Sunday I woke up hungry and weary of the day ahead.
Another night with restless sleep and anxious thoughts consuming my consciousness. In India, I haven’t been sleeping all that well. Adding to my already over-taxed emotions, sleepless nights take their toll on me. I fall victim to my unrestful rest. I begin my morning routine and try to get dressed for the day ahead of me. On Sundays, we normally go to different churches in the local villages. However, this Sunday we got the chance to go a singing/reciting competition between all the local churches. As 25 girls pilled into the back of a large white truck, I couldn’t help but feel my stale outlook begin to soften. Days like this are what we all expected with the race. Adventure in the mundane is what is advertised and idolized for those considering doing the race. Squeezing each girl to my left and right and trying not to fall out as the truck barrels around the winding, dusty roads of India. The mountains we pass remind me of how truly small I am. It feels good any time we get a change of scenery, especially when there are mountains involved. I think everyone just needs a shift of perspective when life begins to wallop into the overtime that we aren’t expecting… even if it is 15 minutes down the road. We each howl and serenade each other with youthful and enthusiastic voices. Just another Sunday here in India.
I jump out of the truck bed and onto the dusty dirt road leading to the massive unfinished church structure where the competition is being held. We greet the members of the local churches and slowly begin to file into the concrete building. That’s when I notice my sweet friend, Gospel.
I met Gospel a few weeks ago at the children’s retreat I helped work. I thought that I would never see her again after we went our separate ways at the retreat. With the race, I have learned that one of the hardest parts is the saying goodbye. Building palpable relationships with people that I will never see again. It doesn’t get easier. Quite honestly, I hope that it never does.
I yell and wave her over. She looks confused at first then I remind her of my name and that I used to have long hair. A wave of recognition washes over her sweet face and immediately she hugs me with all her might. She stays there, longer than most Americans would. Once again this 8-year-old girl makes me feel known and safe. With her, The Lord has truly used Gospel to remind me of his love for me and all his children. Then, all of us take our seats and the program begins. During the program, we hear the different church’s youth sing and praise. No English. I have grown accustomed to not understanding or knowing what is happening in church settings or programs I attend while being away. We all have learned to bring our bibles, journals, pens, and books during any church event or anything ministry related. It can be hard on Sundays to feel like we are being poured into like regular church back in the states. I miss the feeling of taking notes on a sermon in English while sitting next to my family.
That is something that I never want to take for granted again when I’m back home. It is a privilege to get to worship and learn freely. It is a privilege to get to be part of a church body. I think we forget sometimes how blessed we actually are when it comes to this. We get sleepy and tired from seeing a movie on Saturday night so we are groggy on Sunday mornings and wanting to rush our pastors to finish their 40-minute sermon so we can catch the game and get to lunch. I NEVER ever want to just coast through a Sunday again. I want to be expectant and fully embrace the privilege I have to gather without fear with my brothers and sisters in Christ.
As the different youth groups went on stage and they lifted their voices to their maker… I began to feel an overwhelming sense of fear. I felt fearful that I have become numb to the beauty of this experience. I fear that I’m not being thankful in the moment. I close my eyes and simply sit as the sun peaks through the cement cracks of this unfinished church. I take this moment because I don’t want to forget this. Any of it. These voices. These faces. Each revealing to me the truth behind our creation: to walk intimately with our Heavenly Father and praise.
Soon after we are all pulled onto the stage (unannounced and unplanned) to sing a song to the 300 children and their families. This is another aspect of the race that we have gotten used to while being away. Expect to sing or share a testimony… even if you weren’t told. We then begin to sing the song 10,000 Reasons. A classic in the modern day church… or any third world church as well. As we began to sing our voices were drowned out by the voices of all of the children.
Now, I am still trying to wrap my mind around the Holy Spirit. To be honest, I have grown up in the church for 19 years of my life and it is something that was never fully addressed in depth. Who the holy spirit is, what he does, the reason for him, and his power. Some people can feel the holy spirit in some crazy big ways. I sometimes feel guilty because I doubt if I’m actually feeling his presence or if I’m just orchestrating something inside of my head to make me feel better because that’s what everyone else does. I felt him. I felt his presence while on that stage. Tears began to slowly well up in my eyes and quietly I let them fall. Tears like this are my favorite… the ones that truly make me feel alive in every fabric of my being. I couldn’t help but smile and close my eyes. How? How could anyone doubt his goodness, his faithfulness, and his power after seeing hundreds of men, women, and children praise with such exuberant joy? After the song, we all went back to our bench and sat through another 2 hours of singing and chanting in an Indian language that none of us spoke.
Now, I didn’t tell anyone on my team or my squad about that moment. Instead, I just thanked God and the Holy Spirit for blessing me with that day. I decided to share my heart with you all (if anyone actually reads these) because it was a blessing. We don’t talk enough about the Holy Spirit and how the Lord speaks to us. He spoke to me. He spoke to me through the melodies and the rising cadence of the innocent voices praising their creator. He spoke to me through the gentle smiles that filled the room that day. He spoke to me through that shell of a church building. I believe that is this what heaven might be like. Races all together, young and old… praising the one who made it all. I got to catch a glimpse today. Holy moly.
I’m thankful. Truly thankful that I get to witness the things I do and experience seeing him move all the way across the world. Mostly, I’m grateful that he has shown me and still is, my purpose while on this earth. I’m thankful that every time I start running he stops me and takes my hand and walks with me back to my true home: into the loving arms of my Abba.
With love, blessings, shorter hair that is easier to wash, a tired soul, a soul on fire for his presence, and a spirit in progress,
Grace Davis.
