Dawn peeps out, uncovering the mist over the fields and
calling down the night. Three young men
walk along the highway nearby, singing at the top of their lungs. Birds outshine the roosters in the tree top
at the same time as some sort of shouting revelry erupts down the street.
Who starts a soccer
match at 6 AM? It must be a Hindu religious
event.
The light is off at the latrine so it’s a good thing I
brought my flash light, since I choose to hesitate before returning inside. Walking decreases muscle stiffness, so I find
the trail linking the latrine with the well and have a moment alone as the day
dawns.
Here in Northeast India I am a member of a team of four that
includes a married couple and two women.
We feel like a brother and three sisters, bonded together in tight march
formation, looking neither to the left or the right if it separates us from one
another. I am recovering from some sort
of intestinal bout and have all the care needed to bounce back quickly.
When one is sick, all
of us are sick in India.
A well handle creaks and trucks roar above the house on the
highway. After a walk, I decide to
rearrange my stuff inside our room. It
is a repeat performance from two days ago, but is needed to adjust toiletries
in advance of a bath that will actually occur in the wash room in the back yard. The route to completion of this task is
complex.
We are four persons
in one room, all trying to find our various storage containers at the same time
without stepping on each other.
The calling of the day continues: yummy milk coffee, children off to school;
18-month-old old Jessica eating her egg; dishes clanging in the kitchen in
route to the well for washing; dust getting pushed out doors; the sun showing
up and my socks appearing out of nowhere.
The Lord’s soft
presence covers us in this sea of village “music”.
Next door a man splits bamboo poles, creating half round
lengths for his quick-build fence, designed to keep the animals from the yard
until monsoon washes it away.
We receive an invitation to spend our rest day in the home
of our interpreter, BeeNu, a lively woman who ministered nonstop with us the
week before. She arrives for us in a
“Cooper” sized car and we pile in. As
the sixth one to enter the car, I spread out on the top of everyone in the back
seat and hang on.
Indians do not use
seat belts.
We arrive at her cottage and approach a table full of food located
inside her bright yellow living room.
We soon notice a woman standing in the shadows. She eventually requests prayer. She is a believer in Jesus for one year and faces
threats from her Hindu husband, which is similar to 90 percent of new believers
in India: She suffers from continuous pain
in her joints and shoulders and we pray and the pain and pressure leave her
body and for the infilling power of the Holy Spirit. The next day at church her huge smile confirms
freedom from all pain.
Another woman soon comes forward and we lead her through a
difficult process of forgiveness.
In the middle of the afternoon, after a second meal, a bone-thin
woman walks into the yard of BeeNu’s house, carrying a 20 pound bag of rice on
her shoulders. She smiles and hesitates
before us as we hear her story. She also
is a new believer, coming to faith in God as a deaf mute. She now hears a little and speaks for the
first time in her life. We pray and one
of her ears opens quickly. The next day, before Kaju’s church meeting, we pray again
and the other ear opens.
At dusk, we climb back into the “Cooper” car and return to
Kaju’s home. His bonfire is going strong
in the cool of the evening and all nine of us gather around the fire for a pork
rind roasting festival.
God is so good.
