A very delayed update: the end and the tour...

First of all, I apologize for the delay in updating my blog. At the end of February and in early March, I traveled to Sri Lanka because I had to exit the country after six months and re-enter (a common visa procedure when you remain a country for over six months). Thus, I had a week long vacation and enjoyed the opportunity to kick back for a bit with my other fellow volunteers.

When I returned back to my school, the majority of my students had their bags packed, and their parents were picking them up because their exams were over. The school year was finished! Unfortunately, no one informed me about the exact date of when the school was over, and I was unprepared to quickly say good-bye or did not even have a chance to say good-bye in some cases. For me, the lack of closure was devastating because I will not see most of these girls ever again. Thus, I had very little to do during the month of March because the older students--the 10th-12th grade students--had examinations throughout the month, and I only had my lower primary students (grades 1-4) to teach on two days a week. Sometimes, living and serving abroad is a lot of waiting and sitting, and I struggle with that because I have way too much time to sit alone with my thoughts. During March, I did visit a few of the older teachers' homes, and it was nice to meet their families. My last official day at my school was March 31st, and a mixture of emotions flooded my system. I am still processing everything and will probably write about some of it later.

For the month of April, we have--my volunteer group--been traveling around northern India and are experiencing the diversity of India. The country is similar to a giant patchwork quilt of little coutnries because each state often has its own culture, languages, dress, diet, etc. For example, Keralites have a rice based diet and eat with their hands. Many of the states which we have visited have a more wheat-based diet and do not eat with their hands. I think that I could spend a lifetime trying to become intimately acquainted with this country.

So far, we've experienced Delhi, Agra (Taj Mahal), Musoorie (Himalayan foothills), Dharmsala (more Himalayan foothills and home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan goverment in exilte), the Golden Temple in Amistar, the Indo-Pakistan border, and a little more Delhi. Currently, I am in Delhi and had the glorious opportunity of Delhi-Belly (some sort of stomach flu-ish thing from some unknown culprit).

Although traveling is a wonderful thing, I must confess that I am a bad tourist. Often, I grow upset when we pack up and leave a place after two to four days because I wanted to understand more about the culture, the people, the history, and the landscape of the places which I visit. I want to build relationships and desire to be viewed as more than a client or a source of income to guest houses, vendors, and tourist attractions. Hopping around from place to place makes me feel discombobulated. After traveling a lot during the past year , I have realized that you cannot escape yourself despite a change in location and that almost anything can be memorable, wonderful, or breath-taking as long as you have good company.

A few strange things happened in Dharmsala. One day, David, Becca, and I were wandering around the narrow streets, and Becca stopped at a stand to peruse some moccasin-like slippers. The merchant told us that his selection was better upstairs in his shop, and we trampled upstairs. Although he approached the sale in a somewhat normal manner, the merchant’s eyes looked distraught yet glazed over. For some reason or other, he began explaining that he was having an extremely bad day, and then a story about his brother’s visa refusal came from his lips. From what I understood, he told us that his younger brother’s visa application was rejected—the rejection was stamped in his passport—and that his brother wanted to go to France to be with his girlfriend. “He is a nice boy! There is nothing wrong with him. That f**king embassy…we’re Muslim, and they think that we’re terrorists. I’m so angry that I could want to kill someone—it does not matter who…He is a nice boy. His happiness is my happiness, and his pain is my pain. The government gives visas to the Tibetans all the time. What about us? Do you think that it is fair?” He was nearly crying, and the pain in his eyes and the tremor in his voice was palpable. None of us knew exactly what to say, and we let him say whatever he needed or wanted to let out. Becca eventually purchased her shoes, and we left. Then this gentleman started bawling in his shop, and we wanted to comfort but knew that nothing that we could do would help other than listening.

After walking out of that shop and for the rest of the afternoon, I felt like weeping for that man, his brother, his family, and the brokenness of our world. Since I am an American, I can get a visa quite easily: no one inquires about my bank account balance or suspects a 22 year old, white female of anything. No one assumes that I am terrorist due to my religious affiliation. Can the world--the U.S., Europe, and even India as well--stop viewing every single Muslim as a security threat and instead, view him or her as a person with needs, thoughts, feelings, and a family? It breaks my heart to see people suffer, and I can only hope that humanity could treat each other with more justice, compassion and dignity. For me, I see Jesus as that model of love and compassion, and I pray and hope that you can summon some sort of love and respect from any source in order to make the world a more loving place. Can we—both personally and institutionally—treat people with more dignity, equality, and respect so we do not create terrorists through our apathy and denial of opportunities? If you’ve read Three Cups of Tea, the authors pose this question as well, and I read this book a few days ago. Coincidence? I think not.

The next day in Dharmsala, Becca, David, and I had some extra time in the afternoon and could not figure out what to do. Becca suggested that we go to this conversational English class for Tibetan refugees that we saw on a flyer on the previous day. However, we did not have the flyer anymore and stopped in a small coffee shop/community space, Rogpa, and this British woman happened to be going to the same class and said that she’d walk with us there. I had no idea what to expect by doing a drop-in class.

We approached the Tibet Hope Center, and a slew of people were gathered around a ping-pong table. Eventually, the organizer divided the students among the volunteers. I then found myself in a small classroom with four Tibetan young men and had no idea of where to begin. Their English compentency varied greatly, and I started asking questions about their homes, hobbies, and families. Little did I know that these questions were quite loaded because I was talking to refugees. All four had fled Tibet within the past five years, and I was shocked to hear about the recentness of their exile. Our “class” really turned into a strange form of group therapy, and they shared their stories about how the Chinese government stormed their homes, how their families were separated, their struggles with language and culture, the uncertainity of their situations, and their dreams and hope for Tibet. The afternoon moved me, and I did not expect such candid, thoughtful, and honest responses from them. I only felt bad that I was not able to come back again for another class.

How can we actively love our neighbors? Do we only express love to those we know? When will we finally move to action in order to make the world a better place? Lip service is never enough, and take time to listen and find a way to help someone who may never reciprocate the action.

The Oscars and India...

Yesterday morning, I was watching the Academy Awards on television. Being a southern California abroad, I must confess that it felt strange to be watching the Oscars at 10 a.m. with 95 degree weather. Anyways, a few teachers passed by during the musical performances from Slumdog Millionare and became very excited because their country was represented at the ceremony. The gentleman who won the sound editing award (and had the opportunity to give an acceptance speech) is from Kerala, and many people here are extremely proud of him. Right now, India is celebrating. Many people have asked me about Slumdog Millionare , but I have not seen it.

Just thought that I'd let you know the sentiments here!

Snack time!

Today, I arrived to the fourth standard (grade) class* during mid-morning snack time, and my eight students were munching on various crackers, cookies (known as biscuits), and mix (an Indian version of Chex mix) from their small plastic containers. Usually from the students’ excitement, a shrill uproar commences at my arrival to their class, and I have to calm the students down. I thought that my foreigner novelty would wear off after a few months, but my younger students, who are wonderful, are always excited to have me come to class. However, today’s uproar differed than most because the students were pushing each other and thrusting their small snack containers at me.

“Lindsey Auntie, eat snack!”
“No, Lindsey Auntie, eat snack first!”
“Lindsey Auntie, biscuit, my biscuit!”

My fourth standard students were fighting to share their snacks with me, and I initially told them that their parents would want them to eat their snacks. However, everyone insisted on sharing with me, and I crunched on a little bit of mix and pieces of broken biscuit halves with them. One of the shyest students, Shelsa, was sitting alone on her bench, and I noticed that she did not have any snack. I asked why she wasn’t eating, and suddenly, the other seven children started breaking biscuits and giving her handfuls of mix. Truly genuine, these children amaze me because sharing is their first response to anyone with empty hands. In fact, they even fight and shove to share with someone.

Imagine that we lived in a world where sharing and giving were our immediate responses to anyone’s needs. How awesome would that world be! In fact, it even resembles the Kingdom of God and the story when the little boy gives his five small barley loaves and two small fish to Jesus and the disciples to feed the multitude in John 6:1-15.

I love working with youth and children because they teach and convict me through their simplicity and straight forward actions. I can only hope that my fourth standard students continue their spirits of generosity.

*My school is a girls’ boarding school for standards 5-12, but on the same property, a new lower primary day school (from preschool age-4th standard) opened two years ago and has about 42 students, boys and girls. A few of the 2nd-4th standard girls live in the boarding at the larger school. I volunteer at the lower primary school on Monday and Thursday mornings (usually I come after snack time is over), and the lower primary students address me as “Lindsey Auntie.” My older students have a plethora of names for me: Lindsey Auntie, Auntie, Lindsey Kochamma, Kochamma, Lindsey Chechi, Chechi, and occasionally, Lindsey Miss.

Ten priests, one American, and two cultures...

A few weeks ago, someone knocked on my room door and told me to go to the school office because I had a visitor. Surprised, I went to the office and saw an elderly man sitting at the desk. He introduced himself and explained that he received information about me through Becca, a fellow volunteer. Coincidentally, a few days before, Becca told me that I may get a call from an English teacher who occasionally came to her site. This gentleman, Philipose, asked if I could help with an English class for a group of Mar Thoma priests who were being sent to the United States in May. (Mar Thoma is an Indian Christian denomination which has many characteristics of the Orthodox tradition.) Although I did not know what exactly what his request entailed, I agreed to come and to visit Philipose’s class. Through comparing and contrasting American and Keralite culture and language, I gained a lot of clarity about my experiences with cross-cultural interaction by helping these priests prepare for living in a new environment and culture.

In the first class, I learned that these priests little exposure to American culture and to American English, and in fact, my accent and certain idioms are challenging because most of their English exposure comes from other Indians. For example, many Keralites say, “Did you take lunch?” From this phrase, I get the impression that someone is asking me if I physically brought a some sort of bagged lunch on an outing; however, I am aware of the different phrasings and now know “Did you take lunch?” means “Did you eat?” In general, many expressions and phrases differ in our different English-es, and I have become fluent in Kerala English. We discussed and practiced a lot of different expressions in our class, and the priests benefitted a lot from learning new ways to phrase things. Sometimes, I worry about my speaking and writing skills when I return home.

Although they are being sent to a few Mar Thoma parishes sprinkled across the U.S. and Canada in mostly major metropolitan areas and have a three year term, I was surprised at their understanding of American climate, geography, and customs. On the classroom whiteboard, I drew a little American map and discussed the different cultures, even demonstrated a few different accents of certain regions, and talked about weather. Eventually, our class sessions turned into a long question and answer session about American life, manners, customs, holidays, etc. with many good laughs thrown in because of the cultural misunderstandings. When I was explaining some of my native cultural customs to the priests, they often asked, “Why do you do that?” Most of the time, I could explain the origin and meaning of certain American customs, but a few instances made me question a few of my customs as well because I did not have a reasonable answer for the priests’ questions. Here are a few funny comments and questions:

-Priest: What do you wear when it snows? Should I buy cotton clothing, or do I need a different material? Due to the heat, humidity, and different laundering practices, the choice of fabric (cotton, rayon, nylon, etc.) is more crucial when purchasing clothes here. However, I explained that the choice of fabric does not necessarily determine the effectiveness of garment for cold weather because a person needs to look at the other factors, such as the thickness of a jacket, if a collar will guard your neck from the air, etc. Also, I described the technique of layering clothing.
- Chicago is close to California, right? We talked about geography on the first day to clear up some misunderstandings. Like them, I had to learn more specifics about geography of the destination country. Now, I know the location and names of most Indian states, regional names, etc.
-I can’t ask any questions without being rude! One priest expressed his frustration about manners and politeness. In his case, I had to explain that it is not polite to immediately ask a woman, “Are you married?” upon first meeting. (And then ask, “Why aren’t you married?” if she says no; it’s happened to me countless times!) after you learn her name. In general, Keralites ask very personal questions in a direct way, and often, this can misconstrued as rude by the average American. In class, I explained the decorum of different conversational situations and more polite ways to ask questions. In my opinion, the nuance, phrasing, and tone of the question almost matter more than the question’s content at times, and we tried learning and understanding this concept in class.
-Why is winter so long? I could only laugh in response to that question. Remember, I'm from southern California, the land of little weather change.
-Do you eat rice in America? I tried not to laugh at that question. My response: “Yes, people eat rice in America, but some people do not eat it every single day at multiple meals. However, the average American diet is more wheat-based.”

During our discussion, I realized how far removed I am from American culture and how long I’ve actually been here. Like my priest friends, I asked similar questions and expressed frustrations about trying to understand the culture here. To my Keralite friends, I am sure that I appeared extremely clueless, helpless, discombobulated, and lost a few months ago. Although I can function a lot better within society here, there are some days where I am caught off guard become irritated, angry, hostile, or upset from incidents because I either become aware of new customs/habits or am exhausted from having to adjust so my mind-frame, habits, the manner in which I speak, or even certain aspects of my personality. I have turned into a chameleon and feel like the confused chameleon in the popular children’s book, The Mixed-Up Chameleon by Eric Carle. (I remember my parents reading that book before bed when I was little!) Cross-cultural interaction is full of compromise, and sometimes, I have to evaluate which aspects of my culture are negotiable and which are firm.

Sometimes, I find myself thinking, “I just want to be myself!” when I grow exasperated. But now, what does “myself” mean? Does myself mean that I want to use my normal vocabulary, colloquialisms, syntax, and idioms? Does myself mean that I can dress in a way which pleases me? Does I just want to be myself! indicate that I crave something familiar? Even my YAV year’s 5 and 9/28 months have turned my life upside down. Through the voluntary exile* from my homeland, I am sifting through my cultural, moral, aesthetic, and spiritual preferences to discover deeper truths which are stripped of cultural veneer, and the process can be painful, bewildering, and very emotional. At this point, I am not ready to list what has been left behind or what I have found in this sifting process, and in fact, I will only understand some things when I have returned home.


*Although voluntary exile may sound a little over the top, I recently read a lot exilic Biblical literature (Ezra, Nehemiah, & Esther; all having to do with the exile, return, and the Jewish Diaspora) and Jesus Wants to Save Christians: A Manifesto for the Church in Exile by Rob Bell and Don Golden (I highly recommend this book, which is quite critical and challenges American churches). So, the ideas and words of exile, journeying, and exodus have been stuck in my head.

Opera comes to Kerala...

…Composers often wrote music for castrati singers during the Baroque period. What is a castrato? Well, I must be quite frank and explain what castration is…
Imagine trying to explain castration to an auditorium of college students and professors in India. Yes, I did have to do that. I wonder if any of them truly understood my awkward description. Who knew that an English seminar lecture could be so racy?

On Thursday afternoon, I gave a lecture about opera at an English seminar at Bishop Moore College in Mavelikara. In November, an English professor friend asked me to speak and to sing at their annual department seminar because she thought that a lighter, more fun lecture would be good a cultural opportunity for the students. I agreed to come and thought that the event would be informal and small. However, I was wrong.

My fellow YAV in Mavelikara, Ariel, called me earlier this past week and told me that her students were excited about the opera performance. Then I panicked for three reasons. First, people were actually anticipating my speaking/singing engagement. Second, people thought that I was performing an entire opera, and attempting to do a one-person, a cappella opera would be quite an undertaking. And third, I had a cold and was a mucous factory. I have the uncanny ability to get a virus around the time of singing engagements. Although I appreciated the enthusiasm, I felt the pressure of my upcoming and eager audience who wanted to learn about a foreign art form. Since opera and classical singing have such a hold on my heart, I usually grow shy and avoid singing when people ask me to sing in a casual setting. Busting out an aria, melodie, or a lied often freaks people out with the volume, the foreign language, and the vibrato. Could my explanation and a cappella singing of a few arias give justice to opera, an art form which I love?

Armed with a Power-point presentation, a few audio samples, and myself, I condensed a few hundred years of music history, musical terms, story lines, and vocal technique in about one hour. (And I probably talked too fast at times.) When I do public speaking, I can usually gauge an audience’s interest level and try to cater to them, but gauging interest of a large foreign audience is very difficult. In addition, I was worried about their reaction to my singing—due to my cold, two Italian arias which were not too straining—because I initially scared some of my choir students by the loudness of my singing during our rehearsal warm-ups. However, the students’ reaction surprised me because they listened intently, gave a hearty applause, and approached to me after the program to talk. The English professors enjoyed the presentation because it introduced culture and explained some of the operatic references in English literature which they previously did not understand. (An example: Walt Whitman refers the term aria in "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.") After my lecture and singing, the morning keynote speaker felt inspired and grabbed the microphone to sing a medley of African-American spirituals during the closing of the ceremony. Then he asked me to give “a full evening of song in the sometime future” to his community a few hours away. I had no idea that sharing one of my passions in lecture form could make such a splash.

Although the saying, “music is the universal language,” feels cliché, my experience in India has confirmed the truth of that statement, and God uses music to bring so much sense and joy to my life. Since I dedicated the past four years of my life to studying music, I have daily moments where I miss formal musical training: I miss having a choral director lecture about lifting the soft palate, searching for best words to describe an instrumental theme, going over historical performance practice, needing to go over my German diction, singing scales and arpeggios, searching a rare musical score in a specific key, and even waiting for a practice room to be available. Now, I have different kinds of musical moments. These moments may not always substitute for my formal training cravings, but they show me why I chose to get a B.A. in Music and renew the sense wonder that music brings. While walking to Bishop Moore College, I stopped to talk with a book stall vendor, and in our conversation, he said that music brings us closer to the divine and explained some concepts about Carnitic music to me. (Carnitic music is south Indian classical music; I must be thankful for the required Worlds of Music class at the College of William and Mary because I can talk to people here about Indian music.) At school, my students ask to learn new songs all the time. During Christmas in Andhra Pradesh, we loved sitting on the roof and singing folk songs all night. Music has that magical ability to connect and to inspire people across cultures, and it has helped me build so many relationships. I feel so privileged and am blessed that I could introduce opera and music to a wonderful group of people.

"Genuine music fills the soul with a thousand things better than words. The thoughts which are expressed to me by music that I love are not too indefinite to be put into words, but on the contrary, too definite." -Felix Mendelssohn

Christmas abroad...

My friend, Sarah, laughs at how I often verbally preface questions and stories, and we’ve coined this characteristic speaking pattern as “prefacing.” Why do I this? Well, I sometimes become embarrassed that my train of thought has tendency to move fast and makes strange connections between ideas. In fact, I’m prefacing my own preface.

And thus, I must preface this blog with these comments:

Due to the neglect of my blog during the month of December, I have a lot of brief description about events but hate having to quickly gloss over some things. If I could write everything that I want to say, my blog would become more verbose than it already is. To truly convey all of my swirling thoughts, events, and emotions of the Christmas holiday season feels impossible, and I will attempt to give you a hint of my experiences here. Although I missed many of the Christmas traditions of home, the Christmas holiday—now stripped of my cultural trappings—began to reveal the significance of Jesus’ birth, and I had one of the most memorable and enjoyable holidays ever.

Moving on…

On December 19th, school closed, and I left for Aluva and stayed with Sudie for a few days in her apartment at senior citizens’ home. David, John, Sudie, and I had the opportunity to rest and to relax for those few days, and after all the craziness of rehearsing and preparing for my school choir’s debut, I welcomed the slowing and lack of schedule.

One day, Sudie, John, and I dressed up in our Kerala finery—saris for the ladies and a mundu/djuba combo for John—and went to a Hindu festival of the Dalit community where Sudie tutors a few days a week. At first, we were waiting around near the food preparation and were dropped off the side of the rode to the beginning of the procession. With women holding lamps made of coconut and oil, dancers, and drummers, we processed down the road for a long time and watched. Then we arrived at the colony and the community’s shrine, which was full of torches, candles, and decorations. Although we did not stay for the entire festival (we were there from 2 p.m. to 7 p.m.), I appreciated the invitation and hospitality of our neighbors.

Finally, Ariel and Becca arrived to Aluva on December 22nd, and we—volunteers, Achen, Kochamma, and their son, Binu—celebrated, sang Christmas songs, and had a special Christmas Eve style dinner. Among the volunteers, we had a white elephant/Secret Santa form of gift exchange. Then we closed the evening and prepared for the epic journey to visit Achen’s sister and her orphanage in Andhra Pradesh, a neighboring state about 1300 km northeast (about 800 miles).

Although the distance from Aluva to the orphanage would take 13-15 hours by car in the U.S., the train journey lasted about 24 hours, and the long distance train travel in India is quite an experience because everything becomes more chaotic at night at times. We rode Sleeper Class and had bunk reservations, but many people disrupted our sleeping at night. To make matters even more confusing, the noise occurred in several languages (English, Hindi, Malayalam, Telugu, and Tamil) because we were moving between states (each state has its own language). The journey drained us all, and I stumbled off the train in a state of bewilderment because the warm, dry air hit my face like a Christmas Santa Ana from home in San Diego.

Arid, extremely hot, and full of agricultural laborers, Andhra Pradesh greatly differs from the lushness and more developed nature of Kerala (the state where I live). For example, Kerala has some sort of enforced minimum wage of 250-300 rupees (around $5-6 US) for a day’s work in the agricultural sector, and Andhra Pradesh is the heart of Indian’s agriculture and food supply yet lacks an existing labor policy. Instead, the average laborer earns about 50 rupees (about $1 US) a day*. The poverty is much more pronounced than Kerala, and in where we were visiting, villages scatter the country-side among the fields of cotton, straw, and peanuts. On the roads in Andhra, oxen pull carts, and herds of cattle and goats can block traffic. In Kerala, the population contains around roughly equal amounts of Hindus, Muslims, and Christians, and Andhra Pradesh contains primarily Hindus. Many people told me that Kerala differs a lot from many places in India, and from my visit in Andhra, I now see it.

After we got off the train in Warangal, Achen’s sister, Anu, and her older “children” picked us up in a school bus, and we had to drive a ways to Gandhi Nagar, a village. An inspiring nun, Anu runs the Home of Love for Boys (the orphanage), two schools, and helps with providing health care and various needs to the neighboring villages. Allowing the boys to call her amma (mother in Telugu), she views herself as a mother and has 22 boys with ages ranging from five to fifteen. However, she also provides support, education, and a place to stay during holidays and vacation for the older “children” who picked us up at the train station, and the older children—ranging from ages 20-27 and having jobs or graduate school educations—come back to help with the Home of Love when possible and view the other boys as their brothers. The whole place functions like a very large family, and love permeates the atmosphere. I’ve visited a few orphanages in Mexico, but none of them felt as close or intimate as the Home of Love, which is a family who welcomed us all with such graciousness and hospitality.

Upon first arrival, the boys gave me a tour of the compound and showed me the various fruit trees and places. Since the language of Andhra Pradesh is Telugu, the boys and I struggled speaking at times, but some of them know some English. Being excellent hosts, they gave me some small, strange berry-like fruit and climbed up a guava tree to find a good guava for me to eat. We played and hung out for the afternoon (I taught Kamal, an adorable five year old, to high five and to pound it afterward), and I fell in love with their patience, energy, kindness, earnestness, and hospitality. During the whole visit, we had chances to worship, to sing, to dance, to interact, and to play games together.

On Christmas day, we woke up, had a big breakfast, and went to church across the road early in the morning. Boisterous beating drums and clapping dominated the Christmas songs, and I loved the energy behind the worship because my worship experiences in Kerala have a much more austere atmosphere. As a custom, the church presented us, visitors, with garlands of marigolds, and then we sang a few Christmas songs for them. We sat on the floor of the church, and to my surprise, the church overflowed with very young people. Although Achen does not know Telugu, he gave the Christmas message in English, and then Anu translated it into Telugu.

Based on Luke 2, Achen’s message emphasized the crowded inn and the humble beginnings of Jesus. These particular questions from the message resonated with me during the holiday: Is there room for Jesus? Do we crowd out Jesus? To be honest, most of our Christmas merry-making does distract us from Jesus’ life and message.

During most of the month of December, I struggled because I did not feel or see Christ’s suffering yet transforming redemptive love in all of the carol programs, Father Christmases, gifts, and decorations. In a Christmas program with the Tiruvalla Choral Society, I sang a hymn which contained the following words:
Thou didst leave thy kingly crown
When Thou camest to earth for me;
But in Bethlehem’s home
There was found no room
For thy holy nativity.
O come to my heart, Lord Jesus
There is room in my heart for thee!
Ironically enough, I had mixed feelings about that evening during that particular evening because the celebration was so full of pomp, bright lights, nicely dressed people, and cordiality while Jesus’ birth was in a dirty, messy, stable. The cognitive dissonance of that squeaky-clean church hall full of propriety and wealth and Jesus’ birth haunted me, and it simply did not feel right.

A few hours later, we arrived at second church in a different village for more worship, and many women were already singing and sitting down. Becca, Sudie, Ariel, and I sat down in the back because we did not want to crowd anyone. However, women and children continued filing into the small church, and I began to feel claustrophobic in the back corner because I was so squished. Most of the men sat in chairs outside the church door in order to let the massive amounts of women inside. The content and nature of the service remained similar, but the amount of people packed into the church overwhelmed me. To see these women—who have difficult daily lives—turn to God in such earnestness tugged at my heart. There was no room in the church, but there was plenty of room for Jesus.

While in Andhra Pradesh, I felt so much community, love, and warmth in the simplicity and genuineness of our celebration with the Home of Love and the local villages. Their reliance on God is much greater than my own, and they offer so much of themselves and what little they do possess to others and to God. They invited us into their home and created space for strangers and for Jesus.

Last year, if someone told me that I would eat mutton curry and rice for Christmas lunch, play volleyball in the dirt without shoes on Christmas day, would go to two Christmas day worship services in villages, and sing American folksongs of the 1960s and 1970s on the roof on Christmas night, I would have said that is crazy and is very different than my usual Christmas flavor. Growing up, My sister and I would often mention how the late afternoon and eve of Christmas day feels a little depressing because all of the expectation and anticipation is gone. However, this unexpected Andhra Christmas stealthily made room in heart for Jesus. Unlike the Christmas afternoon depression from years past, I experienced a deep joy which cannot easily flit away. Rooted in Jesus, this hope and joy sustains me so that I can continue moving forward and loving my neighbors each day.


*These are very rough figures that I heard from various people, and I mention them to illustrate the difficulty of agricultural life and differences between the states. Please do not take these as a pure statistics.