and then I pierced my nose...

Some say Stupid... I say hardcore:)

teaching english... learning hindi

I pulled my backpack on loaded with paper, pens, folders, flash cards and candy. I stepped out into the Indian jungle humidity and with a gigantic smile on my face began the quarter-mile trek to the boys unit. I suddenly felt like I was in the middle of a memoir of some brave soul who had traveled to the remotest places of the earth to teach English. Although, my experience was much cushier than any of those romantic adventure stories, it didn’t matter. I was elated. I had four back-to-back classes to teach for boy’s ages 8 to 17… and I fell in love.

Jessica, my partner in crime and teaching buddy, arrived later that day. Our schedule was rigorous.

6am - Wake up whistle

7am - Devotions (we lead these half of the time)

7:30am – Breakfast (Monday’s our favorite breakfast was served – CHIPATI & gravy)

8:15am – Teaching young women ages 16 to 25

11:30 am to 5pm – We taught either four boys classes or we traveled 30 minutes into the city to teach the teenage girls in Badlapur

5pm – Tea Time

6:30pm – Beginners English class with the women

8pm – Dinner

9pm - Once a week Jessica taught a counseling group called Visions

10pm – Everyone else lights out… Jessica and I had lesson planning

Midnight – We passed out under our mosquito net

We had an absolute blast teaching English. It was incredibly exhausting to try to speak in simple English and try to understand broken English 24/7. But our students kept us energized because of their eagerness to learn. We often would break them up into groups and have them create short skits in English on the given topic of the day. Prior to this trip I don’t think I full understood the term “miscommunication.” The boys were so funny and I laughed until I cried on a number of occasions. The older women, whom are called the Auntie’s, were equally entertaining, generally causing the entire class to erupt in laughter as their response revealed they completely misunderstood the question.

These Auntie’s however, had their revenge on us each morning and evening as we walked to the dining hall. They would walk arm in arm with Jessica and I, grilling us on Hindi and teaching us new phrases. It was such a good reminder for us daily of how difficult it can be to learn a new language. Hindi is beautiful… and so different. I swore I could repeat exactly what I heard them say and I would still be saying it wrong. It got to be exasperating at times. I just don’t know how to contort my mouth to make those sounds!

I have never done such rewarding work in my life. As we left they showered us with thanks, telling us how much they learned. I didn’t feel like we did that much! But in the short six weeks that we were there, we saw a great amount of improvement. These people so value their education. They consider it such a privilege to learn and to be taught English by a native-English speaker is quite rare. I fell in love with all of my students and somewhat feel like I bailed on them when I came home. Part of my heart is still somewhere in the jungle of India… I hope I get to return someday soon.

Worship of the Rescued

The sound of hands softly beating a drum carried up to our room. The rhythm had a sort of entrancing effect as it echoed through the courtyard, arriving to announce that the day was beginning. Next came the voices of 50 women singing as loudly as their lungs would allow. The choir sang in unison praises to God as though joining King David and presenting prayers as incense before the throne of the Almighty.

Words cannot convey its beauty.

I hadn’t the slightest clue what the song was about… but tears streaked down my cheeks. My soul felt the depth of their love and passion for the same Jesus that I call Savior. My heart sunk into solemn reverence, suddenly aware that I had been ushered into the presence of the King. I had come here to minister to them… so I thought. Instead, they were teaching me how to worship. With all the horror they had seen, I would understand if they doubted God’s love. But here they stood with lifted hands and tear-soaked cheeks, praising their King with all that they had.

I buried my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry, Jesus.” I felt ashamed to be in the presence of the King among my sisters. Their passion made my faith seem so small. I neglect to praise the King far too often. I find so many other things to praise… so many other things to give my attention and passion to. Often I allow my questions regarding his ways to keep me from giving him the acknowledgement of his worth. How conditional my love is.

Each morning as we joined them in this habit of devotion, I realized how out of “worship practice” I was. I tired easily. But it seemed like they would have gone on for hours if the breakfast whistle never blew. All around me stood young girls and old women who have seen untold atrocities, beginning each day holding nothing back in prayer and glorious praise to the Author of Life. They didn’t base their love for God on what He did NOT do in their lives… instead they celebrated what He HAS done. He could have prevented what happened to them, yet he chose not to for reasons we cannot know. It is what God does not do that often causes us question if He truly loves. However, were it not for the fact that these women needed physical rescue, they would have never experienced the spiritual rescue that they now know.

Could it be that God allows us to see hell on earth because it is

there we will encounter Him?

These women had truly been saved in everyway imaginable… from poverty, hunger, abuse, neglect and spiritual darkness. God violently ripped them out of the pit of hell they lived in, to show them his radical love and give them a hope and a future. That’s the kind of God I want to serve… He’s the kind of King worth all the acknowledgement and attention I can offer. He is worthy of praise… no matter how much we don’t understand His ways.

“Love the Lord your God, with ALL your heart, ALL your soul and ALL your mind.” – Matt. 22:38

Initiation

It was Day 3. I was finally able to reach my mother for a grand total of 5 minutes before I was cut off. I quickly learned that was about as much as I could hope for. So far I had spent most of my time recovering from my journey and trying to acclimate to the new environment. I’m a fairly adaptable person… but this was a whole new ball game.

The compound was beautiful. White Frangipani trees were in bloom in the courtyard, wafting a heavenly fragrance into my room. I was trying to learn the names of the 53 women I would be living with. I am usually great at this game, however, I had never heard these names before and many of them terribly similar: Sunita, Sarita, Savita, Surekha, Rekha, Amreeta… I thought my head was going to explode! Much of the time I sat with the girls as they spoke Hindi to each other. I would occasionally interrupt with some sort of simple question in English as I desperately tried to make a connection. It seemed like they were sizing me up; trying to decide if they liked me, if they would trust me. Some were quick to trust. They brought me to their rooms and showed me all their belongings and photos. Others simply ignored my existence as if to let me know they didn’t need me. These were the girls I circled in my mind to win over before I was gone. It was a challenge I enjoyed. I was surprised how comfortable I was with never having a clue what was happening around me. A few took pity on me since I was alone and painstakingly tried to communicate. I discovered that most of them knew more English than they initially would let on. But I began to pray without ceasing that my friend Jessica would be granted her VISA and meet me in the jungle.

My room was great. It was perfectly clean, 6 beds to myself, a western toilet, a water heater for the shower and even a refrigerator! Many more amenities than I had expected. About day three, however, I discovered that I was not alone. I walked into the room only to find a pink little hairless creature with skin still covering it’s eyes, and twitching helplessly on the floor as ants were attacking it!

I quickly did what any adventuresome, missionary-type would do… I ran and got help!

My Indian Auntie informed me that this was a baby rat. Ew!

The next day… two of these baby rats being attacked by ants appeared on the floor in the same location! I ran to get more help. As we looked at them, another rat suddenly appeared, seeming to have fallen from the top of the closet! We discovered a rat’s nest up there, but apparently the army ants of India had declared war upon the nest first. These ants were pushing the rats from the top of the 8-foot tall closet in an attempt to carry them to their anthill to… eat? It was horrific. But I was thoroughly impressed with the ants. I continued to keep my eye on these tiny little black insects as they would daily carry dead insects 100 times their size to feed their tribe. Amazing. And disgusting.

Three days in and I already felt appropriately initiated into the Indian Jungle.

My first three hours in India…

My heart was pounding when the wheels of the plane hit the runway. Not because I am afraid of “the landing,” but the nerves that had been stored during my 30-hour venture to a country on the other side of the globe finally made themselves known in my chest.
I had arrived in Mumbai. Alone. My traveling companion had found a foe at the Indian Consulate and they were sitting on her Visa application.

I stepped out of the airport with six plus weeks worth of luggage looking for a sign that read “Bombay Teen Challenge.” I gasped for air, nearly choking as the combination of anxiety and humidity waged war against my trachea.

I frantically searched the crowd of brown faces, trying not to make contact so as to give away my vulnerability (as if my white skin didn’t do that already). No sign was to be found. Standing in the middle of the atrium surrounded by gawking strangers reminded me of that nightmare in which you suddenly realize everyone is staring because you do not have clothes on. After quite some time I couldn’t take being on display any longer.
I had a phone number… now if I could only find a phone.

An Indian mad approached me. “Oh no… I’ve been discovered!” I thought. Without my consent he took hold of my suitcase and dragged me over to a booth with a phone and a man who demanded 50 rupees for a phone call. And the man who’d assisted me without my permission wanted a tip. Luckily, I made contact. They had forgotten their sign and I was to look for a girl with a blue shirt on. Whew… or not. Half the crowd was wearing blue!

It was a great relief when I finally found Devki. She welcomed me with fantastic English and a hug that told me I was already family. Sanjay, the driver, threw my luggage into the back of a cruiser. Off we were to the BTC compound.

My stomach began to settle only to find it’s way back into my throat as we skirted around cars and motorcycles at excessive speeds on terribly narrow roads. I took deep breaths and drew in the gorgeous sights of India as we headed deeper and deeper into the jungle. I had so many questions… but for now I was taking in every detail as we whizzed past. Dirty-faced children playing outside of shacks created by a collage of bricks and tarps; cows eating out of the trash heaps along the roadside; two men adorning traditional Muslim fashion straddling a motorcycle, women in Sarees carrying baskets five times the size of their thin frames on their heads; all were living life as lush green foliage and mountains painted a masterful backdrop. It was paradoxical to see breath-taking beauty and mind-blowing poverty side-by-side.

I turned on my cell phone to see if I could find signal to tell my mom that I was okay. Sorry Mom, no luck. I said a prayer that God would let her know I was safe. And I said a prayer that God would indeed keep me safe. I had no idea where I was on a map. I only knew God had called me the middle of the jungle in India to love some of his children.