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This blog. Completely neglected and I am the queen of excuses. Random pics from my phone here, have some work to do here on this page.
I am drawn by a theme and I long to write about the moment, the feelings, the state of my sinfully-hard heart and His most recent dealings -disciplining me, the hour, the rickshaw ride or train or flood we just experienced. Power goes. Exhaustion sets in after settling the babies and just to turn on the laptop seems an unachievable feat as power returns. I realize this blog lacks any official explanation or information and will only serve as a frustration to those wanting to know Who, Why, What When and how in the world do you have all these little people to look after. I move into that dangerous over-analyzing mode and pick apart what I wanted to express--why it may be irritating, offensive, unhelpful or seem dramatic to most and drift to sleep, hopeful that my Heavenly Father is keeping record of the precious things I cannot seem to keep up with.
The moments are all a blur here, a blur of challenges and then of His grace, that bubbling brook covering over all that never dries up. Amazing. No two days the same here and you can never anticipate what the day will bring forth apart from His mercy.
In His mercy and kindness, He paves the way for me.
How thankful hearts rise just with the knowledge that we are mere sheep and He is happy to lead, how I bow to the ground and kiss the very mention of His Name- His Name that is Great, that is above all other Names, that is here, in His presence the moment I call upon Him in truth.
Thanking Him for what is hard, pressing in, not wanting to miss a moment of His heart beating for mine--to grow, to reflect His very own image-what a mystery. I can hardly believe the honor is all mine.
Studying the life of Job again, his response challenges me to the core.
What if Job 23:10 could really come true...
What if-after the testing, the twisting, the bending and pressing--
there would be even a tiny a glimpse-the slightest sliver of gold peaking out of the mire?
The very thought excites my soul, I have strength again to do just the next thing.
I am here... the irony of it still boggles my mind- HOW in the world this sensitive, lover of cleanliness and sweet smells, idealistic, romantic, disorganized, foolish girl ever thought she could move to a third world country and give her life away to service, being of use. Can't think of a more absurd notion!
The irony of missions --that we could be of usefulness. My plan is to share the gift of life eternal, to love on the least of these and He continues through His Word to bring me to the end of myself, to expose greater idols and love of sin and self, leading me to the way to repentance and life eternal.
I am no doubt the worst ambassador ever known and only refer to myself as Paul's wife--how greatly and blessed to hold this title alone, but in truth --the pit of my soul always on display here brings me to my knees afresh daily as I realize the one in need and utter depravity was only ever me to begin with.
Local train station yesterday~
standing side by side with my husband, arm in his, loaded with babies, backpacks full of Bibles, worship cd's we made, coloring books, repaired shoes, new undies and some vitamins for our girls. It never dawns on me that we are considered an aisle to walk through until we are pushed apart as people shove through. Here in India, there is no such thing as personal space. After the 4th woman pushes through us both-I boldly stopped the next, remove her hand from my shoulder blocking her body with my foot out from trying to squeeze her way through Paul and me motioning her to please "go around us". Her glaring eyes turn to laughter revealing surprise... perhaps the first time a foreigner has ever made an exchange with her.
I wish I was use to these crowds pushing as our clothes drip in sweat, countless piercing eyeballs on us wherever we went--free from all signs of self-awareness as they check me up an down over and over oblivious of how it feels. I am sorry to say, my flesh still roars it's ugliness in defense of rights that don't even exist. I wish I didn't have to confess I felt the urge to teach "these people" about manners, about how to treat women with babies in tow. The Father tenderly brings "these women" to my mind over and over to pray for.... perhaps next time I will have the grace, I will have His heart for them, but I missed it altogether Monday. I am sorry for this, I ask Him for a fresh love to see what He sees, to consider their worth, their needs--and I do believe He will do this again for me.
Rushing by piles of sleeping soldiers on the ground, guns on their chests, nuns in blue and white habits huddled together, towering carts w/ hundreds of bamboo baskets ten feet high held down with twine, babies crying on our hips sporting little baseball caps through the train station to get to the schedule monitor --we know we are late, but maybe the train is again too. A young soldier decked out in camo and black boots looking 2 sizes too big shoves Paul with the bunt of his riffle for added drama--"Stand back, you're too close". His abruptness took us both by surprise as the monitor is about 15 feet away already and this rule was all new to us. The screen flashes to a commercial about ghee. Lard. They love to add to their dishes here. A real useful screen now--We miss the train listings completely and run towards the sounds of the whistles as one pulls through.
School boys in uniforms sporting their head phones brush passed us, dogs barking at the monkey who ran off with a stolen juice bottle, beggars pulling at my salwar breaking my heart as I struggle to find some change while keeping up with Paul a few steps ahead.
Beggars are a riot here, you never know the response you will get--they may not leave demanding more, they may gawk at you or kiss your hand as their family members and friends pop up out of the wood work surrounding you. A tall Ganhdi look-alike walks barefoot in his white lunge, a clan of fifty women from a village follow after all barefoot as well on their pilgrimage.
Soldiers shout at us to hurry up, the train pulls out as passengers hang off all sides and doorways--and no, hanging off a moving train is not something that's reprimanded here.
We miss another crammed train, no space to even stand.
A failed attempt at the hotel upstairs for lunch follows, the power is out we learn the food is not fresh as we share a table with another family from north India talking rapidly in Hindi about us. I follow Paul back down the stairs with bags in tow and Hudsy fussing over the heat, a rash breaks out again on his neck from it.
Toilet signs--feeling brave, run around the perimeter of the room to get there as all the rows watch this crazy foreigner. Pay the attendant the rupees and enter in the sopping wet mess loaded with women fighting. One stall is open, a woman guarding it, eight others shouting, changing, bathing with buckets and wrapping in saris...no chance. I decide I can hold it.
Finally-we catch a train. I'm grateful there's a space to stand near the door for some air. A hand mirror distracts baby from the heat. A barefoot drunk man in his stooper falls asleep at the bathroom door--making me feel sick to my stomach to see wondering how we can help him up. Sellers push through, buckets on their heads full of key chains, water bottles, peanuts, beaded necklaces.
The train pulls out at last, engine sounds music to our ears. Paul and I exchange smiles and exhale as we stand near the doorway. A little closer to our little ladies.
I missed my time with our sweet dolls all week due to my disk pain and now the chance to hold them, catch up on their tattling, make some pancakes, wash a window, hang a picture, patch a leak, teach a new song, listen to their stories from school--who is teasing them, who's lost her school books, who's back-pack is torn, who was scolded by her teacher. I can not wait for each embrace and the chance to tell them over and over and over a million times how loved and special and incredible and wanted and unique and beautiful and treasured they are.
My heart swells with hope as the smells of burning trash and sewage fill our nostrils. We are weary after a full Sunday, too tired to even be on this train in the first place--but then it's always worth every second of the struggle as soon as we pull up to the land and 38 little brown feet and painted pink toes dart out of the house to greet us in our sweaty clothes and filling us in on when it will rain, where there's a leak, who is coming.
All nineteen throwing arms around our necks before we have a chance to even exit the bus. And I can not believe they belong to us. Every gift is truly from above, from this Father with Whom is no shifting or turning. Praise His Name!
This home, these girls, His goodness--all here with us now. His mercy in person--in the form of a haven and home. So thankful.
Your strength never fails us our sweet Lord! Praises locked up deep within set free at last and His compassion and empathy find their way back to me again. His smile over me so near I feel I could touch it.
Chubby baby fingers hold my hand tightly as tears start to stream-hate that, but after this child-bearing business, can't seem to stop the flow sometimes. :)
So very much to thank Him for, my heart cannot even contain it. To track all of His kindness to me-I would utterly fail.
And the very best gift of all...
in the thickest parts of the chaos He is here, Emmanuel-with me
and as if this miracle wasn't enough, glimmers of gold are shinning through and I love this train ride and can't wait to do it all over again.
