I hope that what I witnessed today is only the beginning . . .
The stench of the feces that litters the dusty roads is still on my shoes. I should probably shower as it’s been a few days, but I know that it is more crucial to write. I have quite the writer’s block as of late and I’m not very sure why. There are more than enough events to document and there is much time to process. Anyway, I will just give the facts and maybe . . . just maybe these words will come of some sense.
I am in Haripur, Nepal, which is in the Sarlahi region bordering India. My five teammates and I live in an elevated hut of sorts. Dirt floors, walls comprised of a mud/straw plaster, and bamboo posts make up our rather upscale Nepali abode. Kacie Lester and I have pitched a tent inside to keep out mosquitoes, rats, lizards, and bats. I wish I were exaggerating. Fields of rice and sugar cane surround.
This morning I woke up at 7:07 am. Disappointed that I slept in and had no time to go running, I got dressed for teatime. Chai and biscuits every morning is something that I hope to carry into my daily life in America. I take that back . . . I miss my banana smoothie and chocolate chip pancakes far too much. After tea, I have the privilege of worshipping with my team. They are folks who are seeking the face of the Lord with all of their hearts and encourage me more than they know possible.
And so we climbed on a bus and headed to a nearby village. I’ve experienced quite a bit overseas, and this bus ride was one of the most culture-shocking instances I’ve experienced. Cramming is an understatement. I would soon learn that there is a man whose job entails collecting the fare money . . . and organizing the “seating.” More often the seating is standing in the aisles . . .or sitting on top of the bus. Someone who spoke English kept telling me to sit down. Naturally, there were no seats, so I ignored him. To my dismay, he began yelling, so I desperately searched again. There were three frail, old shepherd men sharing two seats nearby. I would have crushed them if I sat on their laps. My frantic eyes met the gaze of a girl my age. She motioned for me to squeeze in next to her. One of my butt cheeks may have fit on that seat, as I fought to keep from spilling over into the herd of people in the aisle. To make matters worse, every face I could see was staring me at. “Yes, I know I am a white person” is usually what runs through my head. Sometimes I have a staring competition and stare back until they look away. Sometimes I wave and smile. This time, it didn’t feel suitable since I was in a confined space. Normally, I am walking the streets somewhere when I perform those tactics.
I best go on with the story. The five of us (the pastor, three teammates, and myself) finally arrived at our prospective village about 30 minutes later. We began walking the dusty roads through the zoo of goats, cows, stray dogs, chickens, and water buffalo. No doubt, the people stared. We stopped under a huge tree to answer a man’s question, “Who are you and why are you here?” This is the way evangelism usually begins. And Kacie shared the Gospel. The people listened intently. I adore this entire scene that I get to see several times each day. People discovering their Creator for the first time and realizing how great He is. When Kacie finished speaking, she felt the urge to pray for someone. Without delay, a man brought up his 7-year-old daughter. One of her legs was noticeably longer than the other. We laid hands on her and prayed fervently. The pastor asked that she walk around a bit, and she did so without limping. He then asked her to come back up. She sat down in her former position. He measured, and they were the same. Kacie later told us that she could feel the little girl’s leg move forward into her hand as we prayed. Praise the Lord! After this, many wanted prayer. We prayed for stones in stomachs, headaches, skin diseases, and baby with pneumonia. Many obtained relief; others did not. People were still in awe and God was glorified.
After much praying, a man invited us to sit and have some tea. We entered a low-ceiling, shelter-type structure with hundreds of hanging baskets above our heads. Pigeons were flying in and out. There was one croaking in the corner. They brought us the tea. It was goat milk tea and tasted like something else had been added . . . probably tobacco. I drank two cups. Thanks to the Lord for sending His glory
That’s it. God still does miracles; I don’t doubt it any longer.
A few days after this took place . . .
Our contact (the pastor of the church in Haripur) hosted a healing crusade on the church grounds. An evangelist from Cameroon came to preach. Hundreds of Nepali folks singing, "Hosanna!" and praying the name of Jesus blew me away. A deaf man could hear. A woman who gave her heart to the Lord saw a headache of four years vanish. The testimonies kept rolling.
I believe He is who He says He is . . . Savior, Deliverer, Healer.
I plan to add more pictures when I get the chance. Stay tuned, friends.
