Pit pat, pit pat, pit pat…..
We seven girls come quickly down the marble steps in our bare feet, mid flight, adjusting our scarves. A couple of us take a left into the kitchen, drop our bibles and journals onto the giant wooden table there and open the tall cabinet doors to reveal the small shelves we share, 2 girls to a shelf. We rummage through the snack options in our minds, they’re scarce and have to be creative. Banana with Nutella spread on it, a piece of toast, or a handful of Parly-G cookies, something I refer to as “refugee biscuits” and wont touch after eating them for 3 weeks straight in Nepal.
The snacks are picked out, and with a handful of crackers I head outside with the rest of my team to sit on the front steps and wait for the autos (a small yellow go cart taxi) to arrive. We are in India. And we are going to the slums….
The autos are late. The sun starts to set as we sit together on the steps and our conversation casually drifts to and fro from family and Disneyland to casting out demons and seeing people be healed. Brother Edward, a young man around our age hollers at us from the front gate that opens to the street and says that an auto is here. Devon, Paola, Megan and Kelsey pile into the back, sitting on top of each other with colorful scarves getting hung everywhere. With another Brother from CWC they head off as Jenna, Kristin and I wait for the next auto with Bro. Edward. In another 10 minutes an auto pulls up. It is now dark and far later than what was intended for ministry. We climb into the auto and I mentally take note of which pocket I put the fare in. It will be 600 rupees for each auto. I feel my pocket and make out the shape of the folded bills. Ok, Im set. I have my Bible, water bottle and some extra money just in case. I am ready to go.
We take off with Bro. Edward sharing half the seat of the driver, he’s halfway hanging out of the vehicle. A mental picture arises in me, if we were to flip would he be thrown? I remember back to the Philippines when a trike, much like an auto, was carrying around 7 of our people and they sped around a curve and the trike flipped. But thank God no one was hurt and I stop my thought process and thank God for keeping us safe.
Edward says it will be a 45 minute ride. The slums are on the outskirts of town. We ask if we could make a quick stop at the Samosas stand that we are sure to pass on the busy street right in front of Apollo Hospital. Graciously He says yes and soon, maybe after about a 4 minute ride through the neighborhood, we get to the main street that is always streaming with local people.
As soon as the auto stops we get out quickly and press into the crowd that is standing around the food cart. A greasy looking Indian fellow is dropping gooey dough into a giant pot of boiling oil. Samosas. Our stomachs start rumbling. At 10 rupees each they’re a steal. We order 30, knowing that the other girls will be just as hungry as we are since we hadn’t had time to cook anything for dinner. I notice a little open shop next door that sells drinks from a cooler. I enter and grab 2 bottles of Sprite, one for Edward since he was nice enough to let us stop. He will have his choice of the Samosas as well. I pull out a 100 rupees bill and hold it out to the man behind the counter along with my Sprites. There are 3 other men there along side me trying to pay for things, but I reach past them, and hand my money out to the man, forcing his attention to me. A trick I picked up very quickly is that the next person in line is the one ready to pay. He tells me he doesn’t have correct change and I bob my head to the left, meaning in Indian culture- thats fine. He gives me a piece of candy instead of the 5 rupees he doesn’t have. Im happier this way, with a piece of chocolate in my pocket.
I come out and check back in with Kristin and Jenna at the Samosas stand. They’re ready. The big man puts our food in a brown bag inside of a white plastic bag and I pay him 300 rupees. In my head I do the math as we climb back in our yellow auto. I had paid 5 dollars for dinner for around 10 people. Not bad. We eat on the way.
We speed along and I am enjoying myself, I have a tasty curry filled deep fried pastry in one hand and a Sprite in the other as the hot bag of Samosas bump along the ride in my lap. I swipe at flaky crumbs caught in my scarf and mumble to myself about these darn things for the umpteenth time, but know I will change my toon as soon as I am pulling something from the microwave and cant find a pot holder or dish rag.
The wind feels good and warm, like a late summer night back in Alabama. And I have a flashback of driving to the Big Spring Jam when I was a teenager with Dad in his light blue GO Tracker. With a, “God Bless John Wayne” sticker on the back of the dwarf convertible, it was hard to miss. I remember him driving it on the interstate as eighteen wheelers blew past without a second thought of the little tin can next to them. And I think if Dad could only see me in this little bright yellow auto with no doors as we swiftly switch left and right to pass much larger vehicles. Im glad my family is asleep on the other side of the globe. I have a good, good, Father here with me in all my travelings. I am safe.
As we pull off the main road and start down a muddy, bumpy road, we discuss fried pickles and the importance of ranch dressing. Food seems to be a subject close to our hearts these days. We stop. We get out, unload all of our goods and follow Edward up a small hill. I can smell trash burning, and urine. Its dark. Small huts and shacks made out of rubble begin to appear on either side of me. Now we only have moonlight and the occasional n small cooking fire of a family to light our way. I regret not having my phone with me, with its handy flashlight app. I pray as I walk, knowing how nearsighted I am, that He will guide my steps. We are on the outskirts of the city at night. I hear English up ahead. Its the girls, Devon, Kelsey, Paola and Megan. They are praying over people. I am so glad to hear their voices. We’ve made it.
Two women bring out a tarp and we sit down with about 10 people that live there. We talk with them, introduce ourselves and ask their names. Then worship starts in both English and Telugu- their language. We share a testimony and a message. Then we pray over them. The autos are back and we follow the same trail back and pile into them. After 2 hours of fellowship we are heading back home. The other girls in the first auto now have the bag of Samosas that they joyed over and they can eat on the way home.
We are quiet for the most part on the way home, with heads on each others shoulders. I recalculate how much to pay each auto driver and I fish the amount out of my pocket so I am ready to pay as soon as we stop. I enjoy the ride back. The traffic and the craziness of it all doesn’t bother me. I look at Edward sitting with the driver. His arm is up as he finds a handgrip on the rim of the auto. He has bloody gauze covering his forearm. He was hit by a car while riding his motorcycle yesterday and had skidded about ten feet before finally rolling to a stop. He hadn’t been able to walk until his brothers in Christ prayed for him. Today, besides some bruises and scrapes, he was good to go, thank God. And I have such a peace.
I tell Him as the song goes, “You’re a good, good, Father. Its who you are. And I am loved by you. Its who I am.”
