A collection of thoughts from our time in India. Consider this the password to my diary.
[8/9]
They are so loud about their faith here: literally shouting praises into a microphone so the entire village can hear. There is no shame, no doubt. The women cover their heads with their saris, and everyone comes out in their Sunday best, no matter what day of the week it is. There is talent, there is life, and the world will never see it because it’s tucked away here in a nowhere village in India. Yet I’ve happened upon this gemstone, which, to me, is just the beginning of discovering a gold mine.
[8/10]
“Your country is very hot. I sweat a lot, and my hair is very crazy here.” That’s one way to start a sermon. Today I spoke about the armor of God and I actually enjoyed sharing, even though the fan blew my notes all over and I perspired the amount of six men.
[8/15]
In America, church means bright lights, big TVs and the perfectly hipster worship band. In India, they throw down a tarp or straw mats and call it church. Sometimes we’re lucky to have a keyboard present which provides endless techno beats and club music while those in attendance somehow clap and sing “hallelujah, hosanna” along. It would never fly in America. But you know, I think God laughs and sings “hallelujah” right along with them.
[8/21]
Even missionaries have bad days. Today is mine. Walking through the village, it was like my tourist glaze of India finally dissipated and I truly saw this place for what it is: broken, ignored, hurt.
I saw a woman carrying a giant bag of rice on her head. Normally a picture perfect moment, all I could think about were the years of this habit building up tension and pain in her neck. How the rice in that bag is probably all she’ll have to feed her loved ones. I saw another woman carrying a bucket of water on her shoulder and thought about all the uses of it: cooking, cleaning the toilet (aka concrete slab or squatty) or rinsing the hands of American “celebrities”.
Life isn’t fair.
[8/22]
Today God showed up. I begged him to and he did. We wore giant flower leis and attended a pastors conference. They encouraged us by having some of the pastors of villages we’ve visited share about things that have changed since we’ve been. We heard stories of how church attendance has gone up from 10 to 17 just because we showed up and prayed for people. A person’s pains were healed; a fever was broken. God heard me, he answered my request for a sign.
[8/24]
We walked into a jewelry store wearing our saris. Bad idea, as there are at least 15 Indian men working, there are no other customers, and our white skin is already enough of a head turner. It angers me that they can openly stare and laugh at us while, as women, we have to be fully clothed from shoulder to ankle. A man openly made fun of me as I tried on a ring, and I flat out asked him, “Oh, you’re making fun of me, huh?” He sure forgot how to speak English then. Not gonna lie, I’d love to just hike up the bottom of my sari to my waist and saunter out of here blazing my white legs, knees, and ankles. But I’m a missionary and I’m a woman so I’ll just sip my lemon mineral water and smile sweetly.
(For the record, we also got free coffee and I ended up having hilariously decent conversation with some of the men, but they did not receive my business. I’m stubborn.)
[8/26]
I love the long drives. I love sitting in the back of the auto, facing the traffic that speeds dangerously close behind us. I dangle my feet out, or if I’m feeling extra adventurous, turn around and sit on the door so most of my body is hanging out. The breeze rips through my already disheveled hair and I fly by traffic as they slow down, shocked to see a white girl silly (or stupid?) enough to do such a thing for fun.
It’s moments like these that I remember how unreal it is for me to be in India. Living in India. How surreal it is that cruising down a broken road full of potholes and water buffalo traffic without seatbelts (and proper seats, really) has become the normal. How I’ve become accustomed to averting my eyes when Indian men ride up close on the bumper because of their desire to flirt with a seemingly naïve foreigner. How bold I feel when, wearing sunglasses, stare them straight in the eye. How off-roading just to pass a vehicle and bumping some body part every 20 seconds is life now. It reminds me that I’m alive, that I am free. I like that.
