“We’ll be back to pick you up at 2:00 PM,” our driver told us. As the white van pulled away, I glanced at my watch. It was only 11:00 AM. This meant he wouldn’t be back for three whole hours. Inwardly I groaned. It was going to be a long morning.
My team and I were visiting Home of Hope. Home of Hope is a place where homeless street people that are sick and close to death can come and stay. It provides medical care, food and a place to die with dignity, if needed. Most of all it is a safe place where these mostly Hindu people can hear the Gospel.
“God,” I silently prayed, “what do you want me to do here? This is not my idea of fun ministry. Give me a group of kids to sing songs with and to tell stories too and I’ll be thrilled. But I have no idea what to do with these guys. We can’t speak the same language; what am I supposed to do?”
We finished viewing the introductory video and then walked outside to a covered carport area where all the men were either sitting or laying. The stench of stale urine and unwashed bodies assailed my nose as we approached. Trying not to inhale deeply, I sat down beside several men. Asking their names, I attempted to engage them in conversation. Most only stared at me but one man spoke up. Ravi was his name and he was eighty-one years old. His English was limited and my Kannada non-existent so though we attempted to continue talking, I was unable to learn much about him.
Sitting there with the men, I was reminded of how Jesus went to the undesirable members of society. Instead of going to clean, healthy, rich people, He sought those in need of a friend. The dirty, the outcasts, the smelly, the sick, He spent time with the least of these. I realized that here was an opportunity to be like Him. By spending time with these men, we were telling them that they were special. Society has deemed them as unneeded, and yet God stills views them as precious.
I glanced around at the men beside me. To my right, a young man slept. There were wounds to his brow and mouth, both which swarmed with flies. Past him, sat a man with legs curled beneath him. He couldn’t straighten them. He dragged himself with his arms to move. Others seemed in better physical condition, but mental handicaps were apparent. On every side there were men with gauze covered injuries.
So I sat with them. Conversation was minimal but the men returned my smiles with toothless grins. We tried communicating with hand gestures but ended up laughing at our attempts. Finally, it neared the time to leave. I breathed an inward sigh of relief and begin walking towards the entrance.
Before I reached it, a man caught my eye and smiled at me. Smiling in return, I paused to chat with him. Through his broken English, he told me about about himself. He had a wife and two kids but had been living at the Home for three months. He then showed me his double amputations. His left leg had an above the knee amputation, while his right leg was amputated below the knee. Before the train accident five years before that claimed his legs, he had been a garment maker. He asked for prayer so we bowed our heads and prayed. As we finished, he looked up with gratitude in his eyes. “God bless you” he told me.
As we drove away, I had a lot to process. The sights I had seen and the story that I heard filled my mind. That man had lost so much and yet he blessed me. What a humbling experience and I’m so thankful for it.
