Home in India is the worn couches in the main compound, warm laughter reverberating against the stone walls, the smooth white of the square pillars. It’s waking up from a long nap and finding yourself on the couch’s well-loved cushions because ministry yesterday was long and difficult and you got back late and didn’t get a lot of sleep and they’re just so darn comfy.
It’s walking barefoot on the cooled concrete floor, a faint scattering of dust and fine particles of dirt shifting beneath your feet. The sound of the broom sweep sweeping against the floor in the early hours of the morning.
The constant comfort of the whirring and thwump thwump thwump of the ceiling fans, swinging gently above your head in the dark.
It’s the guitar sounding around the sprawling second floor, the singing of the strings escaping out open blue window panes decorated with sturdy iron bars of swirling flowered vines. The smell of hot tea or chai as one of the women comes over with a big smile on her face, a small steel cup in her hand proffered to yours.
It’s the heat of the sun as you lay in your hammock between pillars over the steps outside the building, in a forest of colored fabric, all tangled hair, dangling feet and peeking smiles. When someone’s speaker is playing their favorite playlist, small titters of complaints at the occasional country music, and group suggestions for songs.
Home is passing Max during his midday nap in the stairwell, pausing on your way to give him some well-deserved head scratches for scaring away the other dogs last night while you were hanging out on the steps.
It’s shaking your head giving a secretly fond smile at the soccer balls constantly flying everywhere inside the compound, and letting the smile break free as Max trots through the room in seek of a new napping spot.
Home is sitting in silence under the overhang on the roof listening to the strong pattering of rain coming down, slowly clearing away the cloistering heat and leaving a fine spray of welcome water across your face.
And it’s the bumpy ride in the back of the cramped but cozy tuk tuks on your way to ministry. It’s peering out into the night feeling the warm wind on your face and squinting against the bright headlights of passing trucks and motos on your way home. It’s clinging tightly in equal nervous fear and excited exhilaration to the rope when you end up sitting on the back of the tuk tuk going to the store.
It’s laughing hysterically after hitting a huge bump in the road at full speed and almost falling out the side of the truck.
It’s at ministry when you’re standing off the the side as your teammates explain the next game and one tiny hand winds it’s way into yours while another fists in your skirt, and a small head nuzzles against your hip and all you want are more hands because you can’t embrace all of them and it’s the one thing you desperately want to do, and you don’t ever want to let go. Home is in their smiles as they look up at you, saying, “That’s okay. This is enough. Thank you.”
Home in India is in the shared glances as you pass your teammates, the crinkle of their eyes, the calming lilt of their lips as you smile at each other, the solace found in their faces.
It’s the love ever present in this beautiful, unique, and welcoming country, and in the team I’ve been blessed to have shared it with.
Home is where the heart is, and India, you will always have a piece of mine with you.
