Christmas Census, God’s Birthday, and Brothel Kids

Just a few weeks ago, my apartment was bustling with guests and friends coming in and out. We had momo making parties, a Thanksgiving pasta dinner, and songs by a Christmas tree. This holiday season was kicked off by a joyous Home of Hope dedication and a one day conference where so many people of passion and faith gathered in one place. Then, one by one everyone went their separate ways—first the pastors, then Rebecca’s parents, then Ali, then Adono, then me (to Sri Lanka). The last person to go was Rebecca—back to the US for Christmas. Just as we all departed, the Indian government implemented a new restriction on tourist visas, so things have changed a bit. My apartment is now empty and quiet; my roommate and neighbors can’t return to India until February; I've moved in with some other friends and I've canceled my trip home for the holidays so that one of us would be here. So whether it is through spontaneous or delayed travel plans or lots of paperwork, many of us have had to scramble to act within the stipulations of our visas and ensure our stay in India.

I suppose it’s a bit like the census that was called at the time of our Lord’s birth. It was quite the hassle for Mary and Joseph, and lots of other people, to take those tedious journeys to register in their birth cities and appease the government. (I love how Caeser decreed a census to be taken "of all the inhabited earth." Uhh, Ok Caeser, you go for it.) It seems that India wants to take a better census of the foreigners in the country! I’m just thankful that I’m not nine months pregnant and traveling by donkey. But it’s a bit tough not to be celebrating the holidays with my family and on top of that, to suddenly be in Delhi without several people who have become my pseudo- family. Yet concerning community, I am abundantly provided for. That’s what I love about the Church body! In one sense, I have plenty of family here, and it is a time to foster other relationships and to grow "into my own," and for all of these opportunities, I’m thankful. But I will tell you the one thing that makes it all worth it:

Last week I visited the red-light area school with two other outreach workers as we do every Wednesday. However, this Wednesday was special—a chance for us to share about our Christmas traditions to children who live in brothels. We shared the story, sang songs, gave gifts, cut a cake and sang Happy Birthday to the Lord. We chatted with some of their mothers who stopped by. This is light in a dark place. This is God celebrating His birthday on a street of brothels (which He is delighted to do). This is a good Christmas for me. The thing about the journey Mary and Joseph had to take—the 180 or so treacherous miles—was that God was using them to fulfill prophecies! So all that's going on—the uncertainties in the ministry, the travel restrictions, the changes of circumstances—may seem discouraging, tedious and even mundane. But without a doubt, God is in control. And even if we don’t see it all right now, He is fulfilling a big plan. I would even call it a prophecy. Something like this:

Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother / And in His name, all oppression shall cease.

I feel really cool because

I'm blogging from an airport on the other side of the world in the middle of the night. I always used to feel this envious sense of awe when people I knew did that. They seemed all mysterious and adventurous. I'd be like, "You're so cool." Well, now I AM one of those people. Except, I'm still a dork. I didn't say I am cool, I just feel cool.

I just spent 5 days in Sri Lanka tagging along with my friend's VISA run. I'm in the airport waiting for my 3:20am flight to Delhi with a connection in Chennai. The terminal is lined with Christmas trees and lights, and that jazzy department-store Christmas music is playing on repeat. Some people would say that seeing a Christmas tree in warm weather next to palm trees just isn't right, but I'm pretty obsessed with palm trees and tropical settings, so I'm alright.

This little land under India is achingly beautiful. Riding in a taxi down the coast to visit one of the well-known beaches one day, Lucia and I both leaned on our elbows blissfully staring at the scenery. No sound was heard besides the wind and the frequent snapping of our cameras, trying to capture, for example, an overturned boat resting on the sand, or a row of shacks right up against the beach. Inward the land is the most lush with green I have ever seen. We also took a day trip that climbed above sea level a bit, where we walked through a heavenly spice garden (good smell) and rode an elephant (bad smell.)

But all of these experiences are overshadowed by that of my last day here, where I was taken in by a local family that a friend in India connected me with. The daugther's name is Michelle also, and we played guitar together, watched a movie, walked around town, and ate awesome food with her parents and sister. I was so touched by their hospitality, and I felt so at home with them, that leaving them I thought I might shed a tear! Despite the adventures, when I think of my time in Sri Lanka, I will think of this connection made. Praise Him that He takes care of us and gives us family wherever we go.

Oh India, so much has happened with you lately, and I've been slacking on the blog updates. Now you are overshadowed by Sri Lanka. Don't worry, I'll be back soon and do you justice.

Five Pictures of The Mother Land

Who Am I?

As Wednesdays approach, so does an increasing sense of dread. I wake up Wednesday mornings always feeling tense and easily flustered. I begin to obsess over my lesson plans and rack my brain for something better, feeling helpless (which is not actually true.)

Of all my teaching responsibilities here, the most intense is when I go to the daycare in the red light area. One reason is because based on my first week there, which was utter chaos, I just never know how they are going to behave. Another reason is that the whole neighborhood has a dark, yucky feeling. Maybe it's all in my head, but when we drive there it just feels physically uncomfortable--like a pit in my stomach. As we turn into the district, the width of the street is nearly cut in half, like we are being squeezed or sucked in. The air feels compressed. The buildings, although only three or four floors, seem to tower over us, perhaps because we know that above all of the machine part shops on the ground floor are brothels full of ladies lounging at their windows, looking casual and well-trained. The street is teeming with a steady flow of men on foot, men on motorcycles, men in bike rickshaws, men in auto rickshaws. Our driver brings us to the door of the school and we go right in.

When I see the kids sitting with such anticipation, enthusiastically waving hello and smiling wide, my dread about the oppressive atmosphere and the challenge of teaching them drains away. What replaces is still intense--something like urgent, broken love? Almost immediately, I am filled with joy, excitement and gratitude for being there. Who am I that I get to serve these kids?

From the angle of the entrance, the first child that comes into view is always *Anna.* Anna is 7. Today she was wearing a puffy button up sweater since it's getting "chilly" in Delhi (70's?). So cute. She always has her hair in a braid. She has the cutest little voice, and when she counts to ten in English, she enunciates her t's and r's so well that she sounds like the owl in the tootsie roll pop commercial. (One- two - thrrrree). Ugh.

We are praying that Anna is one of the first girls to live in the new home. Yet, the last few times our outreach workers have visited her home, i.e. her mother's brothel, her mother has been "sleeping upstairs" or passed out drunk.

I tremble before You, O God. Who am I?

Watching them repeat the new adjectives, spell out loud, write with big awkward ABC's, make and color a fish on construction paper, put stars by their names on the name chart, poke each other with pencils, steal crayons from each other, get stars taken away, and then gather around for a story book, I ache, I love, I want, I hurt, I hope. I think they are all the same thing.

God, Please!

This week many ministry leaders in India are coming to Delhi for a Project Rescue training seminar. We have the privilege of having the PR founders here with us. On Friday night, many of us will gather in the new Home of Hope, which has been newly renovated, for a formal dedication. There will be worship, prayer, remarks, ribbon-cutting and food. The name of the house will be coined: Suraksha, or, the "Safety" House.

Who am I, Lord, that I get to be part of this?

Reasons I wish I had a camera today

The kids at Karuna Children's Home were so cute working in their small groups, making shields that explained which "nicknames" of Jesus were most meaningful to them i.e. one boy said "He is my Shepard because He found all of us sheep in the slums and led us out" OH my precious and then we taught them a dance which was hard so after all the hard work we just put on some music and had a dance party kickin' it all over the room with SO MUCH JOY and on the way out I saw the cutest puppy plopped on a high mound of cement mix, and he so wanted some lovin' from me as I wanted from him, but he was scared because of the cement mix sliding when he tried to climb down, so then he just tackled his momma AFTER all of this was the drive home from Faridabad where my driver is always willing to pull over for me to take some pictures because we always see monkeys and their babies and one time a camel, but today, today was a beautiful bright orange setting sun perched over the wildlife reservation with all those short twisty trees that look squished down and remind me of the Lion King, and I watched from the car window without my camera but it felt very special, like a secret wink, something I better and will always remember close to my heart, and in the moment, quiet and personal and something more heavenly than happy, I thought "whoah, I'm in India." True Life.

You should always talk to people on planes

because you just never know what may come of it.

On my 6am flight home from Kolkata (where I:
-walked through the red light district
-visited the PR girls' home
-hung out at the PR vocational center where RLD ladies make journals, bags, and quilts out of old saris to earn a living and get discipled
-spent time with some awesome dedicated passionate people
-obsessed over a bakery called "Kookie Jar")

I sat in between Ali and a 60 year old white man. Usually I get so excited when I see a white person in India that I call out, "white person!" But I wasn't in the mood. I thought to myself, I'm not into starting conversations with 60 year old white-but-probably-not-American men right now. So then Ali in her unadulterated friendliness says HEY! I was just rolling my eyes when the conversation got good.

An excerpt from Ali's blog:
"On the way home we took a 2 hour flight instead of a 20 hour train ride. Praise him. I sat next to a white man, and right before we took off i asked him where he was from. South Africa he said. We chatted a bit and he asked me why i was going to Vijay. I said im not going to Vijay im going to Delhi. He paused. No you're going to Vijay he said. I said No. you're going to Delhi. He then bolted out of his seat and ran off the plane shouting a thank you. Im glad i talked to him. His day could have been very bad. "

So there you have it. Be friendly. Or you or someone else could end up in a Kevin McAlister-like pickle.

I used to have what I called "teacher nightmares"

where I'd jolt awake with an anxiety attack.
Example Dream 1: forgetting that I had a class when it was observation day.
Example Dream 2: screaming at the top of my lungs in the middle of the room with no one paying attention or listening.
Example Dream 3: kids hitting each other and starting wrestling matches in the middle of the floor while one girl pulls her pants down and pees in the corner and another girl secretly steals the art supplies we brought and starts screaming when someone tries to take them back,...Oh wait- this one was real.

This is a daycare in the Red Light Area run by a local NGO. Becca and I "taught" an art and English lesson. It was quite the lesson for us, though. My experience went pretty much like this: "'hm that's not working, let's try something else.' and then 'Hm, I think it's time for something else.' And then 'Okaaay, moving on. And finally, 'wow, I really wasn't prepared for this.'"

The class ended with one boy dislocating his toe and then screaming bloody murder as the teacher proceeded to put it back in place. It was this moment that the rest of the children were most attentive.

The class consists of boys and girls whose ages range from 4-15.
What unites them is that they live in the brothels with their mothers.
They handle conflict with each other violently because that's what they see.
What will become of them?
Well, as I tentatively observed the row of brothels from behind the car window as we passed by, I saw ladies hanging in doorways and calling down from their balconies-- and not only men but schoolboys in their teens walking in.
And the daughters?
This is the point where we stop thinking and start claiming promises. "He will beautify the afflicted with salvation." The burden is too much to bear ourselves.

Because we have our eye on two who attend the daycare: "Priya" and "Anna" - whose mothers are hesitant to send them to a hostel. They are worried about "visiting rights" and the girls ever "knowing their fathers." Yes, mothers say no. They are so conditioned that they can't even imagine a better future for their children. Or it may be that they fear violence from their pimps for giving away such valuable goods.

The new PR home opens in two months--God willing. During this time, our outreach workers will visit these ladies and try to gain their trust. The result would be a completely new destiny not only for their daughters, but generations after.