible smell I’d been warned about for the first time.  After three hours of staring at it through the window non-stop, I was wiped.  More than I was tired of seeing it, I was tired of not helping.

We arrived at our hotel and had a wonderful lunch.  At this point, I need to talk about the food a little bit. 

I was highly apprehensive about Indian food prior to the trip.  I’m generally a decently picky eater.  I don’t necessarily have a warm embrace to spicy food, and I’m openly saucophobic.  I do not like to try new sauces.  You never really know what will be in it, if it will ruin whatever you drizzle it over, or if there is a lurking tomato somewhere just waiting to ruin your day. 

My worries were for naught.

Guys, I don’t want to go back to American food.  This stuff is so good.  Literally everything I’ve consumed here is food I’m not excited to eat back at home. 

New sauces?  Within four days I’ve grown to be excited about them, as opposed to apprehensive.

 Bread?  Yes please.  It’s the perfect thing to drown in that wonderful new sauce.

Chicken?  Easily the bottom of the meat food pyramid for me.  Now I’m wondering why people even bother eating meat without feathers.

Rice?  You mean that bland stuff that is used to just fill up plates because it’s filling?  Well, okay, the rice is the same, but the sauce makes it better.

Coke?  I mean the Coke is great at home too, but here it’s almost never cold, AND IT’S STILL GOOD!  Room temperature Coke is usually the taste bud equivalent of treason.  You want it, you trust it, then it stabs you in the back with its depravity.  Lukewarm Coke is so bad, it might as well be Pepsi.  It’s worth noting that maybe it’s fine here because it’s so hot that it’s not that warm by comparison, but still, it’s great!

Tea?  Look, when I’m at home, I just don’t drink the stuff.  It’s bland and I don’t enjoy it at all, I don’t think I even drink it on an annual basis, it’s merely one step above coffee on the overrated beverage staircase.  Here, I was actually a little offended when someone just brought me tea without me asking for it.  It’s considered very rude here to turn down offered food or drink, so now I have to drink this junk.  I felt that way until I took one sip.  I want their tea with every meal for the rest of my life.

Seriously, ‘Merica, it’s time to step up your food game.

After lunch, we met with some local pastors, and talked about their church growth and ministry efforts.  It was a decently short meeting as we didn’t have a good place to fit our whole group into.  A large number of our group were getting antsy to go out and just be with the people of India, not on a bus, not in a church, and not at a restaurant, but on the street with the people who needed to hear about Christ.  There were also a malignant of peeps tired who just wanted to nap.  It was eventually decided to let the boring people win out. 

The reasons for that are decent though.  As it turns out, the following day is India’s Independence Day, celebrated for the freedom from British rule.  As it also turns out, REDACTED NAME was a focal point in the rebellion against the British in Northern India.  Apparently, it’s not uncommon for national patriotism to run high at this time, and for all white people to be oppressive Brits, so a cluster of 14 whiteys roaming the streets on “we got the whites out” eve was a really bad idea.  We stayed in and would have to wait for another day to launch our secret plans to reestablish British rule. 

Oh and by the way India, we’re Americans, we kicked the Brits out before kicking Brits out was cool. 

Other random observations from the day:

•          Justin Bieber was on a large sign advertising unisex haircuts.
•          I caught my first glimpse of broken English in the form of a t-shirt saying “today I will being human.”
•          There are fruit stands everywhere, but the only farms I’ve seen grow corn and rice.  I think fruit grows from power lines here.
•          Coca-Cola is a staple of an Indian dinner, and only Coca-Cola.  They appear to hate Pepsi as much as I do.
•          I saw a water park named “Drizzling World.”  There was, of course, a giant T-Rex under the sign to let you know it was a water park.
•         They have a wonderful soft drink called Limca, that is apparently just dirty dishwater with a hint of lime.

Day 2 - Bathing in Mud

Today was emotional.  The first emotion was frustration.  In the morning we were able to meet with five representatives from an Afghanistan refugee camp.  We spent a few hours hearing their testimonies, sharing and encouraging with them, and praying over them.  Hearing their stories was saddening but not surprising, given they come from a war-term Islamic state.  The frustration set in when it was shared that we would not be able to visit the refugee camp with them as originally expected.  The camp consists of several more people that just the Christians and Americans are far from beloved by the majority of the people.  The reasoning was legitimate and we likely would have done more to disrupt than encourage, but I was greatly looking forward to the experience, and not getting it was disheartening. 

I had visions of ten more days of sitting around tables talking with people dance through my heads, and gave into some moments of discouragement, especially when I learned we really didn’t have much freedom to walk the streets in the area during the down time either, of which we had several more hours.  The air conditioning at the hotel was nice, sure, but I have that at home, I flew twenty hours to reach out to people.

In the late afternoon we headed out to visit a local church.  We had experienced plenty of the traffic already, but not yet in the monsoon weather.  That was radically different.  It should be noted that at this point, the things I had heard about India had not been a part of my experience.  The awful smells and the filth had seemed to be exaggerated.  The litter was bad, but usually confined to curbs and vacant lots.  Then the rain hit. 

Whatever you have in your possessions that may at a certain time to be insufficient, you find it hard to justify wanting more once you have watched children dancing with joy because they get to play in puddles.  Not just any puddles, but really puddles that have formed into tiny rivers that flow through all the roads.  Roads that are made of dirt, so if you’re envisioning transparent water, you can stop now.  The puddles are the dirtiest water I have ever seen, garbage flows through them like fish, and if paper waste is the worst you see, you’re lucky.  All the same the children are dancing and bathing in it, some even ducking down to lie in it.

It’s a bittersweet moment.  There is a true joy to be found in watching children with virtually nothing overjoyed, but there is equal sorrow to see that the joy is found in water I was afraid to touch. 

The pure joy returned when I arrived at the church.  The church was a simple basement of a building.  It was crammed full with sixty or so people, fans were running, but there was no hint of real AC.  I was ushered to a seat near the pastor up front for the entire congregation to see.  The service began with a calling of the children to come and receive a lei from the pastor.  They then proceeded to place them around the necks of myself and the other seventeen visitors while the whole of the auditorium applauded.  I was honored but also humbled.  Receiving that praise for simply showing up and not being local was uncomfortable. 

That discomfort quickly turned into great joy.  The singing started.  The praises were in Hindi, I had no idea what they were singing, but I did know that with just a single woman playing on some drums and a tambourine, the sixty or so people sang with a passion and joy I’ve yet to see from a congregation of thousands in the States.  I clapped along and smiled an assuredly goofy grin that was both uncharacteristic and uncontainable.  Eventually they sang an old hymn I knew (I have proceeded to forget which one before writing this), I was very happy to join in the worship for one chorus at least. 

After the sermon, something I did not expect in the slightest happened.  The entire community ran up to us, essentially making a processional line to great us all.  I know two phrases in Hindi, Namaste, and Jimosiki (sp?), which is an alternative greeting to Namaste that is used within the Christian community.  So I spent the next several minutes saying Jimosiki to everyone in the building while they lined up to shake my hand.  That was a unique experience, what followed shocked me even more.  A handshake was merely a warm up, next up was selfies with the big white dude. 

Granted, we’re all pretty white.  I, however, am pretty white even by American standards.  With the pollution in the area, I’m literally whiter than the clouds here, so my paleness stands out on its own.  Then there is my size.  I’m not huge by American standards, but I’ve met exactly one Indian so far that is my equal in height, and none in weight.  Six foot, one inch, and topping two hundred pounds makes me the jolly white giant.  They were excited to get pictures with all of us, but I and one other guy in the group seemed to be special attractions.  I’ve never felt like more of a celebrity in my life, and I’m still not sure what for. 

It was good fun posing for pictures for several minutes, there is such a joy in knowing that by standing still and smiling I was creating a valuable memory for so many.  After we left though, discouragement started to sink in.

The traffic jam to end all traffic jams started.  We were in the center of an intersection with cars seemingly trying to go eleven different ways all logjammed with buses surrounding us.  You really had to see it to comprehend it, there are no intersections in the United States where it would even be possible for this to occur, even our guide pulled out his phone to snap a picture.  Our traffic artist (driver) was not as talented as the one form the day before.  He was more aggressive and considerably less cordial with foot traffic.  Our guide, on a few occasions, gave him a few words about his demeanor.

Once free though, the traffic ceased to entertain me, and I was left with my thoughts.  That is rarely a good thing.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I’m a notorious dog lover.  The India experience has not been kind to me in this regard.  There are dogs everywhere, and almost none of them are pets.  The dogs simply wander the sides of the road, covered in fleas, missing patches of hair, and all are malnourished.  They are so used to the busyness around them, they float through the traffic just as the people do, drivers avoid them, and they hustle through the streets.  At one point today, I saw two of them just laying in the road in a little spot where there was no traffic just hanging out because the road was as good a bed as anywhere else. 

Earlier in the day, I saw a dog and attempted to pet it, it summarily was frightened and immediately scurried away from me, it made me sad, and I started to watch the dogs on the side of road more closely.  I saw this was a pattern.  The dogs were more afraid of the people than the cars, shirking away any time a person came close.  The dog lover inside was sad, but later he was heartbroken.  On the way back home, I saw a dog limping along the side of the road.  It was hobbling on three legs, the fourth one, lifted off the ground, and clearly and visibly broken.  No blood to be found on it, and our windows were cracked, it wasn’t whimpering.  The break was obviously not new, that was just how that leg was now, it had never been addressed when it happened.  I squealed with sorrow and felt my bottom lip puff out as tears filled my eyes.

Now that my emotions were warmed up, I was ready to process the rest of the day.  Earlier in the day I had encountered my first real begging child.  People come up to the car trying to sell you things while you are stopped constantly, but this child wasn’t selling a thing, just begging.  I watched, who I assume was his older brother, observe his begging from a towel on the sidewalk.  Neither had a shirt, across the street, a young girl was rolling around on a board only a couple inches from the ground, one leg seemingly paralyzed, while the other guided the wheeled platform, she too was begging. 

The heartbreak was really setting in now.  But as sad as the dogs and begging children had made me, I was starting to experience as much sadness over the church service I had just left.  What had we really offered them?  Our pastor gave a sermon and the rest of us watched.  We were showered with gifts, applauded, and treated like movie stars for what I can only assume was a belief that we represented help and hope for them.  I don’t feel that either is accurate.  I mean I dropped the ten rupees I had left from souvenir shopping into the tithe bucket, but I’m certain that wouldn’t even pay for the flowers around my neck. 

I couldn’t help but wonder on the drive back if they would have celebrated the albino wonder of the world the same way if they knew that I spent enough money to likely house and feed two of them on my cell phone bill last month.  I wonder if they knew that I spend considerably less on my phone each month than the average American if they would feel like preparing a single flower for any of us at all.  I didn’t feel like a representation of help or hope at all, but of excess and neglect.  Actually, as of writing this, I don’t really feel much different, and don’t know that I should.  Really, I’m hoping I still feel the same way when I get home, because I can’t do much to act on this conviction while I’m here.  

Day 1 - Yaks

Disclaimer: Day one is really three days, as we lost 12 ½ hours in time changes, our travel started Wednesday afternoon and ended Friday morning.

Airplane travel has it highs and lows.  The day started simply enough, Spokane to Seattle was what every tiny plane trip is.  Spokane to Dubai is where the party starts.  I’ll start by saying that up until this week, my flying experience was exclusively with Southwest Airlines.  The idea of assigned seats, in flight meals, and weight limits on bags is a foreign concept to me. 

The hijinx began in the church parking lot where we gathered to pray and distribute some supplies we were taking along.  I have left plenty of room in my bag for them, so I load up.  I then learn that international travel tends to be pretty tough on bags, and since mine is pretty worn already, I’m advised to pack in into someone else’s spare luggage.  I comply, but then it’s over 50 pounds, which apparently gains you a $75 charge on checked bags.  Then came the event of several folks pulling random things out of bags and tossing them into the collective spare.  Underwear, socks, t-shirts, toothbrushes, and post-it notes belonging to several different people then converge in a single bag, and we take off for the airport with bags under 50 pounds. 

There were a few new things to me on the Seattle flight, for instance boarding the plane by actually walking out onto the runway and having an assigned seat, but just like Southwest, I’m sitting on the back wing, so it’s really not worth mentioning.  The real fun begins on the international flight.  Seattle to Dubai, fourteen hours and twenty minutes of excitement becoming fear. 

I flew on Emirates Airlines, and that was a treat.  The stewardesses have an outfit that is very abnormal to the North American eye, so the difference is apparent from the moment you get on board.  Then walking through the plane kind of blew my mind.  I’m used to tiny little planes with two seats on either side of a single aisle.  Here we have three seats, aisle, five seats, aisle, and then three more seats.  When I looked down the plane for the first time my thought was that the entire plane I’m used to could fit inside this section.  Then there were three more just like it.  This plane was so much larger than I was used to that it took a few moments for my mind to comprehend that flight could still be possible. 

I found my seat, and it was terribly uncomfortable, there was a support cushion on the upper back that was clearly designed for shorter people, taunting me with calls of “you’re not sleeping one bit on this flight” the moment I sat down.  Of course I found out later that this was adjustable and could be made to go higher.  And by later I mean I found out on the van ride to the hotel in New Delhi. 

However, as uncomfortable as I was, I became excited very quickly.  The screen in front of me was running trailers for Captain America: Civil War, which was free to watch, along with several other movies, TV, and music.  That was also a new experience for me.  I am used to those screens being used to try tricking me into spending a month’s utility bill on watching ESPN for 20 minutes.  The final chunk of excitement came when I was handed a menu for the meal.  Again, I’m used to pretzels, peanuts, and a cup of Coke passing for a meal.  This had dinner options, breakfast options, snacks, and free booze.  Also, it all looked delicious.  I was also appreciative of the fact that the music playing through the speakers pre-flight consisted of Let’s Fly Away, I Believe I Can Fly, I’m Like a Bird, and Rocket Man.  It was missing Leavin’ on a Jet Plane, but otherwise it was perfect.

Eventually, that excitement faded.  Dinner did not agree with my stomach nearly as much as my taste buds.  The back pain started to sink in from my mysteriously adjustable seat, the cabin pressure gave me an expected headache, my legs were feeling the effects of being on a six foot one person, and the dinner and my stomach were playing rugby against each other. 

For the first time in several years, I threw up.  I would not make it several years before I threw up again.  And again.  And again.  Fittingly, for travel I had worn one of my favorite souvenir T-shirts from the restaurant where I had the best burger of my life: “Yaks.”  So it turned out I was wearing a premonition and ironic character introduction for our flight attendants at the same time.  With my stomach clear and my body aching, I sat back down in my seat, comforted with the fact that the flight only had ten hours and eleven minutes left before landing. 

The nice thing about a fourteen hour flight though is that you run out of excuses not to have a long Bible study pretty quickly.  I cracked the good word open and lost myself in it for several hours and it was greatly refreshing, with the occasional opportunity to just turn my head and soak in the northern boundaries of Canada for a great visual of virtually uninhabited mountains and seas. I spent a long time in prayer as well, preparing my heart for a world unlike any I had ever experienced before and the trials that were sure to come.  My greatest concern, especially once the food poisoning set in, was that I simply wasn’t going to thrive at all on the trip.  I’m not what most describe as a tough individual.  I’m an officer worker who doesn’t do well in the sun.  It’s very easy for me to become cynical and become displeased with everything around me. 

Obviously, that’s a bad attitude to have when you’re heading into sweltering heat and humidity where all the bathrooms are sketchy and the insects are numerous.  I spent a lot of time just asking God to keep my attitude positive even when the circumstances were hard. 

We landed in Dubai, and I got to be a minority for the first time in my life.  I knew that in India my US dollars would go very far, so I was excited to see if I could pick up some cheap souvenirs from the airport there.  The answer is no.  No I could not.  A little metal tower about the size of my middle finger was USD $65.  So I gave up on the Dubai souvenir experience quickly. 

The next leg of the flying was uneventful.  My dinner stayed down, the music still didn’t have Leavin’ on a Jet Plane, and I watched the aforementioned Civil War.  Anxiousness was setting in.  I just wanted to get to India.

We left the airport at about 3:30 AM, so I didn’t experience the mass of humanity right away.  Initially I was surprised how American it felt.  The humidity was immediately powerful.  The moment we left the airport doors the sweat started to pour, but I’d experienced that in Miami before.  Most people were speaking a different language than me, but I’d experienced that in Miami before.  Virtually every sign was in English, which is more than Miami can say, and the litter and the filth wasn’t much worse than Spokane.  I knew I was seeing the nice part of town, but on the initial ride to the hotel, Delhi just felt like Miami without skyscrapers.

The hotel itself is a different feel.  The humidity outside is rough, but when you enter a building in an area without AC, it’s even worse.  When I stepped into the hotel lobby, my glasses fogged over.  That’s not a joke, it literally happened.  After a full day there, I still struggle when I’m in the hallways and lobby.  The air is thick, and it smells slightly of smoked bacon, although I’ve yet to see any actual bacon.

There was no real agenda for our first day there, the programs we were helping with started a day later, so we spent the first day sightseeing.  Once you get out after sunlight, the mass of people hits you in full effect.  There is no stretch of road, shoulder, or sidewalk not filled.  Bikes, scooters, foot traffic, cars, buses, they all just wander wherever they can find room to move.  We drove for an hour straight and never even hit the bad side of town, and I never saw a gap that people didn’t fill. 

The driving is as crazy as people describe it, but if I’m being honest, I absolutely love it.  People use their horns non-stop, not as aggression but to communicate to other vehicles and pedestrians.  Every vehicle just switches lanes, swerves between them, or just drives around the side whenever they feel like it.  I’m not sure the cars even have turn signals, and you know what?  It works better than American traffic.  For nearly eight hours we drove around like this, I saw no accidents and traffic never stopped.  25 million people with virtually no traffic regulations get around better this way than 500,000 do on the freeway in Spokane. 

Truly, it’s one of the most beautiful art forms I have ever seen.  The way they move and flow through the maze of machinery is far beyond anything I can ever imagine doing, it’s simply humans trusting in others to drive and walk attentively, doing whatever is needed to move forward.  There is a cultural lesson to be learned in that, people looking out for everyone is actually making it possible for everyone to actually get where they are going.  I tried to take videos, but truly no little sample taken from inside a car can come close to doing the experience justice.

My favorite sight of the day though wasn’t the driving, the people, or any temples.  It was the single sign I saw that said “no parking.”  Directly in front of it was not one, but two full rows of cars parked so tightly, that it remains a mystery to me how the cars in that first row ever expect to actually leave.  I have yet to see a tow truck, so how this issue is even attempted to be handled is beyond my reasoning.

Other day one observations include:

• ·         Four people riding on a single moped, with no helmets, and the kid on the back going no hands just to be a boss. 
• ·         A bus of young people staring at our van extensively, obviously because we’re a bunch of white people.
• ·         The Bah’ai temple
• ·         A “12^th century city” kept intact as a tourist destination.
• ·         Our taxi driver had two thumbs on his left hand.
• ·          Being in the market is exhausting.  Every price is for barter and the street vendors follow you around constantly.  One man trying to sell a wooden cobra, I probably told no 25 times. 
• ·         Even though my phone is set to Delhi time, it still just functions on Spokane time, so my alarm went off 12 ½ hours late. 
• ·         The poverty is not visible in the main part of town.  I saw one or two clearly lived in shacks, but for the most part, the slums seem separate from the main town.
• ·         There are homeless dogs just wandering everywhere and the animal lover in me really had a hard time with it.  They wander through traffic the same as everything else.
• ·         The ants are enormous and I want nothing to do with them.
• ·         I really love curry and butter chicken.
• ·         The American dollar doesn’t go quite as far when you have expensive taste.