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I spent the first ten minutes of this blog staring at the computer screen completely blank. At breakfast today Sam asked who wanted to write the first blog, I answered before I even thought about it. I find I do that often. Words come out as if someone else spoke them and I look around for who the noise came from. I would sound great for me to tell you that this tendency is me acting out of the unction of the Holy Spirit but I know that I am, in general, an incautious creature. If immediate retrospect is possible I am a pro.

Several times yesterday I courted the thought of “what am I doing” which instantly made me feel faithless. I said I was going to India and then I looked around for who made the noise. I know in His divinity, God wove it into His plan for me to come to India but still I doubt. Not so much Him as me. My disbelief is so much easier to entertain than His sovereignty. I am daily acquainted with my unqualified human state. We have become good friends if you define good friends by the amount of time spent with another and not necessarily by the relationship being mutually beneficial. I am little acquainted with the sovereignty of the Lord. Not because it is not everyday around me but because I do not take enough time to dwell in it, to hang out with Him, if you will. But there is hope yet for me, because whether I believe it or not God is who He says He is. And so when my what am I doings arise I am only bringing worry to myself. God is not concerned with my incapabilities. He embraces them for there He can truly be glorified. I am sure this is a lesson I have heard either at church or in some counseling session with a friend but hearing does not mean understanding. Oh, would that it were that simple.

I felt truly handicapped as I was preparing for this trip. Questions of what I had to offer to the team and to the people we will be ministering to entwined themselves around every thought I had about going to India. I even doubted whether I would actually go even up to the week before we left. I woke up early Thursday morning before we flew out of the states and spent the first few minutes lying next to my sister crying into her shoulder asking myself “what am I about to do?” We were on the plane(s) yesterday and I couldn’t keep the questions quiet. It’s amazing what thoughts roll through your head when you are barreling through the air miles above the earth, like there is anyway of getting off or going back. My ipod broke months before we left and I never brought myself to get it fixed so in substitute for not having music readily available (we are so spoiled) I believe the Lord put one song in my head that has just completely lodged itself there, If You Say Go. The lyrics are more than poignant and the Lord is slowing healing the parts of my mind that were preoccupied with the questions and my incapabilities. The chorus is “Your ways are higher than our ways, and the plans that You have laid are good and true, if You call us to the fire You will not withdraw Your hand, we will gaze into the flames and look for You.” For me the country of India is a fire and I haven’t stopped looking.

Night approaches here the same way it does in the states but the darkness is different. Deeper. It yawns, blowing its hot breath on us as we ride through the market. The lights of the streets flicker and threaten to dim. I rest my head on my arm on the open window of the jeep and close my eyes. Mike is right; it is like sticking your face in a giant hair dryer. The air is hot and thick, and feels powdery on my face.
The jeep pulls off the road and the change in surface brings us all back from our individual thoughts and to a shop that has an assemblage of items (commonality found only in all the items are made of brass or copper). Large bowls or cauldrons (though I don’t think I honestly know what a cauldron is), flat circular pieces of metal like giant pennies, and hooks and small trinkets. Brooke whispers in my ear “This must be Bed, Bath, and Beyond,” we stifle our laughs as the men in the shop offer us seats. Two boys from the orphanage that tagged along for the ride, plunge out of the jeep, and up to the shop and our attention. Our guide gives them stern looks as they cause trouble around the shop. They ease out of the light’s defined grasp to, what I can only think is a sidewalk, and continue their mischief there.
It takes a few moments for our guide to communicate what we want. It is bizarre and disconcerting for me to witness the language barrier that is an everyday occurrence in India (it has an arguable number languages, which has risen into the thousands). Our guide and the shopkeeper continue to talk back and forth, showing things, shaking head, showing more things, shaking head more. I watch this exchange distracted but then realize that our guide’s barrier isn’t its us, well rather, me. I wanted to purchase bells for the kids to play with at the pastor’s conference; traditional bells, jingle bells, the type commonly found on a “one-horse open sleigh” bells. Unfortunately, my American version of “traditional” is completely nonplused.. I say, “jingle bells,” our guide nods in understanding, and they bring out something the size of our founding father’s Liberty Bell. I gesture for smaller and try to wrap my clumsy tongue around “chotta” and hand bells are brought out. Now I feel foolish. At least twenty minutes has elapsed in my fervent quest for American tradition and my flesh just now seems to be grasping the fact that, this is India. Even they seemed to have an immeasurable amount of impulsive energy, have faded and are now in the jeep struggling to stay awake.
Defeated, I give up. Our guide selects a beautiful, aforementioned, over-sized brass penny (which, just so you know, is a small gong) and we stand up to leave. And as if the night departed and made way for the orange sun to rise in that small shop, one of the young men, that previously had just been scrutinizing this whole humiliating situation, now ran to the backroom (I honestly didn’t know these shops had backrooms) and came back with a small pink plastic bag with four strands of American tradition. I was excited that somehow my communication of what I wanted had made it through to, what I felt like were, deaf ears. Bells in hand we head for the jeep and back to the orphanage.
It isn’t until I’m in the jeep that I really examine my seemingly hard fought for treasures. They are beautiful. The bells, which are meant to be worn around your ankle, are intricately strung on heavy cord and even more intricately designed. Bare hands made these bells, carefully pounding brass into tiny shapes and patterns, stuffing them with the beads and folding them so that they would sound just right. These aren’t normal bells. They don’t ring in the holidays. They aren’t something you can buy at Wal-mart for cheap. Though they may resemble their American counterparts these bells are just a small piece of expansive society of the unseen artisan class of India. And suddenly my American tradition seems smaller in the shadow of these tiny bells.
I look over at our guide and examine his face harder. I look around me and examine everything more and with a deeper appreciation. The boy wakes up with his usual energy. I show him the bells and he enjoys the noise they make for the rest of the ride back. His smile is enormous and bright and suddenly everything seems smaller in the reflection of his face.

I don’t really want to include travel as a part of the blog but a word about that, God was and is awesome. He blessed his servants with smooth travel, swift moves through security checkpoints that were, aberrantly without lines, and sleep on turbulent airplanes and swaying trains. Praise the Lord!
Day 1: I have to be honest I have difficulty time writing knowing that other people will be reading what I write. I hope my words aren’t confusing, though confused is a good way to described how I felt once entering the city in India. Jet lag hadn’t set in yet but the city around me has me disoriented. The visual collision of opulence with poverty is emotionally and physically abrasive. A billboard advertising diamonds and extravagant beauty is put to a more serviceable nature by shading just a few of the innumerable people that are destitute on the streets. They cover the ground almost as much as the trash that litters the streets. I don’t say this in a derogatory voice, it is only meant to give you a drop of the ocean of bodies that inhabit the streets.

The confusion began after the airport doors were behind us. The desperation of the people is haunting, coming within inches of my body as they beg for money. I feel heavy. This rude awakening to a harsh reality should have brought me back to earth but I feel like I am in a space between sleeping and waking, in a suspended dream. I can’t absorb everything but the lights and colors of the city are a beautiful blur. The people are hard but broken. The streets are like a moment of anticipation captured and kept in a dirty jar. Everything seems temporary yet permanent.

We arrive at the first orphanage and I already am exhausted. I feel as though I have nothing to give. Inside the children are eager and their eagerness is infectious. The room is bare and they sit on small rugs on the floor. The fan above us is a steady drum and as if they don’t realize what is around them, or rather what isn’t around them, they sing for us a Hindi song of welcome. They sing for us. Despite their maladies, despite their lack, despite the fact that we came to bless them they sing for us. I love the universality of a smile, round cheeks and white teeth, so big on their little faces. We bring them cricket bats, skipping ropes and footballs (real football), teach them clapping games and songs. They give us love and kisses and teach us humility and gratefulness. My weight seems lighter.

Day 2: While traveling, I witness several of the most honorable aspects of the Indian people, manifest in the form our interpreter, guide, and friend. After traveling a full day to meet us, he brought us safely to the train and insured that we were all comfortably sleeping before he tended to his own tiredness. He stayed up long after we had gone to sleep waiting for another passenger to arrive to get his own bunk. When asked if he was tired the most you would ever manage to hear him admit was, “a little.” Our comfort was his foremost concern. I watched him sit on the train quietly and pray until he noticed I wasn’t sleeping and closed the curtain.

Sacrifice is a common occurrence in the the Pastor Orphanages. If something is given to one it is shared with the rest.

The drive from the train station to the Pastor’s orphanage gave us a beautiful tour of the rural areas and several scares along with it. Driving in India is a breed of skill that I’m not sure can be acquired. I wonder if it isn’t something that you are born with. If the cars came with strings attached to their backs they would, no doubt, create an intricate pattern, bright enough even for an Indian woman. They weave in and out of other cars, rickshaws, and pedestrians, so close there is no room to breathe. While honking your horn in the United Stated may end in your demise, not honking your horn in India will definitely get you killed.

I have and never seen a more beautiful group of children. While some may be partial to their own offspring, to me there is nothing in this world that will challenge the children in the the Pastor Orphanage. I dare you to come here and tell me any different. Their huge eyes are like puddles of ink. Their clear brown skin is challenged by the white teeth of smiles so big they should be falling off their faces. The boys are boys trying to be men, audacious, strong and gentle. They watch what we do, absorbing everything and practicing later when no one is in sight. The girls are clever and impetuous. They could live for days on kisses, dances and glitter. I dare you to come here and not want to take them all home with you. I have already threatened to do so several times.

Day 3: We spent most of the day shopping in a market. The shops are like huts that have been constructed temporarily, but temporary has a much longer lifespan here than it does in the United States. In India temporary seems to be akin to permanent. We sit for what seems like forever in the heat waiting for the shop owners to display all of their wares, whether we want them to or not. Once that is finished, they spend what seems like another forever trying to convince us that we do, in fact, want them.

Shopping in India, to an American, is trying. We have everything in the convenience of one store and groan if we have to go to another. Here, convenience is, not having to go to another town to get what you need. Shopping for an entire day, left us having only purchased a third of the items needed for the orphanages and the potential of several additional shopping days.

We finish the day at a home church service. Sitting outside, illuminated by three oil lanterns, lulled by the modest sound of children singing. People come forward for prayer and as we lay hands on them the children begin to pray. It breaks my heart to hear them pray. Earnest faces, and tightly clenched hands, and a sound that I have never hear before. The Bible says that the Holy Spirit makes intercession on our behalf to the Lord, in groans that cannot be uttered, I think that the prayers of those children is the closest thing I will ever hear to that.