Giving to Beggars

As the bus rolled past the market, I strained my neck to try to catch a glimpse of the fruit being sold today.  Tumba bisilu – jasti bisilu – idde (it’s so hot – too hot) and the last thing I wanted to do was to walk 1.5 km carrying my week's worth of fruit. On the other hand, if I didn’t buy it today I would have to buy from a grocery store later on in the week, and I much prefer buying it direct. Plus, I tell myself, what would be better on a day like today than an ice cold fruit smoothie when I get home?

We rolled through the signal and around the corner, and I was the first to hop off, dodging the passengers overeager to board. I retraced the bus’s steps and my fruit farmer spotted me before I spotted her; there was no turning back now.  The table was plain fruit; nothing too exotic: 2 pineapples, 3 cantaloupes, 20 sweet limes (Uffda! 20?), a plate of black grapes, and – finally – bananas.   

Halfway through our conversation, I became aware of an old woman in a red sari behind me. Standing, watching, waiting. She had her hand extended, quietly, and I knew what she was asking for.

Knowing how to interact with beggars is often a struggle for me in this “developing” and “corrupt” country, as it probably is for others, too.  Foreigners are told to ignore begggars; they may be pimped out, they may be enslaved, they should be in school instead and giving to them only encourages the system. However, Scripture says not to shut your hand from your brother in need; and, may I add, once you look into the eyes of a beggar, your life will never be the same.  Bananas are some of the most practical foods to share, and today my farmer friend had given me more thank I had asked for.  When I turned around, I placed the bananas in the woman’s hand.  She lifted her eyes to mine in thanks, and I smiled into hers, then walked away.

I often struggle after giving to the poor – how am I supposed to feel? Proud of myself for doing something good? Down on myself because I know that I can never do enough?  Because I fumble for a 2 rupee coin with one hand while holding my iPhone in the other? After buying some spinach I began my walk home in the dusty evening light and reached up to finger the pendant hanging from my neck: the widow’s mite.  I bought the mite in Jerusalem nearby the temple ruins; it is a relic of the story of the widow who came to the temple and was giving her offering at the same time as the Pharisee. The Pharisee gave in all his gold and his glory, but the woman gave humbly and gave everything that she had to live on. The Pharisee gave out of his excess, but the widow gave out of her poverty.

I gave this woman a bundle of bananas that I didn’t need; they were extra.  Because of who I am, where I come from, the manner in which I am employed, giving of food isn’t a sacrifice and, Lord willing, never will be.  I eat simply, yes, but never have to wonder where my next meal will come from.  Heck, I have the luxury of deciding if I am going to buy my produce from the farmer or the grocery store, and the choice of shopping later if I am feeling too lazy to lug it home.  How – how – can I give out of my poverty? Give sacrificially? Give in a way that is not self-centered, give with wisdom and love? That is the question of my heart this Palm Sunday. Because the widow at the temple isn’t the only one who gave – Jesus did, too.

Unexpected Midnight Moments

Sitting in the fresh night air, toes in cool green grass, I listened to the locusts chirping.  If I had closed my eyes, I could have been in my grandparent’s backyard in Sioux Falls.

But I wasn’t.  And I wanted to gaze at the stars in the clear black sky, not close my eyes; I wanted to stay exactly where I was.  For forever, if I could. 

Quiet voices of student at a crossroads spoke over the midnight noises, fingers played with grass, eager eyes looked to us as they shared their hearts, their dreams, their struggles.  What they want to do, where they want to be – who they want to be – after their program ends. Processing their experience, processing their next steps, wondering who they will become.

I was in Somahalli, some few hours outside of Chitradurga, about 4 hours north of Bangalore, and I had come at the call of one of my girls.  She and 2 other former students from my NGO are in an intense theatre-training program, and several times throughout the year she has called to invite me to watch the performance. It has always been last-minute, and I have always been otherwise occupied.

But this Tuesday, my only commitment had been office work. So I traveled, excited to see the girls, excited to watch their hard work pay off, excited for a sleepover and the conversation that would undoubtedly go hand-in-hand.

This, however, was exceedingly, abundantly more than I had ever asked or imagined.

It became quiet, and I heard my name.  “Jen,” Nazar asked quietly, “After listening to everything that they have said, is there anything that you want to say to them?”

I paused a moment.  My heart was full – my heart was bursting.  “So much, Nazar,” I replied, and he knew this meant that I would chime in later.  As he began to respond to what the students had shared, my mind registered something that I hadn’t realized before: Nazar had addressed me in English, but the students had been speaking in Kannada.  They had been speaking in Kannada, speaking in Kannada from the depths of their hearts.  This wasn’t a conversation about how much a rickshaw would cost or how many siblings somebody had – this was real life.  It was real life, and somehow I understood.  I understood, and Nazar knew that I did.  Tears were in my eyes, and they spring back as I type. 

These are the moments – the moments that are priceless.  Being with people you love, people you are proud of, people that inspire you, people that you believe in fully, and speaking a language that perhaps every heart can understand. Listening to dreams and yearnings; desires to live fully alive, desires to make the world a better place.  The moments where we see the commonality of humankind that cuts across race, ethnicity, caste, class.  We are real.  We are raw.

This is real life, and it is sweet - so sweet, and so precious.

One Billion Rising

Violence against women is a horrific and oppressive reality the world over, but with the recent global publicity of the torturous gang-rape in Delhi, violence against women - especially sexual violence - is taking the stage in an entirely different spotlight in India.  On Valentine's Day, I joined NGOs and concerned citizens in Cubbon Park, Bangalore, to sing, dance, act, paint, and ultimately say "No" to violence against women.

India is a culture that is permeated by struggles for women's rights, but also that is filled with strong women and men who are standing up for justice.  The use of art at this event was especially powerful.  Not only was art on display, but the participant was invited to paint banners, join dances and mimes, or take a canvas to the grassy lawn to paint their response; to enter the struggle.  I have hope that this year may be the year of the woman in India, beginning to build a solid foundation for the rights of generations to come.

To learn more about the movements to say "No" to violence against women, visit www.onebillionrising.org.

On Lent; On Fasting

...day after day they seek me out; they seem eager to know my ways,
as if they were a nation that does what is right 
and has not forsaken the commandments of its God.
They ask me for just decisions and seem eager for God to come near them.
"Why have we fasted," they ask, "and you have not seen it?"
"Why have we humbled ourselves and you have not noticed?"
Yet on the day of your fasting, you do as you please and exploit all of your workers.
Your fasting ends in quarreling and strife, and in striking each other with wicked fists.
You cannot fast as you do today and expect your voice to be heard on high.
Is this the kind of fast that I have chosen, only a day for people to humble themselves?
Is it only for bowing one's head like a reed and for lying in sackcloth and ashes?
Is that what you call a fast, a day that is acceptable to the Lord?

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
To loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke,
To set the oppressed free and break every yoke?
Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter - 
When you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.
Then you will call and the LORD will answer; you will cry for help, and He will say 'Here am I.'

If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and the malicious talk,
And if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
Then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday.
The LORD will guide you always, 
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise the age-old foundations;
You will be called Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.
[Isaiah 58]

Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.
That is who Jesus is.  That is what He came to do.
As we prepare for Easter,
As we identify with Christ in His suffering,
Let us also deny ourselves
Not only by removing something from our lives,
But by adding the active pursuit of Christ's mission.

Repairer of Broken Walls.
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.
Let it be said of us.

The Day I Began to Fall in Love with India

On this Valentine's Day, I thought I'd throwback to a reflection of a day in early July 2010:  The day I began to fall in love with India.

Some say that when you fall in love,

You just know.

Not this girl.

I didn’t know it then,

But four months later,

As I was pondering my beloved with a smile,

It came to me.

I remembered that moment…

The moment

That I started to fall in love with India.

It was my seventh day in Incredible India,

And it was a hot day in Incredible India.

The air was so dense

I had to push myself through it

And as I rode in the local taxi

I rolled down my window

As far as it would go,

Positioning my body

To be the recipient

Of as much of the passing air as was possible.

Traffic was stop-and-go

But not stop-and-go like you’d picture in America.

This was an India-style traffic jam.

Cars were everywhere,

Horns were blaring.

As I looked at the bikes and the auto-rickshaws around me,

I found myself thankful

That there were only four passengers in my vehicle.

Four, and not fourteen.

I averted my gaze from those crowded cars

(it made me sweat even more just looking at them)

and my attention was captured

by the town around me.

Dusk was falling.

As I focused in on the scene before me,

The blaring of the traffic

Faded.

The sounds

Of a town waking up for their evening activities

Came alive.

I was captivated.

Food was sizzling

On the street-vendors’ carts

And grey smoke

Puffed up into the air,

Becoming nothing but a haze…

A haze that

Created a mirage effect

On the reel I was watching.

The smell of the street food

Blended gently

With the scent of incense

That always lingers in the air,

And I found it soothing.

Calming.

Cozy.

Yes, I felt cozy amidst the chaos.

Children were laughing.

They were riding their bicycles

With giant smiles on their faces

Chasing each other

In-and-out of the stop-and-go-traffic.

Can I play?

Men were gathered around the vendors

Dressed in Western clothing

And deep in discussion.

No doubt they were talking politics and religion,

And all I wanted to do was listen.

Still others sat away from the groups,

On doorsteps and curbs,

Watching me like I was watching them.

Women were walking

And talking,

Adorned in colors and patterns

That I had only before imagined.

Their bangles and ankle chains

Jingled with every step

And the music that it made

Invited me to dance.

Even among the honking horns,

The milieu was idyllic.

My heart swelled,

And my only desire

Was to leave the car

And walk with them.

I couldn’t perceive it at the moment,

But this was where my journey began.

This was when I began to fall in love with India.

February Hope

It is February.  Yesterday I woke up with such a feeling of peace, of anticipation.  It’s February.  The first day of a new month.  The beginning of a new day.  Anything can happen.  And we get to begin anew.

I don’t know exactly what it is about new beginnings that make me so happy.  Actually, I do.  It’s hope.  A new beginning offers hope.  Hope of learning from mistakes, of doing better next time.  Hope of a life that is different – better, more fulfilling – and hope of the wonders that that life may bring.  Opportunities.  Friendships.  Love.   Adventures.  Miracles.

Smiling.

Hope.  Hope is full of grace. Of freedom. Of redemption.  Of promises.

Throughout January, I was continuously bombarded with the typical “Oh my gosh I can’t believe it’s January2013!” that tends to overwhelm more than one wandering soul when the new year hits.  And, looking at things logically, I would have anticipated that when February hit I would grieve the month – a whole month! – that has already gone by, never to return again.

But surprisingly I don’t.  February is a new month.  It is a new beginning.  It is full of hope.  And hope is like a firm and steady anchor for our souls.

The Motorcycle Diaries

Have you read The Motorcycle Diaries?

I bought it ages ago

(well, the end of November)

Because my sister and cousin and I 

made big plans to motorcycle 

across South America 

in approximately the year 2017.

But I just started reading it yesterday 

- the timing was perfect - 

and I absolutely love it.  

Confession: I cried while reading the introduction.

Let me give you a few of these beautiful phrases that made me smile so hard my stomach burst:

"...he filled his whole life with youthfulness and matured his youth without diluting it"

"...with the sole purpose of getting to know the world..."

"our vocation, our true vocation, was to move for eternity along the roads and seas of the world. always curious, looking into everything that came before our eyes, sniffing out each corner..."

"having the spirit of a dreamer.."

"never to give up until we had realized our dream"

"the enormity of our endeavor escaped us in those moments; all we could see was the dust on the road ahead and ourselves on the bike, devouring kilometers.."

"i felt myself lifted definitvely away on the winds of adventure towards worlds i envisaged would be stranger than they were, into situations i imagined would be much more normal than they turned out to be"

"an expedition has two points, the point of departure and the point of arrival. if your intention is to make the second theoretical point coincide with the actual point of arrival, don't think about the means - because the journey is a virtual space that finishes when it finishes, and there are as manymeans ars there are different ways of "finishing." that is to say, the means are endless."

"...when in reality we had only just begun..."

And a picture of some of Che's observations of life, of injustice, that pricked my heart, pinched my mind:

"...we will see whether some day, some miner will take up his pick in pleasure and go to poison his lungs with a conscious joy."

"...the need to build schools that would orient individuals within their own world, enable them to play a useful role within it..."

"the need to change fundamentally the present system of education, which, on the rare occasion it does offer Indians education (according only to white man's criteria) simply fills them with shame and resentment, rendering them unable to help their fellow Indians and at the severe disadvantage of having to fight within a hostile white society which refuses to accept them..."

"The semi-indigenous features of the curator, his eyes shining with enthusiasm and his faith in the future, constituted one more treasure of the museum, but a living museum, proof of a race still fighting for its identity."

Oh. Oh. Oh.