Temporary Addictive Personality Disorder (TAPD) is something that I have lived with for years. The disorder is self-formulated and self-diagnosed.
Symptoms are as follows:
- discover (or rediscover) something marvelous
- partake in said something over and over and over again
- think: This is the best! How did I ever live without this? Hooray for my good luck in finding the secret to a happy life!
- grow uninterested/bored/tired of the once glorified something
- progress to the next source of euphoria.
Nightly popcorn. Months of daily yoga. Morning cups of French-press coffee. Flax seed smoothies. Jewelry making. Sparkly fingernail polish. Grapefruit.
My dad calls them “kicks.” I attribute my always-changing list of hobbies and favorites to TAPD. The glitter polish kick existed in South Africa. Grapefruit was my Moldova addiction. I never know what will be next until I’m knee-deep in a current obsession.
Are you ready for the way my TAPD has manifested itself in India?
Running.
Shocking, I know. My all-star team leader, Rebekah, is an every-single-day-I-love-to-run-for-miles kind of girl. Never have I ever had the desire to accompany her on an excursion until day one in India.
I think it’s a combination of leaving a cold, rainy climate and entering a super hot and humid one (it feels like home!) with the after effects of a month where I was constantly stuffed with big dinners, coffee and custard. Something inside me was screaming, “Get outside! Feel the heat! Channel your inner Jillian Michaels!”
So it began. I told Rebekah that I did not want to miss a day. Oddly, my body was ok with the 6:15 wake up call she began giving me. My usual snooze-until-the-last-minute ways were put to rest, and I was on a mission.
The combination of American women and running attire was cause for much staring and looks of bewilderment when we began our daily treks. On day three, a woman stopped us on the side of the road to pray for her baby. That same day, we were summoned by a family living on our street and wanting to chat. The oldest daughter, Samrin, speaks very impressive English. As we left their house, she yelled, “Call for me tomorrow! I will run with you! Please, don’t forget to call on me!”
Sure enough, the spunky 10-year-old was on her stoop and waiting for us on the following day. I thought that running with her could be fun, but I never expected the boost of confidence that would accompany her presence.
“Oh, Rebekah, you are veeery veeery fast.”
“Go, Abby, Go! You are veeery strong.”
Sure, we’ll keep this girl around. And so the daily routine began. We run to Samrin’s house. She jumps in line as we jog to a nearby track. She and I run/walk as Rebekah laps us. We alternate singing songs, twirling, asking questions, picking flowers and encouraging each other to run just one more lap. She’s the best personal trainer I’ve ever had, and she remembers almost everything I say to her. Just yesterday, in a sing-song way, she started reciting answers to questions that I have given her. “You’re father’s name is Beenjameen. You call him Beenji Boy!” She stole my heart with ease.
After a couple of days, her father invited us in for coffee at the end of our run; the visit was added to the daily routine. Team Oasis was invited over for lunch one day as well; thus began our relationship. The pastor that we’re living with informed us that the family is Muslim, and the news shocked me. My mental image of Muslims is nothing like the picture of Samrin and her sweet family.
I was hit with the reality of our situation. While most kids we’ve worked with either have Christian parents or attend a Christian school, this angel has been raised by parents who have not accepted the truth of the gospel. Our pastor has shared the good news with her parents, and Samrin was at our house the day Suze explained the gospel in kid-friendly words. The family has heard. Will they ever accept?
In feedback one day, Rebekah encouraged me by saying that my desire to run this month is no coincidence. As a team, we have fallen in love with Samrin, and there is nothing more that I want than to share God’s love with her. Day after day, as I sit in a humble house with a Muslim family, sipping coffee with buffalo milk, I become more aware of the opportunity to share love with those who desperately need it.
I have also become aware of the way God uses our desires and whims and always-changing routines to provide divine encounters.
I don’t know if Samrin understands the differences in her family’s religion and our faith in the one true God. I don’t know if she grasps any part of the message as I sing Jesus Loves the Little Children over and over again.
I do know that she leaps from her front steps when we approach each morning, and she has asked me to sing more songs about my Jesus.
I know that this little girl will remember us. My prayer is that the Lord will continue to whisper her name, and that she will one day recognize the voice that gives us life everlasting.
