Flying

Traveling Home

It took 52 hours from the time I left one home and arrived at the next.  If you add the time from the first missed flight till I got on one the next morning - it totaled 65 hours.  That is a really long time. (Usually it takes just under 24 hours.)  In D.C., (the last airport) the flight was first scheduled at 5:30, then 9:00, then moved up till 7:30 and then canceled. Later it was announced that it was back on again with a gate change (to a gate that never existed) and finally officially canceled.  We were told we would have to wait and fly out the next afternoon.  As we waited in line to be reassigned to a flight the man behind me, who was coming from Rome, spoke of his exhaustion. Poor guy had been flying for 15 hours.  My first layover alone was 14 so I was quick to point out how my travel time exceeded his. 

I would like to give a shout out to _____from Air India, who works in the Mumbai airport.  Thank you for your compassion.  I am sorry I was sobbing in your lobby and had to go to the bathroom twice before being able to collect myself enough to finally check my luggage.  I am not sure what caused it....I can usually  hold it together better than that.  But thanks, I love your country and was sad to go. Friends had been texting me all day, checking in, and your kindness felt like a final hug from them so thanks. I think, right then, your care was exactly what I needed.

Response

    I posted a picture on facebook (related to the previous post) which showed a village consisting of six families who were blessed by the generosity of a seven year old. At first I was upset by one of the responses.

  "Did you realize that one out of every four children in the United States are hungry? We need to help our kids."

   But you know what....she was right...after thinking about it for a few days I finally posted this response.

   "I always think about that. It messes with my heart to think about how much I have and how great the needs are in the U.S. and everywhere. Praying God teaches my heart ways to live more simply. In cultures that are so much "stuff" driven it is easy to forget how I live really could affect someone else in a positive way....if I am willing to do that."

  I hope you take her challenge....Do something..."No one ever became poor from giving."

 

A Feast

Dear Marc,


I am not sure if you will change the world…but for tonight, a community of people will go to bed with full stomachs, happy hearts, and giving thanks to God for the kindness of a seven year old.

Whenever I visited the ------- it seemed poverty was everywhere.  Families lived inside the broken remains of large pipes.  They made them into a dwelling by adding an additional cement slab brick room and maybe a little “patio” out front.  The living was simple and had been that way for years.  But this year, when I came back, all of the pipes had been destroyed.  Most of the families left but....for the few who remained, the conditions were much worse.  Now, they are living in homes made from cement and scrap metal.  There is no electricity and thus, there is no fan to move the air. The temperature in the rooms soar and it feels like an oven inside. Also, there is no water supply. The pipe company has closed but continues to promise future employment when they re-open.  Unfortunately, days have dragged to months, and those still waiting have no income.

Food, when they have it consists of rice and dahl.  They are hungry. So Marc, I know that you had hungry kids on your heart but I didn’t think you would mind if I made a slight change and included the adults. Tonight, they will have a feast.  Each family got 3kgs of rice, .5 kgs of chicken, and a small bag of vegetables thanks to you.  Additonally, they got a packet of milk, a few eggs, and some bananas.   I wish you could have seen their faces.  We told them all about you, your heart, your sprit, and your family.  They wanted to see your picture. I handed the oldest lady my camera and she kissed the image of you that she saw.  You may never meet them, but I know, that you and your family have a new prayer team that lives in a small village in a very poor section of India. We know that God hears the cries and prayers of the poor.  Marc, you have made a difference. 

Country Life

I have written about the clamor of city life but country life has a different clamor.  Days start early.  Hot water for a bath is heated over an outside fire (mine was graciously delivered in a steaming pot that was carried atop my neighbor's head each morning and right to my door).

While I was shocked the first day it happened....it was not uncommon for a herd of oxen to parade by on their way to the open grazing field, as I stood outside each day brushing my teeth (only feet from my bathroom, which was located outside the main part of the house and did not contain a sink).

By 8:00 am. I would walk a short distance to a teacher's house for breakfast.  The walk was short but as I took each step I carefully checked for snakes and made sure to step around mud puddles and oxen droppings. No matter how many successful walks I made I was always feeling nervous that a snake might be lurking somewhere (the number of snake killing stories did not help ease my fears).  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner was  served and prepared each day by the teacher's sister.  She was an excellent cook.  No meal was served twice.  Options were vada with corn....cilantro with coconut, and  tomato chutney for breakfast.  There was a delicious spiced carrot raisin dessert (I had no idea that shredded carrots could taste that good) and always a new curry to try for dinner.  Their  humble, straw roofed house was wonderful: two rooms in the main house and a washroom and kitchen out back.  The main room opened to a perfectly kept backyard which was a great spot for my morning tea. The walk to school was beautiful.  The sky always seemed to threaten rain; the clouds dark and heavy gave the sky a brilliant blue tint - providing a beautiful backdrop for the mounds of hay that towered above the houses' thatched roof tops.  Cattle grazed in people’s front yards and children in neatly laundered blue dresses waited to greet us. 

It was so much fun to spend a week living in the same village as the students.  It was great to meet their families and learn about their lives. I am so thankful for all the effort everyone put into accommodating me this week.  The teaching and time at the school could not have gone better.

I Like to "Move It - Move It"

I have visited new villages several times on this trip.  At one village, some college girls came along and taught the women and children a song.  It was a hit.  During my last visit, I went but without the “entertainers.” The ladies begged me to dance.  “Dance teacher, dance.”  After numerous attempts to explain my poor dancing abilities I relented and taught the Hokey Pokey. The women were not satisfied. “No teacher. Dance teacher.”  I thought, O.K....maybe..."The Chicken." 

I got the same response.  My dancing clearly was not what they had hoped for.  Then, one young lady whispered in my ear, “Like this.....I like to move it, move it...I like to move it....move it.”  J
 I guess some things cross all cultures.  Too bad I didn’t know the dance.

Education

"I don't know," she said in very broken English as I pointed to Telugu letters and asked her to tell me the sounds. I questioned further assuming that Telugu must not be her native language (it is common for people to speak more languages than they can read).. but shaking her head she said.. "No school."  She never got to go. 
Sometimes things like this hit me hard, especially when voiced by someone  I really care about. It reminds me how lucky I am to be able to read, write, and have attended school. How cool that her children are studying in university and she is a soon to be grandma. :)

Hesitant

In city schools(in India) most children have seen a white person, but this week, for some, I was their first.  Fortunately, at this school, none cried at the sight if me (that has happened), but for sure some were hesitant.  For one beautiful little girl, the only pictures I was able to take show her looking at me very skeptically - as if checking to see whether I was real.


Often, if I am sitting on the gound with the smallest ones, they will poke my arm or lightly stroke it as if to discover whether it feels the same. Children aren’t the only ones who are curious. Adults, of course, know my skin feels the same - yet a dance of sorts seemed to play out all week as my new hosts and I tried to figure each other out.  Sometimes, I felt a like a trophy, paraded to different homes just so I could shake hands with the occupants.  Young and old would watch through the gates and ask questions of the teachers or children who were accompanying me. 

The smallest little girl in this school was not sure WHAT to think of me.  Since she was the shortest she was in the front - first kid in the first row.  Her arms were crossed tightly with eyebrows furrowed; she stared at me during the entire morning assembly.  If I stepped too close, she'd back away. She was not sure what to make of me but was determined to figure me out.  Her demeanor contrasted with most of the children who usually clamor all around in order to shake my hand. Some, I know would shake once and immediately stick it back out to be shaken again. At recess, in order to walk across the school grounds, I sometimes had to refuse to shake any hands for when I shook one - all would come running .  After a day or two, the smallest ones followed the lead of the the older students and got over their hesitancy about me but that never happened with this smallest child.  Every morning for the entire week, the stare down continued.  On my last day, she sat in the doorway of her classroom.  No other children were around to notice so I bent to shake her hand....not sure of what to expect.  She looked at my hand....gave it a nice looooong stare....and quickly pulled her own hand out from behind her back and touched mine for one second. One second was all she was willing to risk and then shoved it deep into her lap and stared. I congratulated her for her bravery. I was hopeful that since the initial contact had gone smoothly she might try again with less fear. I stuck my hand out again. With her eyes darting between my hand and my face she shook her head no.  Once was enough.  I am hopeful our brief contact took the edge off her fears and I do give her credit for trying.