Summer Camp 2008

Summer Camp 2008 is over, and guess what? I survived!
On Friday evening, May 16th, about 170 children, ages 4-17, from all four project descended on St. Michael's School, the venue for the camp.
The came running, jumping, squealing, and laughing ready to celebrate being out of their villages for a couple of days.
The introduction session began simply enough with Presbyter Amiya Das leading the singing. Now Amiya knows how to work a crowd, especially a young one, so it wasn't long before all the kids and lots of us older folks were in full swing singing who knows what in Bengali and Hindi complete with motions.
Then a ferocious storm blew in, unusual for May, giving Day 1 a new twist. There was heavy rain, high winds, thunder and lightning; trees were toppled and blocked the road in front of the school, lines were downed, knocking out the power, and the water pipe was broken.
Like most big things around India, St. Michael's has a generator, so we weren't in the dark for too long, although the rain did cool things off a bit.
Everywhere else, however, was dark, very dark.
The lack of water proved to be a real problem for those folks staying at the school and those responsible for feeding the masses. The next day a water tank was brought in so at least there was water for drinking and cooking. Day 2 found us still hampered with no electricity and no water, but by noon, things were returning to normal. Thank goodness!
Camp included Bible study, singing and dancing, crafts, and a smallish (smaller groups but still big numbers) group discussion, also Bible centered. I had some problems with this as Muslim and Hindu children made up the majority of those attending the camp, and it made the camp seem more like Vacation Bible School than Summer Camp. I have some ideas for next year regarding camp activities. Surprised?
We also held a special "Body Talk" session for the adolescent girls. Girls, and women too, do not know how their bodies work or why things happen when they happen.
They don't know how to manage the menstrual cycle; they stay home and stay hidden which means they are not attending school, thus falling behind.
I can't believe I'm sharing this with you since I practically had to cover my face with my scarf when I was asking the Indian gentleman working with UNICEF, via e-mail, for the booklet on Menstrual Hygiene Management. But like I told the girls, it's a natural, necessary, and normal bodily function. After all, where would we be without it?
This was a tricky session because this subject is culturally taboo, but having the booklet, which was put together by adolescent girls and young women from rural villages in India, made it easier to broach the subject.
We were in the middle of showing the girls how to make a sanitary napkin using old saris and washcloths when another storm blew in bringing lots of hail. Well, forget the SN; let's watch the hail bounce around on the ground and even into our room.
We forged ahead talking about cleanliness, aches and pains, moods, and nutrition during this "time of the month."
The girls had no idea why this thing was happening to them. Rita, the bishop's wife is a nurse and now teaches biology, so she told the girls about the male flower and the female flower. whatever works, right?
The girls went back to their leader with high praise for the session.
My hope is to gather these girls together once a month at Shanti Griha to have more "learning conversations." The learning conversations model comes from Freedom From Hunger which works in the poorest Indian states, West Bengal being one of them.
Camp ended on Sunday evening. The maracas, rock bugs, jewelry and rainbow fish were all on display in front of the stage, the parents from the Durgapur project were all in attendance, and the teachers were cleaned up and decked out in nice saris, except for me who still had on camp clothes complete with paint and glue stains. As usual, I had to "say a few words."
The Cultural Program is always the highlight of any event in India. It gives the kids a chance to strut their stuff and they do this very well. I love watching these kids perform.
Then it was time to leave. There were hugs and there were tears, lots of tears as new friends and old said their good-byes.
Summer Camp-a great idea and a wonderful opportunity to plant new seeds, nurture young plants and tender seedlings.
I'm already planning for Summer Camp, 09.

miracles

Do you believe in miracles?
If you know anything about the Gospels, youknow they are full of the miracles of Jesus; the blind seeing, the lame walking, demons disappearing into swine, but the miracle I get to witness here in India is the wedding feast in Cana, changing water into wine.
You're probably thinking, what's a missionary doing going to so many weddings and drinking so much wine? Not to worry, only tea and coffee are served at the weddings I attend.
Changing water into wine, fine wine-
Today, I was visiting my friend, Jhorna and her little girl, whom the sisters at MT's Ashram have named Dibya, which means coming from the light, when I became fully aware of what was happening in this place. Actually, I was cycling back from the ashram when it hit me.
Usually, I am the one spoon-feeding juice to Jhorna, but today, one of the older children, maybe 10, took over that task. Gently she put the spoon to Jhorna's lips and said, "open." No shouting, no slapping.
It's getting easier to get Dibya to smile, giggle, and really laugh. She's now strong enough to stand up and holding onto your hands, she's taking steps. And today, Jhorna smiled! Oh my, I cannot describe the rush of emotions that swept over me. Water into wine, fine wine.
The children at the center have been working on lots of crafts to display in an exhibition to be held, I hope, before I leave in August.
Watching them engaged in this creative experience is an experience itself. We're sitting outside on the grass and they are painting the masks they've made from papier mache. Their creative juices are flowing, and these masks are wonderful, intricate details too small for a brush, so they are using broom straws.
Some of them are painting flower pots. Again, they disappear into their work. Every pot is different, every pot, beautiful. They are very quiet when they are doing this work. Occassionally, they will hold the pot up, inspect it and smile their approval.
Water into wine, fine wine.
A slum eviction crisis, a request, a generous response from our friends in Western North Carolina making the building of a hostel possible, so our children from this village can stay in Durgapur and continue their education.
Water into wine, fine wine.
And I get to be part of it.
Do you believe in miracles?
I do!-

On Being a Missionary

I am on the backside of my stay here in India, and I still have some questions about what it means to be a missionary. At this particular moment, I have decided that being a missionary is simply being Love in action; yes, that's Love with a capital L so it isn't always a simple thing to be.
Here are two stories about Love.
One of the ways I try to be Love in action is to show gentleness, gentleness to people, gentleness to children, and gentleness to animals. In this part of the world, gentleness is not openly displayed and often its counterpart is what you see, lots of slapping, ear tweaking, etc.
As I have shared with you before, The Dogs of Durgapur are an interesting lot. Some of them have found good places to hang out (school) and actually look pretty healthy giving birth to healthy pups. But at the diocesean compound, where the pickings are slim because the kitchen only operates when there are people here for conferences, etc., the dogs look like they could belong to the Dalit Caste, the lowest of the low, the untouchables.
One of these dogs took up with me early in my stay here, or rather, I took up with her because she was the thinnest, mangiest mongrel around, and I couldn't turn away from her. Then she got pregnant. No family planning in the dog world, but while she was pregnant, she looked pretty good. Then the puppies came along. There were four of them and they were cute. Aren't they all? She was a good mother, but she chose to have her puppies near the guard's hut which is far from the kitchen. The guard showed some gentleness to her by fixing her a safe place in some logs and brought her some straw. I was impressed by that. We had a lot of people here at that time so there were food scraps to be had, but she couldn't leave her puppies. I decided I needed to feed her. After all, she was a nursing mother and with that, the Soup Kitchen was created. You can't buy actual dog food here so I bought baby cereal and mixed it up every morning. Then I graduated to oatmeal adding whatever I could find to dice it up a bit, an egg, some gravy, and one week, due to a mistake at the grocery store, they got chicken hearts, yummy.
Of course this puppy feeding attracted a lot of attention from the staff. Whoever heard of such nonsense, cooking breakfast for these mangy creatures. I put them in the category of "the least of my brothers" and continued on. A couple of the maintenance men got in on the act and started hauling scraps from the kitchen to add to the usual breakfast of oatmeal plus.
It wasn't long before all the pups were infected with the mange or whatever it was, and so I located a chemist who also sold pet meds, described the condition, bought the meds and began administering them twice a day. Again, a maintenance man eagerly helped to crush the pills and I mixed them into the oatmeal. The men helping me with this effort were not staff people. These men live in slums themselves so they know what survival means. Then there was the spray, but the puppies had to be clean, so I gave them all a bath. They actually seemed to enjoy the bath. I think the cool water eased the itching for a few minutes, but the spray was a different matter. Ouch!
Now, one by one, the puppies have died and there is just one left. As soon as I enter the gate with breakfast in tow, she greets me, tail wagging, rolling around on my feet. I can hardly walk to the feeding place and sometimes I just have to put her in my basket and ride her to the feeding spot. Mom always enjoyed her share, but now she is missing and who knows what fate has befallen her.
Gentleness to all creatures. Love in action.
Another Story:
One day when I was volunteering at Mother Teresa's Ashram, I noticed a new baby in the nursery. She looked to be about 5/6 months old. She was extremely thin and her head was a bit too big for an infant, and she had a mouth full of teeth. She is more like a two year old. I was told that the mother was in the hospital there and that she wasn't doing well, not eating, not responding, nothing.
I later learned that the mother and child had been picked up off the platform at the railway station where they were lying. MTs decided to take them both because of the child. Usually, only people with TB come to this ashram.
I asked to visit the mother. There she was, stretched out on the bed, eyes closed and totally unresponsive, and oh so thin. One of the women there gave me a glass with some kind of drink in it and I took a spoon, filled it and gave it to this young mother. At first she wouldn't open her mouth so the woman slapped her on the face and yelled something at her and she opened her mouth just enough for me to slip the drink in. This kind of behavior is shocking but not unusual, and I cannot get used to it. The young woman drank all of it, spoonful by spoonful. It was tea, of course!
The next day, I made some applesauce and took it to the ashram. So now in the mornings, I'm making my breakfast, breakfast for my dog family, and breakfast for the
young woman. She ate all of the applesauce, and when the woman wanted to slap her face to get her to open her mouth, I intervened and said "No hitting." Then I spoke gently to the young mother and she opened her mouth and ate.
I thought she might be more encouraged if she got to hold her baby. I spoke with the sister who asked the sister in charge and the next day, they brought the baby for a visit. I didn't get to see this encounter.
Every morning I continued to fix her breakfast moving up to baby cereal then baby cereal with dahl and veggies. She was eating every bit of it and faster as well.
One morning she started calling for Babu, Babu (pet name for a child). I asked if I could go and get Babu from the nursery. I was given the okay sign and took off for the nursery. Babu was getting her breakfast shoveled down her throat and howling the whole time. I started talking to the baby. She stopped crying. I took the spoon and fed her whatever it was. Then I picked her up. This was my first time to hold one of the babies. Outsiders are not allowed to even touch these children for fear of germs. I held her tiny body close to me, tiny legs and arms dangling, weighing next to nothing. Then off we went to visit mommy. I placed the baby next to her mother. The mother never opened her eyes. I took the mother's hand and ran it over the baby. I took the baby's hand and ran it over the mother. The visit ended and I returned Babu to the nursery.
Each time I have gone to the ashram, the mom has improved. We now know her name, Jorna. Her eyes are open. She is sitting up and slowly, slowly she is walking. She is eating solid food so now I am taking her juice when I go to visit.
The last time I took Babu to visit, I set the baby on her mother's lap and got her to hold the baby. I,too, was holding onto her. These moments have been so tender.
When I am in the nursery, now that I can touch the babies, I make it a point to talk to all of them, make faces, play Here Comes Mommy Creepy Mouse and all that silliness that goes on around babies. These babies respond with smiles and giggles. Even Babu was laughing out loud the other day. The babies are taken care of. They are fed, they are bathed assembly line style, and kept dry. Their beds are clean and the nursery is clean, but these babies are not loved. They are not cuddled. So being Love in action means I try to teach these women in the nursery how to cuddle and be silly with the babies.
Two stories about Love in action, about being a misisonary.

To Bangkok and Back

I am in India on a tourist visa which means my passport does not have to be registered, but I did have to leave the country and come back in before 180 days had expired.
At first I thought I would just take the train to Bangladesh since it is close, but then I learned that the Bangladeshis and the Indians aren't very friendly toward each other and as a result, Indian trains cannot cross the border. Okay, I'll fly. the bishop offred his brother's residence and hospitality to me and everything seemed ready, almost at any rate. I needed a visa to go to Bangladesh, not an easy thing to accomplish since the High Commission of Bangladesh in Calcutta is only open for a blink of the eye each morning. It would take about three days to get a visa. While I was in Calcutta making my travel arrangements with the bishop's travel agent, the travel agent suggested Bangkok. No visa for American passport holders and he could put together a nice little package for me at a reasonable price. So all was arranged. I would fly out on Friday, the 28th around noon, be picked up by the staff of the company the travel agent uses for hotel packages, etc., be taken on a tour of Bangkok on the way to a nice hotel, then taken back to the airport on sunday for the trip back to India.
The bishop provided a car and driver for me and we left early on Friday morning for Calcutta and the airport. It's my birthday.
I checked in, got my boarding pass and headed to Immigration. That's IMMIGRATION!
Now I have to confess I knew I had overstayed the 180 days by a couple of weeks, but I was counting on Immigration to be like India Post, totally incompetent, or at least have a stall at the airport where visa delinquents could pay the penalty and move on. At the first station, the officer is looking at my visa and counting on his fingers from Sept to March, which is six months. He says, "You've been in the country longer than 180 days, you must register." I say politely, "No, I only have to leave the country which is what I am trying to do." At the next station, since more officers have been alerted, the officer growls at me about being a visa delinquent, but I stay calm. I don't say anything stupid like, "So what are you going to do, put me in jail?" I don't dissolve into silly putty on the floor. I do call Bishop Dutta. "Help, I'm in trouble." He speaks with Mr. Growly, but even the bishop has no clout with Immigration, and he tells me I must return to Durgapur and then go to Bardwan (county seat) to the Chief of Police and register my passport. "Then, he says, you won't even have to leave the country." "Oh great." By this time, I was looking forward to leaving the country. Another officer appears and says, " You can register at the Foreign Office for Registration of Passports in Calcutta. But you cannot fly today." Dollar signs started flashing through my mind. I was escorted back to the Jet Airway's desk, and this officer hands them my boarding pass. "This is really happening," I'm thinking. But the airline folks were great. They changed my ticket for Sat. and extended it a day, flying back on Monday at no charge. I have friends who must be getting a good chuckle out of this whole scene.
I called Peter, the travel agent to tell him my plight. The bishop had already called him, and he had already cancelled my package.
First I had to go to the registration office. Again I was reprimanded for overstaying my welcome, but then this officer was pleasant with me the rest of the time. I told him I needed to register, and he explained that a tourist visa cannot be registered, but that I still needed to leave the country. I told him that Immigration at the airport was a bit confused about this. He was surprised by that. I get all the paperwork done and head to the travel agency to work out another booking. Peter breaks the news to me that the company Globotel will not change my itinerary nor will they give me a refund. Peter is not happy, and I am certainly not happy, even if it was my fault. Peter says he will no longer do business with Globotel, and I hope he doesn't. Some birthday.
I fly out the next day at the same time, get myself to the hotel, which is okay, and then try to figure out how to do Bangkok in eight hours.
Unfortunately, I arrived at the hotel late and didn't know you had to book a tour a day in advance, so seeing Bangkok with a tour group was nixed. A nice young Thai taxi driver offered to take me around for the day at what seemed a reasonable fee to me.
I didn't see the floating markets, not even from the shore as they are located outside the city and required a long drive. I didn't see the temples, or the Thai people at work along the canals. I did go to a couple of handicraft galleries (driver's idea) and finally I got him to take me to a market that was listed in the things to do brochure I picked up at the hotel. The very things that were in the galleries were also on the street, though much less expensive. The driver probably got a commission of some sort for bringing folks to the galleries. Oh well, I still enjoyed my stroll along the street.
I did see, however, skyscrapers, McDonalds, Starbucks, KFC, Tescos, 7/11, Shell, Esso, and of course lots of Toyotas,and Hondas. The cars are like ours, big, but the drivers stay in their lanes which are actually marked, and there is virtually no horn blowing, and it's clean, all unlike India.
I did go to a Dairy Queen to satisfy my craving for a chocolate milkshake and to Boots to get an Rx that India Post just can't seem to deliver to me.
Sounds like a nice place to visit, right? It is if you like everything western, but I love the color, the sights, the smells of India. Yes, it's frustrating not to be able to buy simple things like tweezers (lost mine in Bangkok), or a can opener without searching through the markets and the department stores which takes days. India Post is the pits requiring all kinds of rules for mailing packages yet having no rules for deliveries. About five of my packages have "gone astray."
I love all the different kinds of transport: the buses, the motorscooters and cycles, the rickshaws, the bikes, and the three-wheeled goods carriers. I love dodging the free roaming cows, dogs, and goats, the poojas and the people.
I can understand why Gandhi had such strong feelings about preserving India's culture, refusing to buy or use anything that was not Indian made.
When the west moves in, the culture moves out. Back at the hotel, I did enjoy some time in the jacuzzi and a Thai massage by a hefty Thai woman, but I was ready to get back to the colorful and lively world of India.

Women's International Day

Today, at St. Michaels's Church, we celebrated International Women's Day. Since our priest, Fr. Sam, had to be at another church, he turned this service over to the women. He helped, of course, in the planning to keep us within the parameters of acceptablility.
The Vice-Principal of St. Michael's School, Archanna Dey, was the leader.She put in manyy hours trying to get everything just right, including as many women as she could in the service.
She also wanted a "special song" to be sung by small group of women, mostly teachers from the school. She adapted the song People Over the World to make it Women Over the World.
Fr. Sam got out one of the hymnals friends from St. Mary's had sent to us, and together we searched for some appropriate hymns to include in the worship service,
trying them out on the new keyboard, a gift from the UK. It was fun playing around with the different tones, tempos, and styles available on this little Yamaha. Then Archanna asks me to pick out the tune for Women Over the World. This, I cannot do. I can play the right hand, the melody, and only about two octaves to the right of Middle C, so we enlist the help of the music teacher at St. Michael's, the go-to-guy when we want music, real music at the church. He jots down the notes and then Archanna asks me to play the keyboard with the "choir!" Are your hysterics over? Have you picked yourselves up off the floor yet?
Those of you who know me and have been to my home, know that I love music and that I have all kinds of instruments: a piano, guitar,dulcimer, several recorders, a tambourine, and even a little African harp like thing, but I can't play any of them.
But being a Franciscan, I have to rise to the challenge and like I said, there is tempo, style, and voice on the keyboard menu, so all I really have to do is play the melody with my right hand and let technology do the rest.
So I practice alone and with the "choir" but there is never one complete run-through of this song. Archanna has added an extra part which is a verse a half note higher and will be sung just before the ending to end the song. There are five members of this group and so five different variations on the theme. Each time we start out, I am never sure where we are going with this song, but I finally realize that I can just hold a key down (organ mode) and let them go off in whatever direction they want and it's okay.
The music teacher has agreed to play All Creatures of Our God and King and Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God. I know, it's Lent and we shouldn't be singing Alleuias, but cut us some slack, OK?
Now the music teacher has a really good ear and claims all he needs is the key and he can take it from there, no notes necessary. Before the service, I hand him the hymnal already turned to All Creatures, but he just wags his head and says no problem.
No Problem IF everyone knows the tune, that is. We don't.
Archanna has also requested that those of us in the service wear saris and bangles (bracelets). I had to arrive early so someone could wrap me up in my sari and Archanna loaned me lots of bangles to wear.
So we are all set to process in our saris and bangles and we even have a girl Crucifer. Normally we don't have a Crucifer at all.
Archanna nods to the organist who gives us only chords. Archanna has a lovely voice, but in her nervousness starts us out about an octave lower, forgets the tune completely after the first two lines, and no one knows where in the world we are including the organist, but we process anyway. Thank God for short runways. That misery ended quickly.
Soon it was time for the "special song" and my debut as the only right-handed keyboardist with a two octave range in the world. I traded places with the real musician, click on the buttons I need and I am ready, but the organist thinks I have forgotten how to do this, so he helps me out by undoing the settings. The girls are still getting situated so I have time to reset. We begin. It's not bad, but when we get to the place where the added segment should be, Archanna decides, on the spot, not to do it thinking the women have forgotten how it goes and moves the final line of the song. Quickly I catch on and catch up. Then it's over. Alleluia! sorry.
Seek Ye First went much better because Mr Keyboardist played the melody along with his beloved chords. Guess he caught on from the processional hymn.
The rest of the service went well with Rita Dutta, the bishop's wife, delivering a short homiliy about the International Women's Conference she and Bishop Dutta had attended at the UN in New York the week before.
We processed out to Showers of Blessings, yes that's right, and it was a rousing processional.
What did you do for International Women's Day?

something light, something dark

Now that you have Christmas packed away and Valentine's Day all wrapped up for another year and are swimming through waves of bunny rabbits and Easter chicks, I want to tell you about Christmas in India.

It was different, but not so different. The big shops in Durgapur were packed mainly because they were having a "buy one get one absolutely free" sale. This message blared through the sound system over and over again. No soft Christmas music playing in the background to entice you to dig dipper into your wallet and buy that gift for Auntie.

At St. Michael's, there was the usual round of Christmas caroling throughout the neighborhoods and there was a big Christmas get together with all the churches in the diocese. We even had a service of Lessons and Carols.

Of course there were the programs: school programs, Sunday School programs, and Diocesean Children's Project Programs. I saw Nativity Pageants performed by Christians and Hindus and being totally objective here, I have to say our slum children's Nativity Tableaux was the best. Our costumes were really nice, sarees for the kings, dhotis for the shepherds, and cute little white dresses with shiny wings for the angels.

Not many people decorate their homes for the season. No tree, but since there are no live Christmas trees here, I guess that's to be expected. There are artificial trees, not made to look real, but made to look artificial, mainly a pole with tinseled branches widely spaced and standing no more than 3 or 4 feet tall. My own little faker was about 12" tall but the branches, also widely spaced, sort of had a fir look to them. It was easy to decorate with one little silver strand which had ornaments spaced along it. I cut out wrapped packages from an old Christmas card and stuck them under my tree. My grandchildren sent me a better tree all decorated which held the place of honor on my table the rest of the Christmas season. Putting Christmas away was very easy.

Since there were no Christmas trees, there were no wrapped packages under the tree. There was nothing to shake, no packages to count, and no piles to measure. the Indians may be onto something here. Usually the family just takes the kids shopping and lets them pick out a thing or two and that is pretty much it.

The only Christmas Eve service at St. Michael's was the midnight one, so I arranged to stay at the center so I could attend. It was a candlelight service, but there was no musical accompaniment, and there were very few of us in the congregation, maybe six. Since most people walk, cycle or ride motorbikes getting out at such a late hour just isn't done.
Fr. Sam was all alone at the altar, preparing the table, juggling a candle, and leading the singing of Oh Holy Night hoping we wouldn't fade away in the middle of it when he had to stop singing for a moment. Well, when he stopped, we all stopped, a nice little pause in the middle of the liturgy. Having the entire service in candlelight was clearly not a good idea, but we sang Silent Night and Once in Royal David's City, so it was okay.
The next morning, 7:30am, the service was not much better, but at least there was an altar helper and a keyboardist. Then at 8:30, there was the Bengali service and I stayed for that one mainly because it was packed with people spilling out into the yard and little children seated on the floor in a space up front. We ended the service with Angels We Have Heard on High, so my three favorite carols were sung and that was enough for me.
The church was gaily decorated with balloons, crepe paper streamers, and other brightly colored lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the church. I'm sure the Indians would think our "greening" of the church pretty drab in comparison.
So guess what! It happened anyway. Christmas happened without the hype and the hoopla, without my packages arriving on time for my family to open them together, without Christmas carols weaving in and out of the daily routine. But what struck me the most about Christmas here is that everybody celebrated it. The Hindu children in my building had a Christmas party, complete with Santa and a little tree, on the roof to which I was invited. A Hindu teacher from the school played the keyboard at the Bengali service on Christmas Day, and as I said, just about all the Nativity plays were performed by Hindus.
When the Hindu Poojas were in full swing last fall, everyone celebrated with them. Yes, there are some fundamentalist here in India, like everywhere, but so far they haven't shattered the spirit of tolerance and respect for other faiths. Here, everyone was wished a Merry Christmas, not a Happy Winter Solstice, and in Oct. we were wished a Happy Diwali.
It this little corner of the world, it almost seemed like Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.

From the Dark Side:
I've been giving some thought to death lately; the different kinds of death one might experience, the violent ones, the tragic ones, the war ones, the old age ones, and the peaceful ones.
Eventhough St. Francis welcomes Sister Death in his Canticle to the Sun, death, for most of us I think is not an easy thing to contemplate.
Sometimes we are able to say "He died in peace," or " She lived a full and happy life," and if the loved one had been battling cancer or AIDS, or Alzheimer's we can say "At last the suffering is over."
In America, death takes its toll on the highway wiping out the lives of both young and old; such a senseless way to die.
Our decadent life style takes more lives, heart disease, diabetes, cancer, obesity; again, such a senseless way to die.
Since I've been in India, Iv'e been exposed to another kind of death, death by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance, such a senseless way to die.
This kind of death is ugly. Here, death has dominion.
I am fully aware that death is part of the cycle of life and that we need it to close one generation and make room for another, but does it have to be by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance?
As most of you know from my e-mail about the woman in bed#28, I witnessed the dying of a woman who was all alone in this world. Imagine that! No one caring about her, no one assisting her out of this life to whatever lay ahead for her, no one to tell her good-by or that she was loved. That kind of lonely, cold, despairing death makes me shiver.
How did that happen? How did she get in that situation? Where was her family?
Then there was Punima, 13 years old; a beautiful young girl who, escaping an attacker, jumped from a second story window. She broke her leg in the fall and ended up in the government run hospital. She was discharged at some point, her leg still in a cast, but readmitted sometime later. Her leg was still in the same cast and because she had been bed-ridden the whole time she was at her home, bedsores appeared over most of her buttocks; deep penetrating sores eating through her flesh and tissue all the way to the bone and into the bone. Neglect and ignorance landed this child with her severly infected body back in the hospital. I could do nothing for Shakil in bed #28 but keep her cleaned and fed until the day she died, but I was able to talk to the Misssionaries of Charity about Punima, and they decided to get her discharged into their care. Punima would die, but she would die knowing that there were others who cared about her.
These kinds of death are happening all over India on a daily basis. They are happening in countries in Africa where AIDS has a mighty grip on the population.
Maybe you're thinking it's a population problem and a little family planning would solve everything. That usually seems to be the first response whenever the subject of povery arises, but I think that's a "cop-out" kind of answer, one that frees us from the responsibility of looking deeper into the root causes of poverty. By looking deep, we might just discover that we are playing a big role in the plight of these people, our neighbors on the other side of the world.
There is always talk about addressing the issue of poverty with all its ramifications, and in Sept., 2000, something concrete was born- The Millenium Development Goals. These eight goals were drawn from the Millenium Declaration that was adopted by 189 nations and signed by 147 heads of state and governments during the UN Millenium Summit. Since then, many churches have adopted the MDGs as part of their own declaration to fight poverty; The Episcopal Church in N. America is one of them.
The MDGs address the issues of extreme poverty and hunger, lack of education, gender equality & women's empowerment, child mortality, maternal health, HIV/AIDS, and environmental stability and global parnerships. Couched in all of these are some serious questions about excessive life-styles and how these life-styles exacerbate the issues at hand. This is where thinking DEEP comes into play. It's realizing we are connected to each other, Shakila in bed 28, Punima, and scores of other men, women, and children who, in one way or another reap what we sow.
Their pain is our pain.
Their misery is our misery.
Their despair is our despair.
"How is this possible!" You might exclaim.
Just think about it.
Where do you shop?
What do you buy?
What do you drive?
Where did the resources used to build your nice, new, big home come from?
The farmers in Ethiopia hit by draught due to extreme climate changes don't drive SUVs, we do.
Agri-business coffee growers have forced many family coffee growers in Central and South America to abandon their farms and look for employment elsewhere, perhaps across our borders. Still not buying Fair Trade Coffee?
The MDGs are a great step in the right direction and only a pittance is required to help with the funding, 0.7% of your yearly income. Even I can afford that.
But to stop the cycle of poverty and all that goes with it, we must be willing to make the necessary changes, real changes, life-style changes, and yes, it will hurt, but it will also liberate. Until we do, death will continue to have dominion in the impoverished countries of the world.

fitting in

When I arrived in Durgapur, I was ready to meet the challenge of "fitting in." I was going to live simply; I am. I was going to learn the language; I'm trying. I was going to dress in the Indian way; I am with some modifications, and I was going to eat their hot, spicy food even if smoke was pouring out of my ears and my nose was running; I have done this, and I have eaten with my right hand, literally hand, on many occasions.
Most of the people at the school and the Center have been very warm and welcoming, hospitable and supportive, but there was one maintenance person working at the center, a young man, who clearly was not happy with my presence at the school for the children from the slums. He never spoke to me, in fact I wondered if he could even talk, and he wore a frown in my presence. I started feeling a bit nervous whenever he and I were at the Center at the same time which was every day, so I started avoiding him as best I could.
Then two things happened at about the same time. One was the garden project which he became very interested in and kept close tabs on as the space was cleared, the soil cultivated, and the seeds planted. The other was the painting project. I had decided to paint the ABCs on one wall of each classroom with pictures, like I did in Jordan (my world project?) He also became very interested in this.
When I was drawing the letters on the wall, he was still glaring and growling, but when I began to paint, he started coming into the classroom to watch. Then when I began the picture part of the project, he really took notice. He would come in and sit at one of the desks and watch. After several pictures were on the wall, he gave me the Indian head wag of approval and the Indian OK sign. He even managed a smile.
Slowly, as his trust in me grew and vice-versa, I found myself teasing with him a bit. Now when he sees me coming, he knows exactly which rooms to open, and if he needs to leave before I am finished, he leaves the keys with me with strict instructions about which rooms to lock and where to leave the keys. His name is Ragabir and he has become a favorite of mine, and I think he likes me a little as well. Fitting in!
Missionary aka celebrity. I didn't know that was part of the job description, but lately I have been honored by different groups, being invited to be the Chief Guest at this function or that. this means I get to sit in the best seat and hand out prizes or gifts. sometimes it means saying a "few words." The Indians are quite good at this kind of surprise. "And now, Ms. Lynn, would you say a few words to the group. This is not what I do best, but I started trying to be a bit prepared for such occasions. So at our Christmas program after all the teachers were introduced and on the stage, the bishop hands me the mike and asks me to say a few words. This was an audience of parents from the villages and a few other guests from St. Michael's and St. Peter's. The lights were very bright and I couldn't see any of their faces. I did not like that at all, but the show must go on, right? I began by greeting them with Nomashkar, which they loved, and then I asked them how they were in Bengali, lots of clapping and cheering for that effort. I have to tell you this was kind of an inside joke as the children quiz me continually every day on these two phrases: kaemon achen and palo achi, How are you and I am fine. After that it didn't really matter what I said and after the program, the parents were eager to meet me and shake my hand. Fitting in!
At another program where I was an important guest and got to say a few words, I was able to use the Muslim greeting Asalamualikum. The parents and the children who were mostly Muslim returned the greeting with wa alikum asalam amidst cheers, laughter and clapping. I spent a lot of that day greeting different parents as the children dragged me from one family to another. Fitting in!
One afternoon I was painting, as usual, and one of the guys came into the room with an old pound cake still in its package and asked me if I wanted it. I told him no that he could have it if he wanted it. He went back to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later and invited me to tea. So there I was hanging out in the kitchen with three maintenance guys drinking tea and eating stale and a bit frozen ( the kitchen fridge tends to do that) pound cake. Fitting in!
The last little cultural tip to fitting in is the dance. Now I love to dance. I've never been any good at it, but it's just something I like to do and the Indian dances are great fun. One day before the Christmas break, we decided to have a little party of our own, just the teachers and the kids here at the Center. This is where the stale pound cake came from. The CD player was dragged out onto the veranda and turned up full blast and the dancing began. We were all dancing and having a great time of it. I had to go into the computer room for something and there was Rogabir, all alone and dancing. and smiling. Fitting in!
Being a missionary is a lot more than arriving in a country with a bag of band aids, some kind words, and a big smile. It's also allowing the people who live in the place the time to warm up to you and to trust you in their own way and in their own time.
You never know exactly what will make a difference but you do know when it happes just from the response.
It's quite a cool feeling, this "fitting in."