Nothing can quite prepare you for the moment you’re fully immersed into Indian culture. One minute I’m sitting on the kitchen floor of a villager’s home, learning how to roll out and fry chapatti. The next I’m standing half naked between two of the women in the next room over while they wrap me in layers and layers of fabric.
There are few things more humbling than stripping down in front of people you’ve just met hours before while they chatter away in their native tongue. These women, for some reason, decided to love on me and accept me as their own, and that meant undoing the seams in the sari top with safety pins so it fit my too-broad-for-India shoulders.
“You like Indian culture?” one of them asked me as she tugged and pulled on the sleeve. Of course I nodded yes while I stared down at the red and teal sari, decorated with sequins and intricate beading. This was the last thing on earth I would ever choose for myself to wear—colors, sequins and all. Yet in the kitchen I remembered they specifically singled this one out among the rest of their neatly folded saris. They were offering me one of their finest, fanciest gowns. I couldn’t refuse such a gift.
Fifteen minutes later I emerged from the bedroom, incredibly self conscious. And the fact that half my stomach was showing and we were served six chapatti for dinner (there’s a running joke that we’re getting “chapatti bodies”) didn’t boost my self-esteem whatsoever. I was covered in sweat, sticky and gross from the day’s activities (or lack thereof—you sweat even when sitting completely still). I had bug bites covering my feet and shoulders, a sunburned neck, frizzy hair. The last thing I felt was beautiful.
After dinner, we had church like usual. But this time only women showed up. And this time we were asked to sing English songs. It must’ve been “pick on the American girl in a sari” day because suddenly I had a microphone in hand and was told to sing something. The microphones are connected to giant loudspeakers on the top of the buildings so the entire village can hear the church service. Fortunately I’ve grown more comfortable singing in front of people, but being put on the spot to sing for an entire Indian village? Humble hit number two.
Earlier in the day I’d volunteered to give my testimony for church, but now feeling completely vulnerable and embarrassed, the last thing I wanted to do was stand up in front of these women and my team and share even more of my heart. I didn’t even know what I was going to say. Feeling completely unsupported and unprepared, I somehow made my way to the microphone and our translator to share.
Greeted by giggles from the women (and feeling even more self conscious because of the cameras I saw some teammates get out), I dove in.
“For most of my life, I didn’t feel beautiful.”
I began to share how I struggled with self-image and how I thought I had to always look and be perfect. Looking down, I saw the two women who helped dress me up in the front, staring and listening intently while I shared my story. I was encouraged, so I kept going.
“I ran from God for a while, but then I realized I couldn’t pretend to be perfect anymore. I now understand what grace is, yet it continues to blow my mind every day.”
There I was standing in a sari, with dye dripping down my stomach because of my nervous sweats, completely uncomfortable. Lacking all confidence and identity of who I was in that moment, I did not feel beautiful. At all. Yet God used me in the very moment of my insecurities to talk about the exact same insecurities I had dealt with for much of my life. Not only was God speaking to these women through me, he was speaking to the very core of my heart. I humbly (strike three) walked back to my seat and couldn’t believe what just happened.
Perhaps I needed to be dressed in a sari to be more respected by these women so they would hear my story. Perhaps God just wanted to humble me and expose my vain heart. Either way, I left the village feeling overwhelmingly blessed, not only by the lessons I’d learned, but by the connection I had made with these women. I’ll never see them again in this life, but the impact they made by accepting me, dressing me, and listening to me will forever remind me of what true beauty really is.
And yes, it takes a few days for sari dye to wash off.
