Prayer for Calm
My Lord and my God, I do not know what will happen to me today, but what I do know is that nothing will happen to me today that you and I together can not handle. This thought is enough to bring me to face the day in peace. I adore you in your wisdom and love: I commend myself into your hands with complete trust. Amen (Taken from a Jesuit prayer guide)
Each morning for the last few months I have started my day with this prayer for calm. Last week this prayer was followed by an email explaining how one of my students had been attacked by an evil spirit the night, and began beating his wife. On Sunday a visit to the worst slum I have ever seen, followed this prayer. Our very poor friends insisted on serving us Coca-Cola. Yesterday, I prayed for calm and met one student who was so angry with another student she refused to lead the singing. Then another student had a miscarriage. Another student gave away his shoes, though he only owns two pairs now, so that a traveling Sikh God-seeker didn’t have to walk barefoot. I saw my students offer comfort to families with members in the hospitals, praying for all who asked. I saw Christian students say “Eid Mubarak,” and serve a special lunch to Muslim construction workers. That’s how my work here in India is. Everyday I am confronted with the destructiveness of poverty, and yet the joy of being in a community of hope. And each day I have an option, will I try to handle the difficult things myself, or will I trust my life into God’s hands?
Sometimes I get worried about where I am going to live and how I will earn money, but then I remember that my Father in heaven knows everything I need. I can trust him. No matter where we live or what we do; we can put our trust in God. Seek First his kingdom and righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well (Matthew 6:34). I encourage you to start each day with a time of silence, and perhaps a prayer for calm.
I am I in Baby Land USA?
For me Baby Land USA is a region stretching from Eastern Tennessee down to Florida with it’s major hub in the Atlanta area. I realized last night that all five of my friends who have had me stand with them as bridesmaids, have 2-3 children. We used to talk about God, traveling, and relationships. Then we talked about God, traveling, relationships and weddings. Then we talked about God, weddings and houses. Then they just started talking about houses and babies and God. When I come around they ask me about traveling and ca
tch up on the drama of singleton vagabond’s life.
I’ve held the babies. I’ve kissed the babies. I’ve brought them outfits from India. I’ve been glad not to have babies. I buckled in the babies. I’ve carried the babies. And, I’ve cried because all of them have babies, I don’t have a baby, and I like babies (and I had PMS at the time).
I like trying to figure out who the babies look like. One of my friends has two darling babies who look nothing like her…I mean if she didn’t go into detail about the awfulness of having her baby boy vacuumed out of her I would have thought her husband gave birth to the baby. The friend I am about to go have coffee with is a 6ft. beauty queen and her husband is at least 4 in. taller than her, so their baby boy is looks like a 3 year old with a baby head (but of course he’s adorable).
A few years ago one of my closest friends made a comment about how she couldn’t wait until I settled down to a normal life. But, I can’t really imagine having a “normal” Baby Land USA life. If I have children someday I picture my kids looking more like Brad & Angelina’s. But the weird thing is that the “most stylish mom ever,” another good friend, that I hung out with yesterday always thought her kids would be from around the world, and they are blue-eyed nearly bald children. Maybe the others will come later. She never thought she would be Stylish Susie Homemaker. Maybe it’s just a season.Will I have a season like that?
I am starting to get eager to travel a few states north where it does not seem as odd for someone in their mid-late twenties to be unmarried and unbabied.
My Mother Dear
The following is poem in tribute to my mother—for mother’s day. I could never repay how wonderful she has been to me. Raising me and putting up with me still might be the hardest thing she’s ever had to do (though moving to India at age 49 might be a rival). I want to say that I got any goodness I have and most of the craziness from her—but I guess both my parents are both good and crazy in different ways. But my mom has always been a model of practical wisdom along with full on out devotion to Jesus. She has shown me what it means to let my faith impact all areas of my life.
My Mother Dear
My mother wears no pearls
Instead a string of stories
A collection of neighbors turned friends
On her neck, twirls
My mother plants no flowers
Instead gardens of compassion
A row of believers serving the poor
Around her a new forest, towers
In the Hospital in India
So it finally happened. I got sick. Really sick. The kind of sick that people in the U.S. expect that you would get if you come to India. The kind of sick that keeps tourist drinking bottled water and eating toast instead of curry. According to locals–I shouldn’t have “taken food from outside” not ever, but in this weather (over 100 F) not at all. As an American eating out is so normal, it’s hard to change that habit. It’s what we do for fun. My friend and I ate at a delicious Tibetan resturant in the refuge colony in North Delhi by the University. It is one of the only places in Delhi to get beef with steamed bread called Tingmo, chicken momos steamed, and I had a ginger, lemon tea. We also drank what I assumed was filtered water. I think I’m switching back to vegaterian eating and mineral water at least for a time.
I will spare the details, but about 24 hours later I was running to the toliet the whole night and by morning I had a 105 fever and was so weak I could hardly walk. My mom and the lady who washes her floors (luckly I was over at my parent’s place when this happened) put wet rags on my head, stomach, and feet. They gave me a fever reducer and Gaterade. My mom said we better go to the doctor. I agreed, but thought “what are they going to do?”
“The worse thing that could happen is that you could be dehydrated and have to be put on IV,” my mom said. Still I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t even bring a book with me to the hospital. When I got there, my blood pressure was low. My heartrate was fast. My fever was high. I got hooked up, admitted.
They wanted to know if we wanted a private or a semiprivate room. When we said private, they told us there were no private rooms available. It’s like on a menu here, you ask for the murg mali tikka, they said they don’t have it or that it will take time. You ask for something else. They don’t have it. You ask what they have, and they point to the menu and say whatever is on the menu. Then it turned out there was no one else in my small wing of the hospital, so it was like a private room anyway.
The hosptial was clean. The people were nice. Even the costodal staff wanted to look over me–I had to yell for a few bystanders to go away at times, but over all I was impressed.
Except for the rat incedient. My mom took the day shift, my dear friend Abby took the night shift–staying with me. In the afternoon of the first day my mom saw a rat. She freaked out. She got a guy to come get the rat. He chased it out of the room–but my mom was not convienced it wouldn’t return. She was right, the next morning in ran back through the room and into it’s hole. At that point, my mom went on the rall. I have not seen my mom like this. No matter who entered the room she kept yelling about the rat and how they needed a trap or posion and i didn”t want to sleep with the rat in the room. In Hinlish, in English, something might have even come out in Italian. Then she was sent to chemist to buy me more medicine. To fight cooruption, they have you buy your own meds. to give to the nurse to put in you (or rather your family). The staff had come to see what all the fuss was about, but other than a few giggles, shrugs, she curious peaks into the place where mom had seen the rat disapear into, nothing happened. So, she returned from the pharmacy with not only medicine but rat posion. She gave it to the orderly and demanded they put it around the room.They did. And, a few hours later they installed a refrigerator in our semi-private room.
Lessons: don’t eat meat in the summer in Delhi, drink bottled water, and bring your own rat posion to the hosptial.
Ps. I am feeling much better and am hoping to feel great by Friday because I am supposed to go camping.
Didi and Indian English
Monday is my birthday. I am turning 28. The funny thing is that I have been thinking about myself as 28 for at least a few months–so it doesn’t feel like that big of a deal. But it is weird that I am “didi” (older-sister) to most of my 20 something male students. In someways, it is beautiful to be called didi. I have been didi since I was four (and my brother David was born). In other ways, didi makes me feel old. There is safety in didi…I think. Is that a good thing?
Now here are some funny things that have been misunderstood:
Pushpa (our Indian host) to Sy (an American teenager): “Keep your plate!” Sy stands there for a minute with his plate in his hand and then says, “I’m going down to Godfrey’s house, do you want me to bring it with me?” Interpretation: In Hindi to keep and to put are the same words, what she met was to put the plate down and not to wash it.
Another time Pushpa said to Sy, “Do you have tea?” He started rummaging through his suitcase and brought her some green-tea. She laughed. Interpretation: “Do you drink tea?”
Some of my dear friends from Nagaland have difficulty distinguishing between the P and the B sound. So Pushpa becomes Bushba and Peace, Beace, but best of all Mayang was talking about how they make “bear -jam,” in his village. “So many bears and we put them in jars.” Pushpa knew what he meant but still could not hold back the giggles. We always tease the Nagas about how much meat they eat and how there are no animals left in Nagaland because they ate them all.
Naga jokes: How do we know that Adam and Eve were not Nagas? They ate the fruit instead of serpent!
What do Nagas name their dogs? Breakfast, Lunch, and Dinner.
Mayang, Alisha, Peace, Toca & Ina–I mean no direspect you know I love you.
2008, An Incredible Year
While 2008 has been a tumulteous year for the world: wars, perscution, bombings, economic crisis, an American presidential election, ect. For me it has been an incredible year. God’s faithfulness has astounded me. A friend of mine did this activity and challenged me to do the same: make a list of your answered prayers this year and the people who showed you Christ this year: your Marys.
Answered Prayers:
God provided funds for VDS.
God provided a place for VDS.
God provided students and teachers for VDS.
One of my best friends came to live with me in India.
VDS has equipped people to serve the people of Delhi (and of other regions in India). They are really doing the stuff!
I have a calling/vocation (at least for the time being).
I have a constant supply of Reeces peanut-butter cups and pretzels. And, I went to a Mexican resturant yesterday that was good. And I even bought real tortilla chips from them. Now, we are becoming friends with the chef! (Ok, maybe I didn’t exactly pray for those things but God knows those wishes were like prayers)
My Hindi is getting better…or at least I can fake it better now.
I went on some good dates with some top par men this year (ok, so that wasn’t exactly what I was praying for but it’s pretty good especially for living where I live and doing what I do).
People who have brought Christ to me this year: My Marys
Doroputti-my massage lady who lives in a Slum also gave me a sari for Dwalli!)
Karl Smith-the international fellowship pastor, who lives downstairs from Abby and I in South Ex. and is always eager to help us, bring us coffee and eat our cheese or cookies!
Abigail Visco-my friend who actually moved to Delhi for 9months. Especially the night that I was an emotional mess and she gave me a lecture about how I feel like a mess but actually I have it more together than most people she knows.
Francey-who started being readily available on skype all the way from Scotland and has cried with me on the phone.
Andrea and Dean- who have been great support and took me on a day vacation in Chicago and asked me really good questions about India.
Becca- who makes an effort to stay in touch.
Yuvraj and Sudah- who have served and helped me when I really needed them and been my friends.
Bobby and Anu- who always bring me encouragement despite our language barrier (that is closing each day).
Maken- who always gives me a good hug.
Julie and Tenu- who love me well and are doing Jesus stuff and taking risks they never thought they would take (such as traveling around town alone! And other things).
Sy- who was my steady younger brother who never complained, but ate my Mexican cooking like it was amazing, who asked me how I was doing, and shared ipod listening with me across the country of India.
Andi- who helped people come together, let me minister to her (though she is my elder), and even is excited about being my P.A.
My parents- who constantly love me so much and let me step out and do the things I am called to.
Bert and Evelyn- another set of parents or grandparents. Bert challenges me to read theology and learn to communicate better. Evelyn loves me well and even brought me Reeces in a beautiful box that I treasure.
Naresh and Pushpa- who are my friends. They are bridge people for me culturally. They have wisdom I desire, yet are teachable and eager to grow. They have welcomed me into their family as a sister. They even let me make tea and cook in thier house–which for Indians is a big deal.
Tim- he encouraged the students. He encouraged me. He is a great teacher.
Jeremy and Brendon- who were friends who blessed me and made me laugh when I needed it badly.
Allison- Who threw me a dinner party to support me and spent time with me in the U.S.
Alisha and Aaron- who took me out for a great Mexican meal and Margaritas and prayed for me.
Lane and Cy- who drove around for me and encouraged me and support me in thier prayers.
Sam- My bro.
Bobby Uncle and Anima Auntie- who look out for me and never let me eat alone.
Molly the Prophetess- who made me shake my head and smile.
Mark and Kathy- who put me in my place by being Mary in a slum.
Cherl and Anugra- who are just cool and the kind of people that give me hope for a whole nation.
Soniya- who is my hero. Who works hard, who is funny, who is coming out of poverty, who loves her family, who loves Jesus.
Christin- my dear friend who came to visit me in India and drove me down the east coast last summer.
I’m sure there are more but these are a few Marys in 2008.
Where is home?
I am feeling homesick. The problem is that I don’t know where home is. They say that home is where the heart is…if only that was a simple answer. Perhaps there is something about only being a month away from returning to the U.S. that has me longing for my home land. This last nine months has been my longest time away from the States. My mom has taken a vow to see if she can go the entire time in the U.S. without having rice. She is over it. It is hard to know if it is better to talk to more people from home, eat more french fries, drink coke, drink wine, look at In Style Magazine or if it is better to put all of that aside for a few weeks and just throw myself in the water. Maybe if I do nothing that reminds me of home, I won’t miss it so much. The weird thing about this is that just last year I was in Jersey and went I felt home sick I’d make chai or Indian food.
I started reading this book last night called The Christ of the Indian Road by E. Stanley Jones. As a foreigner who committed his life to India this is what he wrote
I felt that we who come from a foreign land should have the inward feeling, if not the outward sign, of being adopted sons of India, and we should offer our message as a homage to our adopted land; respect should characterise our every attitude; India whould be home, her future our future, an we her servants for Jesus’ sake.
A few months ago my friend Hena who is an N.R.I. (Non-resident Indian) told me that I was a real American Desi. I was flattered. I love India. But can I bind myself to India as Jones suggests? Should I? Is this my calling?
I write this as I am preparing to go home for five weeks. Then I will return to India for at least six months. I will always love India, but is living here my vocation or season of my life? I do not know. Yes, though some of my friends may not believe it I am a “J” (on Meyers-Briggs). In other words, I like to make plans. I like to know what is next.
