Aside from satirical impressions, Gandhi and Bollywood, my comprehensive knowledge of India prior to arriving here was rudimentary. My expectations upon meeting with the ministry host in Hyderabad left me clueless to the spectacle that existed beyond the safe walls of our temporary concrete compound. After two days of “debrief” about our ministry host and cultural whereabouts, I boarded a bus to be dropped off, “somewhere along the way” on our final destination route to Ongole, a large city where many of the teams would be living and doing ministry for the month. Six hours later, the bus pulled off on the side of the road in front of a worn down church building and my team – only my team – was prompted to exit. It was raining outside and across the road was a group of Indian locals. I grabbed my pack from under the bus and headed for the church entrance. I turned to watch the bus drive away, waving farewell to my squadmates. And just like that, I was a missionary in the middle of nowhere India.
This month has been, different. Rebounding from a relatively comfortable three-month tour of Europe, India was a reality check to the posh World Race lifestyle I was used to. Forget about the luxury of sit-down coffee shops, reliable Wi-Fi connections and persistent electricity. India smells. It is dirty. It is third world looking – however you picture that to be. There isn’t even toilet paper. After all, people here don’t use it. Learning to let go of the “creature comforts” has been an understatement for this month – and I tend to follow a fairly simple lifestyle back at home. Here, I shower every 3 to 4 days in a brick hut under a bucket. I sweat constantly. I battle thousands of mosquitos a day for territory rights over my living space. I watch lizards scamper past my face as I lay in bed at night to sleep. I eat the same exact thing for breakfast, lunch and dinner every single day. And I get gawked at more than I ever have collectively in my entire life, wherever I go by men, women and children.
But when you push aside all of the discomforts and oddities, India is a beautiful place to be. The people here are relentless servants. More hospitable than any group of folks I’ve ever met. They give you everything when they have nothing. My team and I feast every night in the villages we visit. And even though we complain about it being the same food we eat all the time, we are never hungry. In fact, most of us would agree that we could go with far less and still be more than satisfied. These people wear smiles constantly. In the midst of poverty, hunger, illness and monotony – although they don’t know it to be that – they carry on without batting an eye to any of it. They make life happen without any of the “essentials” that I cling to at home. They know the value of family and community. They know how to love, truly and honestly love. Maybe India isn’t the ideal setting for the picture book life I’ve always dreamed for myself, but I could certainly stand to tear out a few pages of the rawness that exists amongst this culture. I have never prayed for people like I have here. And I’ve never witnessed people so open to the Father’s transformative power and redemptive grace. I am ready to leave India and never come back, but it isn’t all in vain. After all, this is exactly what I signed up for. I did this to myself. And I’m glad I did. This is the race I envisioned for myself when I signed up nearly a year ago in a comfortable coffee shop in the middle of an American city. If this is as bad as it gets, I’m lucky. And I pray that it isn’t.
