While I was on the plane traveling home from Pakistan, I asked God to bring to mind what he would like me to testify about concerning what I had witnessed in Pakistan. Before I prayed, when I considered all that I had seen and experienced, I felt like I was looking back over a sea of puzzle pieces, baffled as to how they fit together and unsure even of what the final picture was supposed to look like. But after I prayed, as I sat on the plane, three clear messages came into focus. I would like to share with you these three thoughts.
First came to mind the many relationships that I had developed with various families in Pakistan. I thought of the women who mothered me, men who had protected me as their own daughter, children who overcame every language and culture barrier to make me comfortable, and dear girls who had become my close friends. I realized that Pakistani Christians are more than just exceptionally friendly and hospitable, they honor and accept the stranger in their midst as family. When I asked a group of Christian Pakistanis what message they would have me send to the Christians in the West, they did not tell me to ask the west for monetary or physical gifts; they told me to send their love, to assure us of their prayers, and to ask us to remember them in our prayers.
The truth is that the Christians around the world are members of our family in the body of Christ; we owe them the same kind of love that we so intuitively give to our natural families. Not only is it right, in Christ, to develop loving relationships with Christians around the world, but we have much to learn from them. If we fail to follow Christ’s command to extend honor to the foreigners among us, an honor that they show us when we visit them, we will be the ones to lose out on how we could benefit from being in relationship with each other.
The second thing that came to mind in the plane was a barrage of memories of all the various ministries I had witnessed in action. There is much more ministry going on in the rural areas of the Middle East, like Pakistan, than I previously imagined. The Hindu people who live in the region where I stayed are very open to learning about the Christian God. When I asked one woman why she converted she said, “Because I wanted to know a living God who is good. We are afraid of our gods but this God sets us free from fear.” The harvest is vast, but there are far more workers already in the fields than I guessed. The husband of the missionary family I stayed with personally disciples evangelists who teach Bible, adult literacy, and health awareness in 90 villages weekly. This ministry is just one of many that I saw at work around me.
Though much work is being done, those who are trying to minister are not able to work at their full capacity because of lack of monetary support. One priest I met has planned seminars to keep the building under his charge busy for a year, but he is not able to proceed because he lacks funding. The fact that ministers are in the field, devoting their lives, but are held back by lack of investment, brings to mind the phrase, “A worker is worth his wages.”
The last thought that came to mind while I sat on the plane flying away from the dust and heat, was that God has a great love for Pakistan. Consistently throughout the Bible God demonstrates love for the lowly, the poor, the ill, and the rejected of the world. The Western world regards Pakistan with inhibition, fearing terrorists and accidents; we are deterred from visiting by heat and dirt, discouraged from investment by poverty and disease. Even Pakistanis express frustration with Pakistan! But God cares about this place and these people. Additionally, God is moving in Pakistan. I heard many stories of miracles while I was living there and I witnessed the dramatic gains made by even inexperienced evangelists and teachers. To be involved in the ministry going on in Pakistan right now is to be on the frontlines of what God is doing today.
After living on the mission field in Pakistan for two months, learning about the reality of the people and conditions, I encourage you to develop relationships with Christians around the world, especially with the poor living in less than popular places. They are our brothers and sisters and we need them as much as they need us. We fortunate ones in the West have a crucial roll to play in supporting the ministry being done in the less affluent countries. If we can build relationships based on mutual respect, investing in each other’s ministries, we will be acting according to the heart of God.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Going Home 2: the beginning
Before I even made it to the x-ray security machines ten feet past the door, I was stopped by a guard. Who was I, they wanted to know. If I was a visitor, why was I in Pakistani clothes? Who was I trying to fool? I was directed to a side room for a pat-down while other guards dumped out my suitcase. Eventually they were satisfied that I wasn’t smuggling anything dangerous or valuable in my bags but they were not able to successfully repack my luggage and thus, when the guard tried to force the zipper, my suitcase ripped. Dismayed and concerned about the time, I was directed to take the suit case to a nearby stand to be wrapped in plastic.
Three security check points latter, I finally arrived to my gate. I was in time. I sat down numbly next to three well dressed, middle aged women. After only a few minutes they addressed me in polished English, “Excuse me, but who are you? And why are you wearing Pakistani clothes?” I explained my reason for being in Pakistan and we were soon chatting comfortably. Eventually they got up and started to walk away. When I asked them where they were going, they said that our flight had been announced over the speaker in Urdu. I had sat down at the wrong gate and would have missed the flight if I hadn’t been chatting with these women, and I wouldn’t have been talking with them if they hadn’t asked about my clothes.
After making it safely out of Pakistan, my flights went relatively smoothly. Everywhere I went, people asked about my dress and I proudly told them the story of how I served the rural people in Pakistan alongside a missionary family, of how I believed God loved Pakistan, of how God had taken care of me. I was full of joy and excitement throughout the series of flights. I did not watch any movies during the over night flight (on the way there I had watched three!) Instead I prayed that God would clarify to me what message he would like me to bring back to share with those who had supported me. As I reflected over the trip, various elements of my experience seemed highlighted to my attention. These I wrote down and later included in my presentations. I still feel these points were brought to mind by the Holy Spirit. You can read them in a later blog.
My plane landed in New York City after an overnight trip at 9:00am. Despite wrinkled shalwar-camise and the lack of a shower, I felt well rested and peaceful. I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a sandwich from a café as I waited for my flight to Boston where I would catch a connection to Richmond. My flight to Boston, however, was delayed again and again; eventually it became clear that I would not arrive in Boston in time to catch the connection to Richmond. While on my flight to Pakistan I had dreaded the possibility of being in this situation. I had even arranged my flight schedule specifically to avoid a complicated switch of airports in NYC by taxi for fear of some mistake. After my adventures abroad, however, I found myself excited, curios how God would work out the problem.
I told the woman behind the desk of the situation and she said I had two options. I could go to Boston and take the next flight leaving in the evening instead of the early afternoon flight I was supposed to catch. Or I could take a flight straight to Richmond… leaving from the other airport in NYC. I told her I would take a taxi to the other airport. Inside I was laughing. The taxi driver ended up being Pakistani! I sat in the front and we had a lovely chat as we drove across the city. As he dropped me off he invited me to visit his village any time. I responded, only if he sent my father 10 water-buffalos!
There were no more delightful complications to my return. I arrived safely at the Richmond airport and was greeted by my mother, sister, brothers, and several friends. It was a joyous reunion, a beautiful conclusion to an amazing adventure. I can’t wait to follow God wherever he leads me next! As you probably know, every ending is actually a beginning. The end of my time in Pakistan was the beginning of the second “mission” element of my trip. But you can read about that another time.
Three security check points latter, I finally arrived to my gate. I was in time. I sat down numbly next to three well dressed, middle aged women. After only a few minutes they addressed me in polished English, “Excuse me, but who are you? And why are you wearing Pakistani clothes?” I explained my reason for being in Pakistan and we were soon chatting comfortably. Eventually they got up and started to walk away. When I asked them where they were going, they said that our flight had been announced over the speaker in Urdu. I had sat down at the wrong gate and would have missed the flight if I hadn’t been chatting with these women, and I wouldn’t have been talking with them if they hadn’t asked about my clothes.
After making it safely out of Pakistan, my flights went relatively smoothly. Everywhere I went, people asked about my dress and I proudly told them the story of how I served the rural people in Pakistan alongside a missionary family, of how I believed God loved Pakistan, of how God had taken care of me. I was full of joy and excitement throughout the series of flights. I did not watch any movies during the over night flight (on the way there I had watched three!) Instead I prayed that God would clarify to me what message he would like me to bring back to share with those who had supported me. As I reflected over the trip, various elements of my experience seemed highlighted to my attention. These I wrote down and later included in my presentations. I still feel these points were brought to mind by the Holy Spirit. You can read them in a later blog.
My plane landed in New York City after an overnight trip at 9:00am. Despite wrinkled shalwar-camise and the lack of a shower, I felt well rested and peaceful. I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a sandwich from a café as I waited for my flight to Boston where I would catch a connection to Richmond. My flight to Boston, however, was delayed again and again; eventually it became clear that I would not arrive in Boston in time to catch the connection to Richmond. While on my flight to Pakistan I had dreaded the possibility of being in this situation. I had even arranged my flight schedule specifically to avoid a complicated switch of airports in NYC by taxi for fear of some mistake. After my adventures abroad, however, I found myself excited, curios how God would work out the problem.
I told the woman behind the desk of the situation and she said I had two options. I could go to Boston and take the next flight leaving in the evening instead of the early afternoon flight I was supposed to catch. Or I could take a flight straight to Richmond… leaving from the other airport in NYC. I told her I would take a taxi to the other airport. Inside I was laughing. The taxi driver ended up being Pakistani! I sat in the front and we had a lovely chat as we drove across the city. As he dropped me off he invited me to visit his village any time. I responded, only if he sent my father 10 water-buffalos!
There were no more delightful complications to my return. I arrived safely at the Richmond airport and was greeted by my mother, sister, brothers, and several friends. It was a joyous reunion, a beautiful conclusion to an amazing adventure. I can’t wait to follow God wherever he leads me next! As you probably know, every ending is actually a beginning. The end of my time in Pakistan was the beginning of the second “mission” element of my trip. But you can read about that another time.
Going home 1: the ending
In the course of preparing to leave Pakistan, I realized just how acclimated I had become. I spent the better part of one day writing 15 personal notes to those who had become significant to me; the house keeper, the local children, friends in other cities, families who had welcomed me into their homes. I found that I was not uncomfortable walking around the neighborhood, peeking into courtyards, delivering notes, greeting friends in passing.
The day before the trip to Karachi to catch my plane, I went to the bazaar with my friends Razia and Sunila to buy gifts for friends and family in the States. It was the first and only time I went to a bazaar without one of the Stocks to guide me and haggle for me. Razia, Sunila and I caught a ride down town on a Rickshaw cart and walked around the bazaar looking for the items on my list. It was exhilarating fun. The highlight was when, faced with an outrageously over priced tea cup, I started haggling for myself. There was no way anyone would pay 600 Rupees for a tea cup no matter how fine the china, I said. The highest I would go was 400. After starting to leave twice, I agreed to purchase the cup for 450. Then I watched, to my surprise, as the shop-keep wrapped up not only the tea cup in question but a set of six with matching saucers!
Bright and early at 10:00 the next morning, I bid a tearful goodbye to my friends. Razia held tight to my hand until the car actually started pulling away. “My heart is very crying for you.” She confided earnestly. I knew what she meant.
The drive to Karachi passed like a good dream. The whole Stock family drove with me, merrily singing and chattering and reading the Hobbit aloud. I savored every moment, drinking up the sight of the passing country side like a last meal. It wasn’t that the passing desert was particularly beautiful or that I would miss the illness and isolation that had been so significant during the trip. But I had truly come to love the people, places and experiences which were so common place in Mirpurkhas: the colorful cotton clothes that had been made just for me, evening visits to Razia’s family, the few words of Urdu and Kujradthi I had worked so hard to learn, and most of all, the loving, care-free lifestyle of the Stock family. So I stretched every hour to the max.
On the way to Karachi, we stopped in Hyderabad to visit Lilly’s family one last time. I was glad for the reunion because I would be able to give Lilly a gift and deliver the note I had written to her family. After another warm farewell, we were back on the road. The next stop was at a hospital in Hyderabad. A young boy that I had often seen around at the Audio Visual Center was in the hospital recovering from the removal of a kidney stone the size of a marble! We sat with him and his family for an hour, then bid them goodbye and headed on to Karachi.
On the way, the Stocks asked me repeatedly what I would enjoy doing in Karachi before catching my plane that night at 10:00. After hemming and hawing and scratching my head through my head scarf, I admitted that I would love to ride a camel and to see the Indian Ocean. Paul enthusiastically added that I must taste an honest to goodness chicken Tikha. Little did I know, I would almost miss my plane for the sake of these experiences.
We arrived in Karachi while it was still light, apparently with plenty of time to spare. I don’t remember exactly how the time flew by so quickly. I bought a battery for my watch. We stopped to buy a particular kind of sweet that I wanted to try (it looks like a funnel cake only it is made of oil, sugar, and honey.) It turned out that the beach was further away than expected and the sun was already setting when we arrived. It was worth the drive! Receding waves of the Indian Ocean left half a mile of damp gray sand extending out in front of me, full of shells and burrowing crabs. But more exhilarating still, gaily adorned horses and regal camels promenaded up and down the beach at the side of gypsy-like men who beckoned people to clime on for a ride. Of course, we were happy to oblige the owner of a camel festooned with colorful pompoms. I sat behind Jodie and Joel as the patient creature bore the three of us down the beach. Then, for a special treat, the man leading the camel coaxed it into a surprisingly graceful canter.
After dismounting, Paul, Joel and I rolled up our pants and went wading in the gentle waves while Pat and Jodie antagonized crabs and clams. As we walked back up the dark beach to our car, we stopped and bought roasted corn on the cob and other snack from beach vendors. We believed ourselves to be in good time as we piled back into the car and went in search of a road-side café to order chicken tikha (Barbie Q). The only time I had actually lost my composure over Pakistani food was when I first tried an exceptionally hot chicken tikha and then tried to cool my mouth with soda, which only further inflamed my problem to the point of tears. I hadn’t again ventured to taste tikha, something that the Stocks consider central to Pakistani culture. The tikha that I tried my last day wasn’t half bad and the Stocks were pleased.
It was then that we realized it was after 8:00 and we were at least an hour from the airport; remember, my international flight left at 10:00. We also then realized that we didn’t actually know how to get to the airport. Finally, we found ourselves stuck in a bumper to bumper, stop and go, honking mess of a traffic jam. So we started to pray. After stopping for directions twice, we made it to the airport at 9:30. After hasty goodbyes and quick hugs, I readjusted my head scarf, hoisted carefully packed but bulging bags and walked confidently past the guard at the airport entrance. That was when the real trouble started.
The day before the trip to Karachi to catch my plane, I went to the bazaar with my friends Razia and Sunila to buy gifts for friends and family in the States. It was the first and only time I went to a bazaar without one of the Stocks to guide me and haggle for me. Razia, Sunila and I caught a ride down town on a Rickshaw cart and walked around the bazaar looking for the items on my list. It was exhilarating fun. The highlight was when, faced with an outrageously over priced tea cup, I started haggling for myself. There was no way anyone would pay 600 Rupees for a tea cup no matter how fine the china, I said. The highest I would go was 400. After starting to leave twice, I agreed to purchase the cup for 450. Then I watched, to my surprise, as the shop-keep wrapped up not only the tea cup in question but a set of six with matching saucers!
Bright and early at 10:00 the next morning, I bid a tearful goodbye to my friends. Razia held tight to my hand until the car actually started pulling away. “My heart is very crying for you.” She confided earnestly. I knew what she meant.
The drive to Karachi passed like a good dream. The whole Stock family drove with me, merrily singing and chattering and reading the Hobbit aloud. I savored every moment, drinking up the sight of the passing country side like a last meal. It wasn’t that the passing desert was particularly beautiful or that I would miss the illness and isolation that had been so significant during the trip. But I had truly come to love the people, places and experiences which were so common place in Mirpurkhas: the colorful cotton clothes that had been made just for me, evening visits to Razia’s family, the few words of Urdu and Kujradthi I had worked so hard to learn, and most of all, the loving, care-free lifestyle of the Stock family. So I stretched every hour to the max.
On the way to Karachi, we stopped in Hyderabad to visit Lilly’s family one last time. I was glad for the reunion because I would be able to give Lilly a gift and deliver the note I had written to her family. After another warm farewell, we were back on the road. The next stop was at a hospital in Hyderabad. A young boy that I had often seen around at the Audio Visual Center was in the hospital recovering from the removal of a kidney stone the size of a marble! We sat with him and his family for an hour, then bid them goodbye and headed on to Karachi.
On the way, the Stocks asked me repeatedly what I would enjoy doing in Karachi before catching my plane that night at 10:00. After hemming and hawing and scratching my head through my head scarf, I admitted that I would love to ride a camel and to see the Indian Ocean. Paul enthusiastically added that I must taste an honest to goodness chicken Tikha. Little did I know, I would almost miss my plane for the sake of these experiences.
We arrived in Karachi while it was still light, apparently with plenty of time to spare. I don’t remember exactly how the time flew by so quickly. I bought a battery for my watch. We stopped to buy a particular kind of sweet that I wanted to try (it looks like a funnel cake only it is made of oil, sugar, and honey.) It turned out that the beach was further away than expected and the sun was already setting when we arrived. It was worth the drive! Receding waves of the Indian Ocean left half a mile of damp gray sand extending out in front of me, full of shells and burrowing crabs. But more exhilarating still, gaily adorned horses and regal camels promenaded up and down the beach at the side of gypsy-like men who beckoned people to clime on for a ride. Of course, we were happy to oblige the owner of a camel festooned with colorful pompoms. I sat behind Jodie and Joel as the patient creature bore the three of us down the beach. Then, for a special treat, the man leading the camel coaxed it into a surprisingly graceful canter.
After dismounting, Paul, Joel and I rolled up our pants and went wading in the gentle waves while Pat and Jodie antagonized crabs and clams. As we walked back up the dark beach to our car, we stopped and bought roasted corn on the cob and other snack from beach vendors. We believed ourselves to be in good time as we piled back into the car and went in search of a road-side café to order chicken tikha (Barbie Q). The only time I had actually lost my composure over Pakistani food was when I first tried an exceptionally hot chicken tikha and then tried to cool my mouth with soda, which only further inflamed my problem to the point of tears. I hadn’t again ventured to taste tikha, something that the Stocks consider central to Pakistani culture. The tikha that I tried my last day wasn’t half bad and the Stocks were pleased.
It was then that we realized it was after 8:00 and we were at least an hour from the airport; remember, my international flight left at 10:00. We also then realized that we didn’t actually know how to get to the airport. Finally, we found ourselves stuck in a bumper to bumper, stop and go, honking mess of a traffic jam. So we started to pray. After stopping for directions twice, we made it to the airport at 9:30. After hasty goodbyes and quick hugs, I readjusted my head scarf, hoisted carefully packed but bulging bags and walked confidently past the guard at the airport entrance. That was when the real trouble started.
The Grand Finale 5: Finishing up and Moving on
After lunch, Jane and I tackled one more kind of issue, something she called “soul ties”. Several people in my life were hubs of emotional energy and agitation, distracting me from Christ, sucking up my attention, and disturbing my peace. The first step in restoring the situations was to forgive any harm they had caused me or grudges I held against them. That was easier said than done. After trying to let go and forgive, Jane asked me to think about the person again and see if I felt differently. After truly forgiving, I found that when I thought of the person I no longer felt distress, but peace and empathetic compassion. At that point, I could ask God’s forgiveness for my part in forming the dysfunctional connection. After receiving God’s forgiveness, I could declare the connection broken. Finally, Jane told me to listen to the Holy Spirit for instructions as to how to relate to the people in the future.
Exhausted but satisfied, Jane and I sat back in our chairs. It was time for me to catch the afternoon bus. It had been a very full 30 hours. I felt like a live wire, full of excitement at the new world Jane had shown me. My head was reeling at the experiences and implications for the future. Jane gave me last minute reading suggestions and encouragements as she walked me to the bus stop.
“You have made great progress but you have to walk it out. There is nothing neutral; don’t give your enemies an excuse to come back into your life.”
I was in a daze. “But how do I do that?”
“Keep the company of the Holy Spirit; anything in your life which doesn’t jive with the Holy Spirit, get it out of your life. You have authority; use it! Read the Bible every day. Remember to keep developing into a new creation by the renewing of you mind.”
I nodded.
“Send me an email every now and again.” She added warmly. That broke the spell. With hurried thanks, I was hustled on the bus, squeezed between the open window and a tribal woman holding a baby. As the miles rumbled by, I knew that I had entered a new world. A world where evil was active but also where God was personal and powerful, a world where there was no limit to the possibilities for partnering with God in ministry and individual transformation. As Mirpurkhas slowly came back into view, I knew that I was now responsible for my new knowledge; there was no going back.
Exhausted but satisfied, Jane and I sat back in our chairs. It was time for me to catch the afternoon bus. It had been a very full 30 hours. I felt like a live wire, full of excitement at the new world Jane had shown me. My head was reeling at the experiences and implications for the future. Jane gave me last minute reading suggestions and encouragements as she walked me to the bus stop.
“You have made great progress but you have to walk it out. There is nothing neutral; don’t give your enemies an excuse to come back into your life.”
I was in a daze. “But how do I do that?”
“Keep the company of the Holy Spirit; anything in your life which doesn’t jive with the Holy Spirit, get it out of your life. You have authority; use it! Read the Bible every day. Remember to keep developing into a new creation by the renewing of you mind.”
I nodded.
“Send me an email every now and again.” She added warmly. That broke the spell. With hurried thanks, I was hustled on the bus, squeezed between the open window and a tribal woman holding a baby. As the miles rumbled by, I knew that I had entered a new world. A world where evil was active but also where God was personal and powerful, a world where there was no limit to the possibilities for partnering with God in ministry and individual transformation. As Mirpurkhas slowly came back into view, I knew that I was now responsible for my new knowledge; there was no going back.
The Grand Finale 4: Personal Demons
I was uneasy about relaxing my vigilance over my mind enough to sleep. I felt very vulnerable, as though I had just undergone surgery to remove infection and now had an open wound. Nervously, I called a friend in the states to ask for prayer coverage that night. She didn’t answer; I left a message.
I slept very poorly. My tossing and turning was disturbed by prickly itching sensations and abdominal pains. These physical symptoms were not unusual but this time I was hyper aware of any sensation or sound that might be caused by a disgruntled spirit. I drifted in and out of consciousness with dreams flitting in front of my eyes than fading into the dark room when I jerked back awake. At 4:30am my friend called me back. It was a relief to hear her voice, so normal and reassuring. I told her about my strange experiences of the past day and about all my fears of that night. She told me how her family had been praying for me and encouraged me to be brave. We talked for two hours, until the sun came up over Pakistan; then I bid her goodnight and got up to start the day.
Soon Jane was up too, getting ready to go back to the centre to start the first morning prayer shift with chai for all who were still there. At least this was our intention; when we arrived, picking our way over sleeping children to get to the kitchen, we found another woman already there preparing the chai. Because of this woman’s help, Jane and I were able to go back to Jane’s house to keep addressing my spiritual concerns before I had to catch a bus back to Mirpurkhas. I ended up missing the early bus and instead staying with Jane until 4:00pm to receive even more of her spiritual direction.
We spent the morning arduously identifying more anti-God strongholds, confessing, renouncing, and reclaiming the areas for God. The part of the process that was most challenging and frightening was when I had to “send away” the spirits in question. I had always imagined that dark spirits would be so antithesis to the Holy Spirit that they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere close to me. In fact, I was comfortable with the idea of stating the words “go in the name of Christ”, but it never occurred to me that an active Chr’stian like me could ever have a “demon problem”.
“But almost every one does,” Jane informed me, “Demons are out to get every body. It’s just that Chr’stians have a fighting chance. There is nothing neutral, you know. The devil is out there to steal, kill, and destroy anything that isn’t claimed for the glory of God. It is hard to imagine how people can even function, outside of Christ!”
This seemed to make sense, but it didn’t reduce my horror that, whenever Jane talked about sending demons back to the lake of fire, my eyes twitched and I had an uncharacteristic feeling of irritation toward her. I felt the unpleasant inclination to curl my lip into a snarl and refuse to cooperate with the nonsense of confronting any demons. Throughout the process I several times experienced symptoms such as twitches, aggression, and the inability to think clearly which seemed terrifyingly demonic.
From psychology classes, I knew the power of suggestion. I knew it to be very possible that these symptoms could have been inspired by my own imagination. The real question was, is it possible that Jane’s claim was right; was it possible that my experiences were caused by actual spirits influencing my body, feelings, and thoughts. As a Chr’stian, I supposedly acknowledged the existence of active evil spirits, and yet I was very reluctant to accept the terrifying possibility that I might be encountering them.
“To believe that these impulses are coming from outside you would open the door to insanity!” The voice inside my head pleaded.
“And yet,” I thought to myself, “I brought these spiritual concerns to Jane because they were already bothering me; no psychologist has ever been helpful in resolving these concerns. Besides, if I ‘cast out’ a demon and believe that it is gone, then my imagination should be on my side.”
At one point of great inner struggle, Jane prayed that I would see the spirit for what it was, that it would stop being able to deceive my thoughts. For a split second, I saw in my imagination an ugly gray figure huddled against a wall in my mind, trying to hide. “Grab him and throw him out!” Jane commanded. With a gulp of trepidation, I imagined a crane bodily removing the figure while commanding with as much strength as I could muster, “I belong to J’sus Christ. You have no place in my life and I renounce all connection with you. Leave my mind forever.”
“Good,” said Jane calmly. “Now just breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Ask the Holy Spirit to come and fill in the space left by the other spirit.” After a moment she added, “Listen to the Holy Spirit. Is he telling you anything?”
“He is reminding me of all of the intimate times we have spent together. He is saying that I don’t have to doubt.”
“Good.”
I slept very poorly. My tossing and turning was disturbed by prickly itching sensations and abdominal pains. These physical symptoms were not unusual but this time I was hyper aware of any sensation or sound that might be caused by a disgruntled spirit. I drifted in and out of consciousness with dreams flitting in front of my eyes than fading into the dark room when I jerked back awake. At 4:30am my friend called me back. It was a relief to hear her voice, so normal and reassuring. I told her about my strange experiences of the past day and about all my fears of that night. She told me how her family had been praying for me and encouraged me to be brave. We talked for two hours, until the sun came up over Pakistan; then I bid her goodnight and got up to start the day.
Soon Jane was up too, getting ready to go back to the centre to start the first morning prayer shift with chai for all who were still there. At least this was our intention; when we arrived, picking our way over sleeping children to get to the kitchen, we found another woman already there preparing the chai. Because of this woman’s help, Jane and I were able to go back to Jane’s house to keep addressing my spiritual concerns before I had to catch a bus back to Mirpurkhas. I ended up missing the early bus and instead staying with Jane until 4:00pm to receive even more of her spiritual direction.
We spent the morning arduously identifying more anti-God strongholds, confessing, renouncing, and reclaiming the areas for God. The part of the process that was most challenging and frightening was when I had to “send away” the spirits in question. I had always imagined that dark spirits would be so antithesis to the Holy Spirit that they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere close to me. In fact, I was comfortable with the idea of stating the words “go in the name of Christ”, but it never occurred to me that an active Chr’stian like me could ever have a “demon problem”.
“But almost every one does,” Jane informed me, “Demons are out to get every body. It’s just that Chr’stians have a fighting chance. There is nothing neutral, you know. The devil is out there to steal, kill, and destroy anything that isn’t claimed for the glory of God. It is hard to imagine how people can even function, outside of Christ!”
This seemed to make sense, but it didn’t reduce my horror that, whenever Jane talked about sending demons back to the lake of fire, my eyes twitched and I had an uncharacteristic feeling of irritation toward her. I felt the unpleasant inclination to curl my lip into a snarl and refuse to cooperate with the nonsense of confronting any demons. Throughout the process I several times experienced symptoms such as twitches, aggression, and the inability to think clearly which seemed terrifyingly demonic.
From psychology classes, I knew the power of suggestion. I knew it to be very possible that these symptoms could have been inspired by my own imagination. The real question was, is it possible that Jane’s claim was right; was it possible that my experiences were caused by actual spirits influencing my body, feelings, and thoughts. As a Chr’stian, I supposedly acknowledged the existence of active evil spirits, and yet I was very reluctant to accept the terrifying possibility that I might be encountering them.
“To believe that these impulses are coming from outside you would open the door to insanity!” The voice inside my head pleaded.
“And yet,” I thought to myself, “I brought these spiritual concerns to Jane because they were already bothering me; no psychologist has ever been helpful in resolving these concerns. Besides, if I ‘cast out’ a demon and believe that it is gone, then my imagination should be on my side.”
At one point of great inner struggle, Jane prayed that I would see the spirit for what it was, that it would stop being able to deceive my thoughts. For a split second, I saw in my imagination an ugly gray figure huddled against a wall in my mind, trying to hide. “Grab him and throw him out!” Jane commanded. With a gulp of trepidation, I imagined a crane bodily removing the figure while commanding with as much strength as I could muster, “I belong to J’sus Christ. You have no place in my life and I renounce all connection with you. Leave my mind forever.”
“Good,” said Jane calmly. “Now just breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Ask the Holy Spirit to come and fill in the space left by the other spirit.” After a moment she added, “Listen to the Holy Spirit. Is he telling you anything?”
“He is reminding me of all of the intimate times we have spent together. He is saying that I don’t have to doubt.”
“Good.”
The Grand Finale 3: Generational Curses and Dangerous Hobbies
For the next several exhausting hours we poured over what I knew of the sin patterns and recurrent problems represented in my extended family. Jane taught me how to confess the reality of the problem, state my desire to have nothing to do with the behavior or experience, ask forgiveness through the blood of Christ, and then, in power, declare my freedom from the pattern. The psychologist in me critically questioned the usefulness of identifying myself with other people’s problems. I reasoned with myself, though, that the real purpose of this process was to break any connections that might actually be there. Besides, the result of the process was to feel empowered to walk in victory over besetting problems to which I had previously felt very vulnerable. I found myself wanting to share this process with my family members but fearing that they would discredit it as a bunch of baloney. “Don’t worry.” Jane assured me. “Wait for God’s timing. When they are ready, they will probably come to you.”
The next step was to identify the areas of my personal life which didn’t glorify God, gave a foothold to darkness in my life, and interfered with my keeping company with the Holy Spirit. I found that many of the worrying instincts and interests which I had identified in myself were fed by the kind of media I was drawn to. Reluctantly I admitted to Jane that, before getting busy with school, I had spent a significant amount of time pouring over, meditating on, and reproducing fantasy art full of dark content. As I thought about it, much of the poetry I wrote, and music and movies I enjoyed related to similar dark themes.
“Bingo” said Jane grimly. “Are you prepared to give up this area of your life? Right now it is an idol in your life and is giving a foothold to the spirits which are associated with the themes in the media.”
I made a face. “Those sketches and poetry represent the only time I’ve ever felt like an artist.”
“We encounter the spiritual world though our imagination and the spiritual world inspires us through our creativity. If you stop glorifying darkness with your creativity, you will be able to start creatively partnering with the Holy Spirit. There really is no comparison between what you give up and what you get in return.”
“Ok, let’s go for it.” I said firmly. The process was similar to that of breaking the generational curses. It involved identifying the themes which didn’t glorify God and which bothered my conscience present in the art, repenting, asking forgiveness, and then, with authority, renouncing any place those pursuits have had in my life. I found that it was a relief to name the dark themes in the art for what they are instead of trying to justify and protect my right to enjoy them. I hadn’t been spending time on my fantasy hobby for almost two years so it was not too difficult to promise to get rid of my sketches and renounce my association with the bestial sensuality and other themes that featured so prominently in the art. Though I found that I could wholeheartedly ask God’s forgiveness for making an idol out of such dark beauty, the thought that actual demons might be involved was very unsettling. By the time we finished, it was well after midnight and both Jane and I were exhausted. We decided to put take a break until the next morning.
The next step was to identify the areas of my personal life which didn’t glorify God, gave a foothold to darkness in my life, and interfered with my keeping company with the Holy Spirit. I found that many of the worrying instincts and interests which I had identified in myself were fed by the kind of media I was drawn to. Reluctantly I admitted to Jane that, before getting busy with school, I had spent a significant amount of time pouring over, meditating on, and reproducing fantasy art full of dark content. As I thought about it, much of the poetry I wrote, and music and movies I enjoyed related to similar dark themes.
“Bingo” said Jane grimly. “Are you prepared to give up this area of your life? Right now it is an idol in your life and is giving a foothold to the spirits which are associated with the themes in the media.”
I made a face. “Those sketches and poetry represent the only time I’ve ever felt like an artist.”
“We encounter the spiritual world though our imagination and the spiritual world inspires us through our creativity. If you stop glorifying darkness with your creativity, you will be able to start creatively partnering with the Holy Spirit. There really is no comparison between what you give up and what you get in return.”
“Ok, let’s go for it.” I said firmly. The process was similar to that of breaking the generational curses. It involved identifying the themes which didn’t glorify God and which bothered my conscience present in the art, repenting, asking forgiveness, and then, with authority, renouncing any place those pursuits have had in my life. I found that it was a relief to name the dark themes in the art for what they are instead of trying to justify and protect my right to enjoy them. I hadn’t been spending time on my fantasy hobby for almost two years so it was not too difficult to promise to get rid of my sketches and renounce my association with the bestial sensuality and other themes that featured so prominently in the art. Though I found that I could wholeheartedly ask God’s forgiveness for making an idol out of such dark beauty, the thought that actual demons might be involved was very unsettling. By the time we finished, it was well after midnight and both Jane and I were exhausted. We decided to put take a break until the next morning.
The Grand Finale 2: the Centre
When we arrived at Jane’s home, we parked in front of her brick house, which was mostly hidden by rambling bushes covered in pink and yellow flowers. I carried my overnight bag past two large hutches full of colorful parakeets and into the house which was full of a cozy clutter of carved trinkets, framed embroidery, and piles of books. A calico cat met me at the door but soon lost interest in me and followed my hostess into the kitchen.
Jane allowed me to soak up as much of her ministry as I could take in. I was welcomed to not only observe but participate in her team’s activities of that weekend. We arrived on Friday, several hours into the weekly observance of 24 hours of worship, soaking prayer, intercession, and “practicing” hearing God’s voice. Jane and I walked from her house to the teaching centre next door from which issued the sound of drums and singing. Jane plopped down behind a harmonium and joined in the music-making while I slipped into the circle between two dark women dressed in tribal clothes. Over the next few hours I joined the group in dancing, singing, listening to (and questioning) teaching, chatting over chai, and praying over various members of the group.
At one point during the afternoon, a mother brought a young boy for prayer. The centre is open all day Thursday to provide intercession, but people are able to come on other days as well if they need to. She took me and one of her prayer partners to the back of the building and we prayed for the boy. In this way I was able to observe first hand the method through which Jane prays for healing, breaks curses, and leads people to experience the presence of J’sus. The boy had come with complaints of nightmares, minor physical symptoms, and prolonged refusal to attend a new school. I observed that his eyes were exceptionally twitchy, flitting back and forth and blinking constantly. The missionary prayed with him and invited J’sus to speak to the boy directly. After a moment of closed-eyed prayer, the boy opened his eyes and pronounced calmly that J’sus had told him to return to school. His eyes were completely calm and clear.
Over a break for food, Jane took me back to her house. She was supposed to be preparing for her two hour session (the 24 hours of worship were broken into sessions lead by different people,) but she spent the whole break talking with me about my own experience of the supernatural. I found myself sharing with her dreams, fantasies, and inclinations which had puzzled me in the past. It was a relief to find that she didn’t dismiss them but instead gave advice which made sense with my intuition and fit with what I knew of the spirit world. When the time for her session came, instead of winging a sermon, she let me use the time to ask questions to her team members and the local community who were participating in the prayer day.
Late that evening I plied Jane with questions about how to walk in the power and presence of the Holy Spirit the way she and these simple villagers did. I also wanted to know how she kept herself safe from the rebound resistance of the spirits that she encountered in her deliverance ministry. Carefully and methodically she explained to me basic principles of the spiritual world which seemed to be similar to the “laws” of physics.
“The first thing is to combat the spirits which might have found a right to be in your own life, preventing you from walking in the full reality of your position as a co-heir with Christ. Do you want to tackle some of your issues?” She asked, looking me straight in the eye. I returned the gaze imploringly. She sighed and retorted with characteristic faux-gruffness, “You see, this is why I never get any vacation time! I always meet people like you who need my help. Ok, let’s start by clearing the decks of any possible generational curses.”
Jane allowed me to soak up as much of her ministry as I could take in. I was welcomed to not only observe but participate in her team’s activities of that weekend. We arrived on Friday, several hours into the weekly observance of 24 hours of worship, soaking prayer, intercession, and “practicing” hearing God’s voice. Jane and I walked from her house to the teaching centre next door from which issued the sound of drums and singing. Jane plopped down behind a harmonium and joined in the music-making while I slipped into the circle between two dark women dressed in tribal clothes. Over the next few hours I joined the group in dancing, singing, listening to (and questioning) teaching, chatting over chai, and praying over various members of the group.
At one point during the afternoon, a mother brought a young boy for prayer. The centre is open all day Thursday to provide intercession, but people are able to come on other days as well if they need to. She took me and one of her prayer partners to the back of the building and we prayed for the boy. In this way I was able to observe first hand the method through which Jane prays for healing, breaks curses, and leads people to experience the presence of J’sus. The boy had come with complaints of nightmares, minor physical symptoms, and prolonged refusal to attend a new school. I observed that his eyes were exceptionally twitchy, flitting back and forth and blinking constantly. The missionary prayed with him and invited J’sus to speak to the boy directly. After a moment of closed-eyed prayer, the boy opened his eyes and pronounced calmly that J’sus had told him to return to school. His eyes were completely calm and clear.
Over a break for food, Jane took me back to her house. She was supposed to be preparing for her two hour session (the 24 hours of worship were broken into sessions lead by different people,) but she spent the whole break talking with me about my own experience of the supernatural. I found myself sharing with her dreams, fantasies, and inclinations which had puzzled me in the past. It was a relief to find that she didn’t dismiss them but instead gave advice which made sense with my intuition and fit with what I knew of the spirit world. When the time for her session came, instead of winging a sermon, she let me use the time to ask questions to her team members and the local community who were participating in the prayer day.
Late that evening I plied Jane with questions about how to walk in the power and presence of the Holy Spirit the way she and these simple villagers did. I also wanted to know how she kept herself safe from the rebound resistance of the spirits that she encountered in her deliverance ministry. Carefully and methodically she explained to me basic principles of the spiritual world which seemed to be similar to the “laws” of physics.
“The first thing is to combat the spirits which might have found a right to be in your own life, preventing you from walking in the full reality of your position as a co-heir with Christ. Do you want to tackle some of your issues?” She asked, looking me straight in the eye. I returned the gaze imploringly. She sighed and retorted with characteristic faux-gruffness, “You see, this is why I never get any vacation time! I always meet people like you who need my help. Ok, let’s start by clearing the decks of any possible generational curses.”
The Grand Finale 1: Meeting Jane
I was having one heck of a week, spent putting on VBS. It was exhausting, to say the least. Every morning from 8-12 was spent interacting with a swarm of fawning children. After lunch, I would collapse on my bed and conk out for a few hours. I would groggily try to visit with friends in the evening, then help to prepare the schedule for the next day until late night. Since the preparations were always made in my room, because it was the only room with AC, I would sometimes fall asleep while Pat and other helpers worked around me. I was really taken off guard by how emotionally draining it was to shepherd these high-energy kids through the activities with no common language. I was glad when Razia would lead me away to portion snacks into newspaper packets for the children’s chai break. By day four, I was spending most of the program sitting down, watching through lidded eyes while the Urdu stories, verses, and songs went on around me.
Day four was Thursday July 8; two days left of the program. That evening a friend was passing through Mirpurkhas, Jane, came for a tea visit on her way home to a neighboring city. Jane is a portly lady with feathery brown curls and a bustling enthusiasm that made me catch my breath. Her eyes twinkled as she talked about her time on furlough in America, the most recent providences of God, and her plans for future ministry. While I gawked and Pat and Paul listened unphased, she told us how she had no money to pay her employees’ salaries this month but that she wasn’t worried. She said that, since God had previously shown Himself to be faithful in financial provision, she had no right to doubt Him now. Transfixed, I ate up her casual stories of healings, deliverances, prophesies and other wonders. Apologetically she admitted that her team had only witnessed three resurrections from the dead. In the future, she confided eagerly, she expected God’s spirit to move even more powerfully. Her talk of demonic activity also caught my attention; she told one story of a man who received death threats from a demon then died soon after. This man revived after visiting heaven in which God told him he had been killed illegally.
As Jane talked, I felt as though she was showing me a door into a strange new world of spiritual reality and power. I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to follow her inside that world, but I knew that if I passed through that door, there would be no going back. I would be aware of the spiritual world and beings in that world would be aware of me. It sounded like a dangerous game to enter. Still, as a servant of God, I would be joining the winning side. As I considered the alternatives, it occurred to me that, if it is possible to engage with the Holy Spirit in wonders and warfare, could I possibly be content to live my life asleep to this reality? In fact, if I consciously chose to close my eyes to the spiritual realm, would it not be an active step away from God’s truth? As I sat wavering between inhibition and anticipation, keenly watching Jane, she abruptly turned to me and stated that she felt God would like her to invite me to visit her city. Time to choose.
I accepted her invitation wholeheartedly. Though I had been entirely exhausted when Jane arrived, after accepting her invitation I felt unaccountably full of excitement and hope. Though it should have been an unpleasant idea to travel at short notice, stay overnight in an unfamiliar place, and return to Mirpurkhas alone on a bus, I found that I had no inhibitions.
“Can you be ready to leave at 7:00 tomorrow morning?” Jane asked me testingly.
“Of course.” I replied instantly. At 8:30 the following morning, we were on the road. I thoroughly enjoyed the two hour drive through small towns and countryside, past herds of water-buffalo and fields of standing water, shimmering from the monsoon rains of the past week.
While we drove, I eagerly soaked up everything Jane could tell me about how she came to minister in Pakistan, the amazing miracles being performed by various people, and how she experiences God as present and active in her day to day life. She told me how, when she was in her last year of Bible college, she had visited a city in Pakistan and had heard God say to her, “You are going to fill a position in this city.” She had responded, “Absolutely not! No thank you, another assignment please!” She went on to talk about the year in which God proved again and again that his will was immovable. She had go to Pakistan or break fellowship with him. Once she submitted to his will, though, she had to overcome many obstacles in order to follow her calling to the last place she wanted to go. However, God has always provided and protected while she followed his leading. Listening to her experiences and about how she hears and follows God’s voice, I felt as though it was worth it to travel half way around the world just to meet her.
Day four was Thursday July 8; two days left of the program. That evening a friend was passing through Mirpurkhas, Jane, came for a tea visit on her way home to a neighboring city. Jane is a portly lady with feathery brown curls and a bustling enthusiasm that made me catch my breath. Her eyes twinkled as she talked about her time on furlough in America, the most recent providences of God, and her plans for future ministry. While I gawked and Pat and Paul listened unphased, she told us how she had no money to pay her employees’ salaries this month but that she wasn’t worried. She said that, since God had previously shown Himself to be faithful in financial provision, she had no right to doubt Him now. Transfixed, I ate up her casual stories of healings, deliverances, prophesies and other wonders. Apologetically she admitted that her team had only witnessed three resurrections from the dead. In the future, she confided eagerly, she expected God’s spirit to move even more powerfully. Her talk of demonic activity also caught my attention; she told one story of a man who received death threats from a demon then died soon after. This man revived after visiting heaven in which God told him he had been killed illegally.
As Jane talked, I felt as though she was showing me a door into a strange new world of spiritual reality and power. I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted to follow her inside that world, but I knew that if I passed through that door, there would be no going back. I would be aware of the spiritual world and beings in that world would be aware of me. It sounded like a dangerous game to enter. Still, as a servant of God, I would be joining the winning side. As I considered the alternatives, it occurred to me that, if it is possible to engage with the Holy Spirit in wonders and warfare, could I possibly be content to live my life asleep to this reality? In fact, if I consciously chose to close my eyes to the spiritual realm, would it not be an active step away from God’s truth? As I sat wavering between inhibition and anticipation, keenly watching Jane, she abruptly turned to me and stated that she felt God would like her to invite me to visit her city. Time to choose.
I accepted her invitation wholeheartedly. Though I had been entirely exhausted when Jane arrived, after accepting her invitation I felt unaccountably full of excitement and hope. Though it should have been an unpleasant idea to travel at short notice, stay overnight in an unfamiliar place, and return to Mirpurkhas alone on a bus, I found that I had no inhibitions.
“Can you be ready to leave at 7:00 tomorrow morning?” Jane asked me testingly.
“Of course.” I replied instantly. At 8:30 the following morning, we were on the road. I thoroughly enjoyed the two hour drive through small towns and countryside, past herds of water-buffalo and fields of standing water, shimmering from the monsoon rains of the past week.
While we drove, I eagerly soaked up everything Jane could tell me about how she came to minister in Pakistan, the amazing miracles being performed by various people, and how she experiences God as present and active in her day to day life. She told me how, when she was in her last year of Bible college, she had visited a city in Pakistan and had heard God say to her, “You are going to fill a position in this city.” She had responded, “Absolutely not! No thank you, another assignment please!” She went on to talk about the year in which God proved again and again that his will was immovable. She had go to Pakistan or break fellowship with him. Once she submitted to his will, though, she had to overcome many obstacles in order to follow her calling to the last place she wanted to go. However, God has always provided and protected while she followed his leading. Listening to her experiences and about how she hears and follows God’s voice, I felt as though it was worth it to travel half way around the world just to meet her.
Intro to the Grand Finale
It has been a while since I posted on this blog; most of you probably thought that it was over. In reality, I have been preparing the last few stories which will conclude the record of my adventures. My biggest adventure of all took several entries to cover and then I had to wait for permission from Jane (not her real name) before making public so much information about her. However, the story of my experience with Jane is a critical entry in the chronicle of my time in Pakistan. The time I spent with Jane was the single most life-changing part of my trip. During this time I learned a new appreciation for the reality of God, the Holy Spirit, and the spiritual battle we face. During my time with her I also learned the importance of keeping a lifestyle of companionship with the Holy Spirit and of not giving any foothold in my life to darkness. For these reasons I have decided to share the story so that others might learn from my experience. I hope you enjoy reading about what was for me the grand finale of my trip.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Asha
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I had very few specific expectations when I arrived in Pakistan but I did hope to attend a village wedding so that I could experience Pakistani dancing. As time went by in Pakistan, I visited villages but only experienced funeral rites without celebratory dancing. When I mentioned my hopes to Pat, she explained to me that summer is not wedding season in the Sindh region. Paul suggested I pray that somebody gives birth to a son; that would be the most likely way to experience a celebration. Thus, whenever I’ve thought of it over the past seven weeks, I have been hoping that God will send us a baby.
A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of sitting in on one of the training days for the Village Outreach Project evangelists. At first I sat with the wives and listened without comprehension as a Bible story was told in Urdu. After lunch I joined the evangelists for their session. I was seated next to the first and only female member of the evangelist team. Ratna, an aging but vigorous woman, enthusiastically participated with the 28 other (male) evangelists as they discussed the scripture, told testimonies, and reported prayer requests.
Ratna told us all how her daughter had recently given birth to a miracle baby. Ratna’s daughter has a heart condition that couldn’t be corrected with surgery because of her pregnancy. Because of this, all the doctors expected her to die in childbirth. In fact, no hospital would allow her to give birth there for fear that her family would sue when the girl died. Ratna eventually took her pregnant daughter home saying, “God is the great physician; He can take care of my daughter if it is his will.” Finally, a local hospital allowed the girl to come there for the birth on the condition that she signed a form saying she was giving birth against medical advice. By the grace of the Great Physician, the birth was entirely normal and the baby was born unusually healthy.
There was one catch; the child was a girl. After seven daughters this baby had been the family’s last hope for a son. While the mother was in the hospital recovering from labor and from a hysterectomy to prevent further children, she feared to tell her husband about the gender of the baby. After eight daughters and no sons, many men in Pakistan would be ready to divorce their wives or to hope that she would die in childbirth so they would be free to remarry. In tears for fear that he would never love her again, Ratna’s daughter handed her husband their last child. His response? To host a celebration thanking God for sparing the life of the mother and to make a statement to the Hindu community that God loves baby girls as much as baby boys. In this way, God answered my prayers to let me witness a village celebration, a Satti, a baby naming ceremony.
Two days before leaving the country, I found myself trying on brightly colored skirts and headdresses in preparation for attending the event that I had hoped for so long. The first several outfits I tried on were too small in one respect or another or were of the wrong tribe. Eventually I had to borrow a generic, shiny, yellow tribal blouse from one of the Stocks’ tribal neighbors, match it to one of Pat’s yellow-flowered, magenta skirt, and to fudge on the length of the magenta headdress. This problem solved, I enjoyed sweeping around the house to make the sea of skirt swish while Paul braided Jodie’s hair and Pat urged Joel to take a shower before putting on his best shalwar chamise.
We left only an hour so late for the two hour drive to the village. I sat in the front seat, my hand out the window, drinking in the sight of the country side. I was all too aware that this was my last village visit, one of the last car trips I would experience in the crazy, beautiful, dusty, vibrant, chaotic, exotic land I had come to love. While I watched the road roll by, Pat read aloud from The Hobbit and we enjoyed time together as a family. We arrived to the place where we had to leave the car and continue on foot just as dusk fell. We were met by smiling villagers who escorted us past fields of towering sugar cane, muddy lanes, and shadowy buildings to the heart of the village.
After the customarily joyful greetings and hearty congratulations to everyone in the village, the ceremony got underway right away. It turned out that though the village had been waiting for us, it was traditional to complete the naming ceremony before sunset. While Ratna, the esteemed grandmother, prepared a manger-esk pedestal for the baby, other family members asked us our input on what to name the baby girl. I was surprised that the family hadn’t chosen a name in the 20 days since the baby was born. They wanted our input first. Pat wanted a name that would indicate how valued the baby was, something that would translate into “Gift”, but she couldn’t think of any names like that in their language.
“How about Hope?” I suggested. “What is their word for hope?”
“Asha…” Paul responded meditatively.
“That sounds a little like they were hoping that she was a boy.” Pat added hesitantly. But a village member had already heard the suggestion and was enthusiastically repeating the name to other villagers. It turned out that Asha fit phonetic theme that the family used for their names. As the news of the name spread throughout the village with growing excitement, Pat turned to me. “How does it feel to know that you have named a baby? She will have this with her for her whole life.” I had asked God for a baby and He had personally delivered one that even doctors didn’t expect to live. Now I had also been allowed to give the child the first building block of her identity. I sat silently as the significance of it sunk in. As I sat still, I felt my heart grow very warm and full to overflowing.
Without waiting for me to process my contribution to the occasion, the ceremony began. Ratna sat at the head of the baby laid on the pedestal and chanted blessings over Asha while an aunt scooped celebratory sweet wheat kernels and chickpeas onto large leaves to be distributed to the guests. Soon significant women in the tribe started approaching the foot of the baby, tucking money into the cloth under the child, and scattering grain over her after cracking their knuckles on their own foreheads in blessing. Bashfully, I allowed myself to be pushed to the front where I clumsily imitated the motions of the other woman while the crowd laughed good-naturedly. After a while, Ratna finished her declarations over the baby and the crowd began to disperse.
Pat helped me to my feet and led me into the main hut; before I knew what was happening, someone had placed in my arms the bundle of swaddling clothes that was baby Asha. I was transfixed by her beautiful big eyes, her soft dark hair, and her small button nose. My baby. While people bustled around us I began to sing over her gently every hope I could have for her. I repeated over and over her name in the context of hoped for favor with God and man, strength of character, life success and every other blessing I could think of to hope for her. I only stopped when I was called to bring the baby over to be in a photo with her family. I held Asha there surrounded by her seven sisters, her young mother, her kind father; someone snapped pictures while others, aunts, friends, and even the Stocks took turns crowding into the picture frame. But for me, the only thing that mattered was the baby in my arms. Eventually someone took the baby from me. I sat down in a corner to scribble down the song I had poured out over Asha. Later I gave the poem to Paul to keep for Asha until she was old enough to understand that someone had loved her and prayed this hope for her on her naming day.
The rest of the evening went by around me as a pleasant whir of activity. We ate dinner of curry that once would have been unbearably spicy for me. I sat at the front of the company of woman and sang along to once foreign Urdu praise songs and watched eagerly as Paul sprinkled baptismal water over the heads of eight to ten children and women. As the baptisms finished and people began to prepare chai, I was growing sleepy. It was after 11:00 as I fell under the spell of the warm evening, the good food, and the warm contentment that had filled me since holding Asha. I lay down on the soft dirt floor of the hut and lazily watched the colorful forms flitting around in the dark village center.
Then I remembered, I hadn’t done any dancing yet! A young man soon pulled out a large drum and positioned himself in the center of the courtyard. As he began to beat a brisk tempo, Paul led about ten other men in a song about parenthood that we had learned earlier and the men began to dance. I watched eagerly, no longer tempted to sleep. Paul led the men in an acrobatic circle dance that involved sudden leaps in the air, flailing arms, and low hops along the ground. Pretty soon Ratna and Pat joined the circle of men. They maintained a steady pattern of sidesteps, clapping with the beat of their movements. The steps were simple and didn’t vary so I soon joined them.
At first I had to think carefully to not get out of sync with the other women. But pretty quickly I was able to sing along and watch the antics of the men while staying on beat. As the novelty wore off and the night wore on, the steady movements round the circle became almost hypnotic. Eventually I retired to watch from the sidelines. I watched the colorful skirts swishing past in time to the drum until the lateness of the hour overcame me. The last thing I remember is someone gently tucking a cloth under my feet, which were dangling off the blanket spread on the smooth hut floor, to protect me from the ants crawling around in the dirt. Thus cared for and content, I drifted off to sleep, grateful for having experienced a celebration and also aware that I had received so much more than I had hoped for.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Believer's Baptism
I woke up today, June 2nd, as though it were my first day in Murree. I was still insecure about my place and shy about mixing, but at least I felt awake and alert, able to smile and think clearly. The first order of business was to have breakfast. Since we were too late to have breakfast with the high school boys at their dorm (walking distance from our cabin) we walked down to the town at the base of the hill. All five of us, (Mr.S, Mrs.S, Joel, Jodie and I,) shuffled into a tiny café to order fried eggs, fried bread, and chai. I was acutely aware that, other than Pat and I, the café was patronized only by men who were staring at us subtly. I felt better when it turned out that our booth was equipped with curtains to shield ladies from indiscreet glances.
After the meal, we were picked up by a missionary couple who offered to drive us up to the school. It was very challenging to maneuver the car out of the town and up beyond the military barricade surrounding the school. People were milling around in the streets which were otherwise filled with parked cars. I found out from Pat that people were uneasy because the demolition that had been clearing one side of the street was about to take down the final building, a mosque. It turns out now, later in the day, that people are protesting by burning tires in the road and have cut the lines which provide internet to the school.
When we did manage to get up the steeply winding road to the school, I enjoyed a quiet morning of much needed reflection. I listened to worship music on my i-pod and finally took time to write in my journal. Because I had been saving my sights and experiences to share with you, I hadn’t journalled at all since leaving the country. I found great relief in writing about my surroundings, my immediate feelings, the bird calls that I’d noticed etc. without having to feel that I was composing for an audience. After journaling in the sun for a while, I moved inside the church where students were practicing music and read the book Alessandro lent me, “Biblical Inner Healing”. By the time lunch came around I was thoroughly refreshed.
Today at Murree there was only one scheduled event. I had the distinct pleasure of attending the baptism of eight students. We sat outside and sang songs and heard a message about the events that lead up to the baptism of the Ethiopian by Philip the Evangelist. But the really moving part of the ceremony was when each student solemnly declared that they believed that Jesus was the son of God, that he had died for their sins and that they dedicated their lives to him; then each student briefly told their testimony. After this, the child’s mother prayed for them and the child’s father baptized them in water while the priest held the microphone. It was very moving to see the young people so earnestly explaining why they wanted to be baptized and to see their parents ministering to them. I wondered how these children, raised in missionary families that place such an emphasis on Christianity and conversion, had gotten to the age of 10 or 12 without being baptized.
It made me think about my own infant baptism. I know I was baptized, though I don’t remember it. And I know that I am Christ’s own, though I have never officially declared it with a believer’s baptism. I listened as the children answered “yes” with varying degrees of vigor to the priest’s questions: Do you believe with your heart that Jesus is the son of God? Do you feel assured that he has washed away your sins? Do you desire to live for him forever? One boy answered, “pretty much” and the priest laughed, replying, “well that is a step forward”. I wondered what I would be able to respond in all honesty to these questions. Do I believe with ALL my heart that Jesus exists as the son of God? Do I feel ASSURED that my sins are washed away? I know at least that I do desire to serve him forever, whoever he is.
Then I realized that baptism is not the same thing as salvation or conversion. Baptism is a public commitment. It is a declaration of decision and allegiance. Just as the sacrament of marriage is not synonymous with being in love, it is the public demonstration and formation of commitment to this relationship, wherever it may lead or whatever it may involve. Though I was baptized into the church as an infant and have quietly grown in my relationship with God the Father, Christ the Son, and the active Spirit, the day may come when I also wish to publicly and officially declare with a believer’s baptism my allegiance once and for all, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death and beyond.
After the meal, we were picked up by a missionary couple who offered to drive us up to the school. It was very challenging to maneuver the car out of the town and up beyond the military barricade surrounding the school. People were milling around in the streets which were otherwise filled with parked cars. I found out from Pat that people were uneasy because the demolition that had been clearing one side of the street was about to take down the final building, a mosque. It turns out now, later in the day, that people are protesting by burning tires in the road and have cut the lines which provide internet to the school.
When we did manage to get up the steeply winding road to the school, I enjoyed a quiet morning of much needed reflection. I listened to worship music on my i-pod and finally took time to write in my journal. Because I had been saving my sights and experiences to share with you, I hadn’t journalled at all since leaving the country. I found great relief in writing about my surroundings, my immediate feelings, the bird calls that I’d noticed etc. without having to feel that I was composing for an audience. After journaling in the sun for a while, I moved inside the church where students were practicing music and read the book Alessandro lent me, “Biblical Inner Healing”. By the time lunch came around I was thoroughly refreshed.
Today at Murree there was only one scheduled event. I had the distinct pleasure of attending the baptism of eight students. We sat outside and sang songs and heard a message about the events that lead up to the baptism of the Ethiopian by Philip the Evangelist. But the really moving part of the ceremony was when each student solemnly declared that they believed that Jesus was the son of God, that he had died for their sins and that they dedicated their lives to him; then each student briefly told their testimony. After this, the child’s mother prayed for them and the child’s father baptized them in water while the priest held the microphone. It was very moving to see the young people so earnestly explaining why they wanted to be baptized and to see their parents ministering to them. I wondered how these children, raised in missionary families that place such an emphasis on Christianity and conversion, had gotten to the age of 10 or 12 without being baptized.
It made me think about my own infant baptism. I know I was baptized, though I don’t remember it. And I know that I am Christ’s own, though I have never officially declared it with a believer’s baptism. I listened as the children answered “yes” with varying degrees of vigor to the priest’s questions: Do you believe with your heart that Jesus is the son of God? Do you feel assured that he has washed away your sins? Do you desire to live for him forever? One boy answered, “pretty much” and the priest laughed, replying, “well that is a step forward”. I wondered what I would be able to respond in all honesty to these questions. Do I believe with ALL my heart that Jesus exists as the son of God? Do I feel ASSURED that my sins are washed away? I know at least that I do desire to serve him forever, whoever he is.
Then I realized that baptism is not the same thing as salvation or conversion. Baptism is a public commitment. It is a declaration of decision and allegiance. Just as the sacrament of marriage is not synonymous with being in love, it is the public demonstration and formation of commitment to this relationship, wherever it may lead or whatever it may involve. Though I was baptized into the church as an infant and have quietly grown in my relationship with God the Father, Christ the Son, and the active Spirit, the day may come when I also wish to publicly and officially declare with a believer’s baptism my allegiance once and for all, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death and beyond.
Fun in the sun cleaning clothes by hand
Today (June 18) I washed clothes in the local manner with my children friends from the hostel. I was having my quiet time when I heard a knock on the door of my room. It was Martha, the most beguiling of the group of girls who follows me around. “You with Rani walking?” She asked with the irresistible cock of the head that people here use so often. While waiting my answer she wore her characteristic look of gentle bewilderment. What she meant was, “Would you like to go on a walk with Rani and me?” But it came across as, “What are you doing in here reading? I thought you were going to take a walk with us!” When I tried to explain that I was reading the Bible, even pronouncing Bible in the Urdu way, she continued to stare at me with the same look of confusion until I sighed, put the book down and took her hand, signaling that she could lead me wherever she wanted.
It turned out that it was actually Shanti, Rani’s little sister, who wanted to walk with me. She wanted to go up onto the roof of the hostel to watch Martha and Rani washing clothes. But I was so intrigued by their chore that I insisted on going down to watch more closely. I maneuvered Shanti over to the pavilion where Rani was enthusiastically pumping water from an iron spout into a blue plastic tub. I watched as Rani squatted, submerged five or six pieces of clothing in the water, pulled one out, slapped it on the hot concrete and started vigorously scrubbing the cloth with a yellow bar of soap. After a few minutes of lathering, Rani threw the soap aside and commenced scrubbing the cloth with a stiff brush. After brushing, Rani kneaded the cloth like bread dough and then began to thwack it with a wooden club. After five or six hefty blows, she pushed the cloth aside and pulled out another item of clothing.
At this point, I squatted down beside her in the blazing sun and pulled out a sopping pair of pants to work on myself. “You want to wash the cloth?” She asked, incredulous. When I nodded and began furiously lathering, Shanti gave up on our walk and pushed a brick over for me to sit on while squatting. It was hot work and I was glad that water was involved. I found that Rani made the process look much easier than it really was. The soap slipped out of my grasp, the cloth bunched in the wrong places, and my thwacks with the club didn’t make the same juicy resonant sound that Rani’s did. Pretty soon I was stiffly shifting my position and trying to ease my aching arms.
After cleaning all the clothes, we had a pile of sudsy laundry. We dumped it back in the plastic tub and hauled it over to the pump. There I pumped while Rani rinsed, squeezed out excess water, and handed the item to Shanti to put on the clothes line. After all the clothes had been rinsed, Rani and Shanti took turns rinsing themselves off under the water. While they were doing this, I turned to help Martha who had just begun her family’s load without the help of sisters. Sopping wet, Rani and Shanti joined me and the four of us made short work of Martha’s laundry.
With the work done, the girls were all free to play and together we went up onto the roof to enjoy the breeze while the clothing dried in the sun.
It turned out that it was actually Shanti, Rani’s little sister, who wanted to walk with me. She wanted to go up onto the roof of the hostel to watch Martha and Rani washing clothes. But I was so intrigued by their chore that I insisted on going down to watch more closely. I maneuvered Shanti over to the pavilion where Rani was enthusiastically pumping water from an iron spout into a blue plastic tub. I watched as Rani squatted, submerged five or six pieces of clothing in the water, pulled one out, slapped it on the hot concrete and started vigorously scrubbing the cloth with a yellow bar of soap. After a few minutes of lathering, Rani threw the soap aside and commenced scrubbing the cloth with a stiff brush. After brushing, Rani kneaded the cloth like bread dough and then began to thwack it with a wooden club. After five or six hefty blows, she pushed the cloth aside and pulled out another item of clothing.
At this point, I squatted down beside her in the blazing sun and pulled out a sopping pair of pants to work on myself. “You want to wash the cloth?” She asked, incredulous. When I nodded and began furiously lathering, Shanti gave up on our walk and pushed a brick over for me to sit on while squatting. It was hot work and I was glad that water was involved. I found that Rani made the process look much easier than it really was. The soap slipped out of my grasp, the cloth bunched in the wrong places, and my thwacks with the club didn’t make the same juicy resonant sound that Rani’s did. Pretty soon I was stiffly shifting my position and trying to ease my aching arms.
After cleaning all the clothes, we had a pile of sudsy laundry. We dumped it back in the plastic tub and hauled it over to the pump. There I pumped while Rani rinsed, squeezed out excess water, and handed the item to Shanti to put on the clothes line. After all the clothes had been rinsed, Rani and Shanti took turns rinsing themselves off under the water. While they were doing this, I turned to help Martha who had just begun her family’s load without the help of sisters. Sopping wet, Rani and Shanti joined me and the four of us made short work of Martha’s laundry.
With the work done, the girls were all free to play and together we went up onto the roof to enjoy the breeze while the clothing dried in the sun.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Friends Forever
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Last night (July 2) I accepted an invitation to have dinner with my friends Razia and Sunila. Sunila had been at Pat’s house working on translating a timeline of the Old Testament into Urdu when she asked me if I would come to eat dinner at her house at 8:00. At five of 8:00 I put on bug spray, shouldered my purse, and struck out into the pitch black, electricity-free night. I had never gone walking alone at night and I was glad to count off the three gateways down the path to the one that opened into her courtyard.
I poked my head in and saw, by the light of a cook stove and various flashlights, dark shapes lounging around on four or five charpai beds, sitting on the courtyard walls, and peeping down from the roof. The place was alive with music from cell phones, children chattering, and the harsh sounds of the grandmother trying to keep order. Seeing my pale face peering around the gate, Razia’s two 10 year old nieces, Sanovu and Sanovia, took my hands and eagerly drew me inside. I went over to the gas stove where Razia was preparing dinner. I sat on the edge of a charpai and chatted with her while she sliced garlic and dried red chili peppers to make a flavorful stir-fry to add to the lentil sauce.
The little girls hung on my arms and begged me to sing songs with them and play little games. Eventually, they asked me to come with them up the rickety ladder made of wooden planks lashed to long poles and onto the roof. They led me up and out onto a roof that felt alarmingly spongy under my feet. On closer look, I saw that the roof was made of a layer of cracking mud spread over thatch! I could feel the material shifting under my feet. Then Razia’s head popped up over the side and she indicated that I move up from this level of the roof to one of the higher roofs.
There the floor was more solid, though I could still dig my toes into the soft dirt. We set up a picnic dinner spread out on a reed mat. Sunilia and their brother Raju joined us and by flashlight we served each other rice, lentils, eggplant curry, and a “salad” made of chopped onions and tomatoes. After the main course, we sliced up mangos for dessert and the little girls produced a Tupperware of chips. During the meal we talked about how the little girl’s mother, Razia’s sister, Nasreen, had been married at age 16 but that Sunila (age 22) and Razia (age 19) were being allowed to complete their education before getting married. When I asked why, they answered that it had been the strict grandfather who had insisted on Nasreen’s marriage but that he had died before Sunila reached marriageable age. Their father, Unice, is not like the grandfather; he is gentle, kind, and humble. Now that he is the patriarch, he allows his daughters to study and work and isn’t pressuring them to marry. After eating, the little girls wandered away and I was free to spend time with my friends.
I lay on my back, looking at the stars and enjoying the night breeze. The constellations here are the same, Orion’s belt, Big Dipper, Venus, the North Star, but the sky is darker and larger. After a while, I sat up and looked at my friends.
“When you come back to Pakistan?” Razia asked, cuddling her head on my shoulder. I leaned my cheek on her head and sighed.
“I don’t know…”
“You will send me to come to your marriage?” Sunila asked playfully.
“And I do the mandi!” Razia added eagerly. I assured them that I would see them at my wedding, if not before. “You make for me American boy to marry.” Razia said decidedly. At that I started volunteering and describing the various eligible young men in my acquaintance while Razia and Sunila laughed, rejecting some and agreeing to consider others. In this way we happily talked and conspired together under the stars.
“You give to us pictures and we choose.” They eventually said.
“Ok, lets go to Mami Pat’s (Aunty Pat) house and look at pictures.” I agreed. So we slid down the ladder, handed down the dishes, and said goodbye to the family members settling down to sleep outside on the charpais.
“But this is secret,” Razia muttered to me earnestly as we walked up the lain to the Stock’s house. “You no tell Pakistani girl you look for me husband. We not speak of it. Only you go in America and talk.” I responded gaily that I intended to shout it out from the rooftop and pretended to start to do so, at which both Sunila and Razia squealed and laughingly squelched my feigned attempts to proclaim their secret.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to show them any pictures of my friends and family that evening because the internet was too slow. “That ok.” Sunila assured me. “You send in mail to me and I see your family picture.” I said I would. At that point, Sunila wanted to go back to her house to catch her favorite Indian soap opera so she waved goodbye. Before following her, Razia leaned on my shoulder and I put my arm around her warmly. “You my best friend.” She said warmly. Hugging her a little tighter I returned, “You are my best Pakistani friend. “Yes,” she smiled happily, and waved goodbye.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Receptivity to Christianity and about burqas
A friend of mine from the states responded to my request for questions with a string of interesting ones for me to answer. Here are her questions and my responses.
“How do people react to the fact that the Stocks are Christians? Do they even know, mostly? You said that Paul prayed at the end of the visit with Golden, but that was in a place where you said people worship other gods every day... did those listening receive it, act like they didn't like it, seem curious, have no idea what was going on, or what? Are non-Christians in Pakistan generally anti-Christian, or more open like in the U.S.?”
Hindus tend to be pretty tolerant (Golden and most of the people the Stocks work with are Hindu.) Hindus have a "cover all your bases" policy and are often happy to have Christian's pray for them and worship in their villages. Some are very friendly and worship our God themselves on a regular basis. What they don't like is the Christian concept of "one true God". Missionaries have to develop relationships with them, and hopefully demonstrate some of the power of Christianity, before they are open to offending their own gods by exclusively worshiping the Christian God.
I haven't had much interaction with Muslims here. Most of the people in the towns and cities, the ones who aren't wearing tribal clothes, are Muslim. They stare at us sometimes, because we are western, but don't seem particularly hostile to our Christianity. There are many churches here, three close to our house, though there are many more mosques. Christianity isn't underground here and seems to be considered a legitimate option by the Muslim majority. But, as I've said, the Stocks work almost entirely with Hindus, so I don't know first hand what it is like to share the gospel with Muslims.
Pat adds that Muslims are very interested in religious conversations. Muslims here are offended by Godless, hedonistic America but respect God-fearing Christians and respect the development work missionaries are trying to do. As opposed to feeling hostile, they pity Christians for not having the full revelation and for following such a minor prophet as Jesus Christ. Pat says that her approach with Muslims is to encourage them to read the Bible for themselves. She reminds them that the Quran actually proscribes reading the Bible and that the Bible supplies many details about our prophet that are not included in the Quran. The scriptures speak for themselves, she told me, if they would just read it.
It seems to me, in a way, that Pakistanis are MORE open to Christianity than in the US. Pakistan is a deeply religious nation. All people believe that god(s) exist, are powerful and important. People are eager to know your understanding of the truth and to put it to test in real life. There isn't a scorn for Christians as ignorant and backward here. Christians often bring education, compassion, and medicine. The big barrier is the fact that, since religion is so very ingrained in the cultural practices of these people, to change your religion affects every part of your life. That is one reason why many people practice Christianity but do not make a public confession of faith.
“Also, do women wear burqas there? Do you ever?”
Many women wear burqas but so far I have not. When walking around the bazaar, I’ve seen a great variety of women’s clothing from fashionable shalwar chamises with head scarf on or off, to various tribal outfits, to burkas. It seems to be up to you what you want to wear. Many older women wear the burqas, perhaps because they're tired of dealing with the extra vigilance you need when you wear more attention-getting clothes. Burqas give you a comfortable anonymity which lets your go about your business in peace. Younger or less traditional women can choose to work the more fashionable alternatives the way American women can choose to wear flashy advertisement-style clothes if they think they can pull it off. It’s up to you.
Only children or men, however, wear western style pants and shirts. It would be considered pretty immodest for a woman, sort of like a girl showing mid-drift, cleavage, and wearing heavy makeup would look in the US. Still, my friend Lily told me that she and her city friends in Hyderabad sometimes wear pants and shirt and that it is not scandalous. In the picture she showed me, the clothes were so shapeless that she and her friends really looked like boys.
For me, I wear a tribal outfit if going to a tribal worship service or funeral. The rest of the time, I wear loose shalwar chamises, the cultural equivalent of loose jeans and a loose t-shirt, moderate and accepted. I keep my head scarf strictly over my head when in public or when praying, a gesture of being conservative and not interested in attention. When with friends or at Christian events, my scarf stays draped across my shoulders like a backwards shawl. Around the house, with the children and the household help, neither Pat nor I feel the need to wear the scarf at all. I do not feel any angst to wear western clothes while here. The shalwar chamises come in every color and design, are comfortable for the temperature, and do not reveal the flaws in my figure.
Thanks for the questions, Annie!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Day in Hyderabad: Part II
After lunch, 10 of us piled into the 8 passenger van brought by the relative and headed out. We went to the museum first. We entered through an arch above which was inscribed, “Museum tells the story since the dawn of history”. The museum was a dimly lit building with rows of displays of decaying animals, dusty cloth, woven beads, and colonial era guns which Lily insisted dated back to 3,000 BC. I most enjoyed the exhibit displaying a series of manikins dressed set up to demonstrate Pakistani professions such as weaver, black smith, and potter. Though it was modest by western standards, it was a fair attempt at exhibiting Pakistani history and heritage; I could tell Lily’s family was proud to show it off.
On the way out, when the museum closed at 5:30, Lily’s relative offered to buy me anything I chose from the gift-shop. I chose, from the piles of hand embroidered clothing and purses, a small bag just large enough for my camera. Though in Mirpurkhas it would have cost 100 rupees, the man behind the counter asked for 1100 rupees. I was appalled by the overpricing but the relative proudly handed over the money and accepted my thanks. Another humbling display of lavish Pakistani generosity. Though I don’t even know his name, I now think of this man whenever I pull out my camera.
From the gift shop we drove over to Ranibad where we met up with Paul and Padri Shamu. Amanat paid my admission and kept me and the rest of the party supplied with water, soda, spicy chickpea mix and pellets to feed the animals in the zoo. In response to Lily’s comment that there is no fun without desert, Paul bought us all twine made of finely spun, mouth watering, sugar. While I shared a soda with Lily, the little boys climbed on the restored remains of an old plane crash. Several beggars had gotten past the admission fee and approached us for handouts. One memorable beggar was a man, flamboyantly attired in a hot pink sari, high heels, jeweled handbag and feminine make-up. Paul explained to me that cross-dressers are not uncommon here and often are professional beggars. My favorite part of Ranibad, however, was the zoo, which allowed patrons to get much closer to the animals than any western zoo I’ve been to. I enjoyed handing food to monkeys, parrots, mountain goats, and ostriches. The crocodiles, zebras, peacocks, and foxes didn’t come close enough to the fence for me to hand feed them but they were still very fun to see.
We all crammed back into the van, with the addition of Paul and Padri, and went back to Lily’s house to pick up my backpack. It was soon time to leave and I went down the row of them, saying goodbye, giving hugs, shaking hands, and patting heads. When I came to Lily’s mother, I saw that she was holding a bag. Proudly she held it out to me, another gift. It was a gift of cloth, enough for at least two three-piece shalwar chamise suits. This gift would cost half of my friend Sunila’s monthly salary. Again I found myself bowing and blushing, trying to thank them enough for their endless generosity. “You thank too much,” said Amanat. “Once a day is enough.” Thus, with thank-yous still on my lips, Padri Shamu steered the van out of the courtyard of the apartment complex and the kind family receded out of view.
As the van bumped and thumped through Hyderabad once more, I enjoyed the space of having the whole back seat to myself. I was hot and tired and just wanted to be still. But they day was not over yet; the sun hadn’t even gone down! We were off to Miti’s village to have dinner and lead a worship service before bringing the whole family home to Mirpurkhas. We arrived at dusk and were met again by a crowd of women and children, Mitis’ sisters and families. Paul went off to socialize and I found myself seated against a mud wall facing a ring of large-eyed children. With absolutely no one to translate, I tried out the little Urdu that I’d learned. “Obka nahm?” (Your name?) I asked the little girl on my far right. “Jilahlee” she answered. “Jiluhlee?” I repeated. She and the others giggled at my mispronunciation but repeated it for me until I got it right. In this manner I went down the row of kids, butchering and confusing their names in turn to uproarious laughter.
Once we were more or less introduced, and I could no longer tell them apart at all because of the deepening darkness, I tried some more Urdu on them. “Kushi hui” (I’m happy) I said. “Hui” they all chanted back. No matter what I said, they repeated it back. So naturally I started a “repeat after me” song that I’d learned from Camp Hebron. “There was a great big moose!” I sang, holding my hands up to my head like antlers. “Moose!” They sang back, laughing and holding up their hands. Delighted, I continued. One little one named Canoe was particularly bright and carried the song to the end while the others giggled. Soon the original 10 or 12 kids had grown to a crowd of 27, all roaring with laughter.
At the end of the moose song I tried “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”. Then I asked them to supply their words for the body parts. That was when I discovered that they did not speak Urdu! I knew that nose in Urdu is “nack”, eye is “onk”, ear is “kawn” etc. Their words didn’t match up. This is how I began my official study of Kujratthi, their tribal language. Soon I had them teaching me animal names as identified by the sound the creature made. They enjoyed my animal impressions even more than my attempts at their language. I was making quite good progress in my Kujratthi education when I was called for dinner and had to leave my raucous young tutors. Over chicken curry and spicy lentils, Paul reported that the children had asked him if I could stay and be their teacher. Sadly I smiled; it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
After dinner, we laid out large rugs and set up a microphone, harmonium, and tabla drums for the worship service. As the music got started, I sat near the back in the midst of the adult women. For the first few songs, I hummed along, trying to pick up the words. It was after 10:00 at this point and I was fading fast. Without any understanding of the content of the songs, it was hard to stay focused so I leaned my head back against the wall and tried to pray. Pretty soon, someone poked me. It was the regal woman with wispy white hair squatting next to me. When I opened my eyes, she asked me something in Kujratthi. Now it was my turn to repeat senselessly what she had said. She nodded yes and waited for an answer. I stared dumbly. Soon the other women were chiming in, rephrasing, laughing at my empty yet anxious expression. So I said the only word in Kujratthi that came to mind. “Kutthero” (dog). The woman who had originally poked me burst into laughter. Then, incredulous, she made some dog barks to confirm that I knew what I had said. I nodded solemnly. At that point, Paul called over the loud speaker, “Michelle, we are trying to have a worship service.” Blushing and squirming, I motioned the tribal women to turn their attention to the front and from then on I tried to keep my head pointing forward.
The songs and little teachings went on and on. At one point chai and water were served to everyone. Bleary with sleepiness, I watched the young man serving water to the women. He was wearing a long, gray, western scarf wrapped once around his neck and dangling down over his light blue chamise. My attention must have been noticed because later, before we drove away, this young man came to me and, in halting English, asked me about marriage. At the end of the service, incense was lit and a blessing was said over a large tin bowl covered with a cloth. Then handfuls of white wafers were passed around to everyone. Communion, I thought, but when some were dropped into my hands, I found that they were made of solid sugar. I didn’t feel like blasting my system with sugar but the women around me insisted, even pushing their own candies up to my mouth until I started to nibble my own.
This feast marked the end of the service and I laid down on the rug to join the many already sleeping children. But the hen-like women next to me would have none of it. “Chello!” (Let’s go!) she commanded and hoisted me to my feet. The women crowded around me, poking, pinching, and asking unintelligible questions to which the woman leading me would sarcastically answer “Kutthero!” (dog). The woman led me to a charpai bed a little ways off from where Paul was chatting. Here the women stood around me chattering overwhelmingly. Not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes and stared to sing. The crowd was instantly hushed and I continued singing to myself praise songs until I had the courage to open my eyes. Once I did so, the women started clamoring again only this time I understood, "English geet! Ghauna!" (English song! Sing!) I continued singing until I started falling asleep where I sat. Then they let me lay down and here it was that the man who had been serving water came and tried to strike up a conversation. Here it was that Paul came to collect me. “They say they want you to stay the night,” he informed me. “It is up to you.” That got me up and into the car quick enough, after bowing to be blessed by all my adoring fans, that is. I sat squeezed between Miti and the mercifully open window. It was 1:00am as we pulled away from the village.
We drove and drove. I tried to doze off but the lack of a headrest and the unpredictable bumps in the road made it difficult. Miti seemed concerned by my half conscious state and so leaned herself uncomfortably away from me so that I could lean on her and not be completely upright. She was blissfully soft and steady. Then I found myself being offered tea. We had stopped at a roadside “hotel” (restaurant with charpais out front for sleepy truckers). The car accompanying us with the instruments and equipment had broken down and we were waiting for it to be fixed. I declined the offer of tea none too gracefully and Miti motioned for me to rest my head on her lap. I dozed fitfully as she fanned me until we started moving again. We arrived home at 3:00am. I clasped Miti’s hand in grateful farewell and staggered in to the house. I was slimy from sweat and dust so I ducked into the shower, which had, thank God, enough water pressure for a quick rinse, before collapsing into bed and sleeping till 1:00pm the next day.
On the way out, when the museum closed at 5:30, Lily’s relative offered to buy me anything I chose from the gift-shop. I chose, from the piles of hand embroidered clothing and purses, a small bag just large enough for my camera. Though in Mirpurkhas it would have cost 100 rupees, the man behind the counter asked for 1100 rupees. I was appalled by the overpricing but the relative proudly handed over the money and accepted my thanks. Another humbling display of lavish Pakistani generosity. Though I don’t even know his name, I now think of this man whenever I pull out my camera.
From the gift shop we drove over to Ranibad where we met up with Paul and Padri Shamu. Amanat paid my admission and kept me and the rest of the party supplied with water, soda, spicy chickpea mix and pellets to feed the animals in the zoo. In response to Lily’s comment that there is no fun without desert, Paul bought us all twine made of finely spun, mouth watering, sugar. While I shared a soda with Lily, the little boys climbed on the restored remains of an old plane crash. Several beggars had gotten past the admission fee and approached us for handouts. One memorable beggar was a man, flamboyantly attired in a hot pink sari, high heels, jeweled handbag and feminine make-up. Paul explained to me that cross-dressers are not uncommon here and often are professional beggars. My favorite part of Ranibad, however, was the zoo, which allowed patrons to get much closer to the animals than any western zoo I’ve been to. I enjoyed handing food to monkeys, parrots, mountain goats, and ostriches. The crocodiles, zebras, peacocks, and foxes didn’t come close enough to the fence for me to hand feed them but they were still very fun to see.
We all crammed back into the van, with the addition of Paul and Padri, and went back to Lily’s house to pick up my backpack. It was soon time to leave and I went down the row of them, saying goodbye, giving hugs, shaking hands, and patting heads. When I came to Lily’s mother, I saw that she was holding a bag. Proudly she held it out to me, another gift. It was a gift of cloth, enough for at least two three-piece shalwar chamise suits. This gift would cost half of my friend Sunila’s monthly salary. Again I found myself bowing and blushing, trying to thank them enough for their endless generosity. “You thank too much,” said Amanat. “Once a day is enough.” Thus, with thank-yous still on my lips, Padri Shamu steered the van out of the courtyard of the apartment complex and the kind family receded out of view.
As the van bumped and thumped through Hyderabad once more, I enjoyed the space of having the whole back seat to myself. I was hot and tired and just wanted to be still. But they day was not over yet; the sun hadn’t even gone down! We were off to Miti’s village to have dinner and lead a worship service before bringing the whole family home to Mirpurkhas. We arrived at dusk and were met again by a crowd of women and children, Mitis’ sisters and families. Paul went off to socialize and I found myself seated against a mud wall facing a ring of large-eyed children. With absolutely no one to translate, I tried out the little Urdu that I’d learned. “Obka nahm?” (Your name?) I asked the little girl on my far right. “Jilahlee” she answered. “Jiluhlee?” I repeated. She and the others giggled at my mispronunciation but repeated it for me until I got it right. In this manner I went down the row of kids, butchering and confusing their names in turn to uproarious laughter.
Once we were more or less introduced, and I could no longer tell them apart at all because of the deepening darkness, I tried some more Urdu on them. “Kushi hui” (I’m happy) I said. “Hui” they all chanted back. No matter what I said, they repeated it back. So naturally I started a “repeat after me” song that I’d learned from Camp Hebron. “There was a great big moose!” I sang, holding my hands up to my head like antlers. “Moose!” They sang back, laughing and holding up their hands. Delighted, I continued. One little one named Canoe was particularly bright and carried the song to the end while the others giggled. Soon the original 10 or 12 kids had grown to a crowd of 27, all roaring with laughter.
At the end of the moose song I tried “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”. Then I asked them to supply their words for the body parts. That was when I discovered that they did not speak Urdu! I knew that nose in Urdu is “nack”, eye is “onk”, ear is “kawn” etc. Their words didn’t match up. This is how I began my official study of Kujratthi, their tribal language. Soon I had them teaching me animal names as identified by the sound the creature made. They enjoyed my animal impressions even more than my attempts at their language. I was making quite good progress in my Kujratthi education when I was called for dinner and had to leave my raucous young tutors. Over chicken curry and spicy lentils, Paul reported that the children had asked him if I could stay and be their teacher. Sadly I smiled; it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
After dinner, we laid out large rugs and set up a microphone, harmonium, and tabla drums for the worship service. As the music got started, I sat near the back in the midst of the adult women. For the first few songs, I hummed along, trying to pick up the words. It was after 10:00 at this point and I was fading fast. Without any understanding of the content of the songs, it was hard to stay focused so I leaned my head back against the wall and tried to pray. Pretty soon, someone poked me. It was the regal woman with wispy white hair squatting next to me. When I opened my eyes, she asked me something in Kujratthi. Now it was my turn to repeat senselessly what she had said. She nodded yes and waited for an answer. I stared dumbly. Soon the other women were chiming in, rephrasing, laughing at my empty yet anxious expression. So I said the only word in Kujratthi that came to mind. “Kutthero” (dog). The woman who had originally poked me burst into laughter. Then, incredulous, she made some dog barks to confirm that I knew what I had said. I nodded solemnly. At that point, Paul called over the loud speaker, “Michelle, we are trying to have a worship service.” Blushing and squirming, I motioned the tribal women to turn their attention to the front and from then on I tried to keep my head pointing forward.
The songs and little teachings went on and on. At one point chai and water were served to everyone. Bleary with sleepiness, I watched the young man serving water to the women. He was wearing a long, gray, western scarf wrapped once around his neck and dangling down over his light blue chamise. My attention must have been noticed because later, before we drove away, this young man came to me and, in halting English, asked me about marriage. At the end of the service, incense was lit and a blessing was said over a large tin bowl covered with a cloth. Then handfuls of white wafers were passed around to everyone. Communion, I thought, but when some were dropped into my hands, I found that they were made of solid sugar. I didn’t feel like blasting my system with sugar but the women around me insisted, even pushing their own candies up to my mouth until I started to nibble my own.
This feast marked the end of the service and I laid down on the rug to join the many already sleeping children. But the hen-like women next to me would have none of it. “Chello!” (Let’s go!) she commanded and hoisted me to my feet. The women crowded around me, poking, pinching, and asking unintelligible questions to which the woman leading me would sarcastically answer “Kutthero!” (dog). The woman led me to a charpai bed a little ways off from where Paul was chatting. Here the women stood around me chattering overwhelmingly. Not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes and stared to sing. The crowd was instantly hushed and I continued singing to myself praise songs until I had the courage to open my eyes. Once I did so, the women started clamoring again only this time I understood, "English geet! Ghauna!" (English song! Sing!) I continued singing until I started falling asleep where I sat. Then they let me lay down and here it was that the man who had been serving water came and tried to strike up a conversation. Here it was that Paul came to collect me. “They say they want you to stay the night,” he informed me. “It is up to you.” That got me up and into the car quick enough, after bowing to be blessed by all my adoring fans, that is. I sat squeezed between Miti and the mercifully open window. It was 1:00am as we pulled away from the village.
We drove and drove. I tried to doze off but the lack of a headrest and the unpredictable bumps in the road made it difficult. Miti seemed concerned by my half conscious state and so leaned herself uncomfortably away from me so that I could lean on her and not be completely upright. She was blissfully soft and steady. Then I found myself being offered tea. We had stopped at a roadside “hotel” (restaurant with charpais out front for sleepy truckers). The car accompanying us with the instruments and equipment had broken down and we were waiting for it to be fixed. I declined the offer of tea none too gracefully and Miti motioned for me to rest my head on her lap. I dozed fitfully as she fanned me until we started moving again. We arrived home at 3:00am. I clasped Miti’s hand in grateful farewell and staggered in to the house. I was slimy from sweat and dust so I ducked into the shower, which had, thank God, enough water pressure for a quick rinse, before collapsing into bed and sleeping till 1:00pm the next day.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A Day in Hyderabad: Part I
I had only met Lily when I was leaving the Bishop’s party. All I knew about her was that she was the 19 year old daughter of one of Paul’s childhood friends. We clasped hands and smiled at each other. She begged me to come to her house instead of going home and promised to show me her city, Hyderabad. I said I would come back to visit her if I could and we eagerly exchanged phone numbers. Perhaps it was the deep rapport Paul has with her father, which gave me an instant sense of connection to Lily, as though we were family; it was a feeling that this relationship was worth investing in even if it wasn’t always comfortable. Because of this, I perked up my ears when I heard, last Friday night (June 25), that Paul would be going to Hyderabad the next morning.
When I questioned him about his plans, Paul explained to me that he would be leaving at 8:00 the next morning to drive the hour and a half to Hyderabad city for a meeting. The meeting would go until noon, they would have lunch, and then he would go to a village on the outskirts of the city to lead a worship service. If I wanted, I could call Lily before he left in the morning to see if she was free to host me for the day. I was hesitant. It was already past midnight and I didn’t relish getting up at 7:00. Also, I was uneasy with the prospect of being stranded in Hyderabad without anyone I knew for a whole day. I was afraid of becoming exhausted and miserable. Still, it seemed as good a time as any to follow up on my promise to visit and to take the adventure given to me. What is the point of being here if I insist on staying comfortable, right?
That night I prayed that, if it would be a net blessing for me to go, I would be able to get in touch with Lily and that she would be free. I prayed that, if I went, God would sustain me and bless the time. Then I texted Lily and went to bed. Five minutes later, I received a text back, “Means you tomorrow come to my house and call in morning? Yes dear, of course dear!” So it was settled. Tomorrow would be an adventure! Little did I know then just how much of an adventure it would be.
Things started well when Paul woke me at 7:00. I had slept well and felt alert. I dressed up as I’d seen girls here do when going visiting with earrings, a little make up, and Pakistani high heeled sandals. I questioned Paul as to whether I should bring clean water and toilet paper. He said to bring water just in case, but not to worry about the toilet paper. After I made myself two fried eggs and a thermos of tea I felt ready for anything. At 8:00 sharp, Padri Shamu arrived to pick us up. When I opened the side door, I was surprised to find the 8-seat van already full of Padri Shamu’s wife, four children, water-cooler, and bags. I squeezed in next to his wife Miti, a large dark woman dressed in flaming pink tribal clothes. My backpack had to stay on my lap as the engine caused the floor bulge under my feet, leaving no extra room. In this cramped, cozy fashion, we bumped along the highway.
It was exciting to watch the road. In true Pakistani fashion, Padri Shamu weaved through traffic, never missing a chance to go around a truck or donkey-cart, avoiding head-on collisions by speeding up and blaring his horn. At one point, we accidentally got on the wrong side of a divided highway. Padri dealt with it by turning on his lights and staying close to the divider until there was a break in the wall and we were able to accelerate into the appropriate stream of traffic. I spent the time taking note of the country side so as to be able to tell you about the fields, roadside snack stands, and peculiar vehicles. At one point a motorbike passed us driven by a man with two toddlers sitting in front of him and a woman in high heels riding sidesaddle behind him! I will have to write you a description of the highway ethos in another post; this one already has too much for me to tell!
To my surprise, we didn’t stop when we reached the chaos of Hyderabad city. We navigated the construction and crowds and continued back out into the countryside. We turned off the road onto a narrow dirt path made for a cart. Surely the fashionable Lily and didn’t live out here! The path turned into a strip of mud bordering a stagnant strip of shallow water. Once we got past the water, we arrived at a village of mud huts with thatched roofs and lounging farm animals reminiscent of a nativity scene. We had come to Miti’s village where we would drop off the family to spend the day with Grandma and all the aunts, uncles and cousins.
I gingerly climbed out of the van, suddenly feeling very silly in my fancy sandals. I was greeted by a wave of short women with tribal tattoos on their weathered brown faces. They put their rough hands on my head when I bowed and then they pulled me forward to kiss my cheeks. Thus I was welcomed by Miti’s family. As Paul greeted the villagers, I wandered around. I took pictures of water-buffalo lounging in a neighboring river, some with only their noses poking out of the water. I watched two children redoing the floor of their hut by efficiently spreading a layer of buffalo dung mud over the floor, corners, and the base of the walls. Nothing about the village buildings gave away the fact that they were made of dung mud. The air smelled fresh and the buildings looked like they could have been made of khaki-painted plaster. There were no square corners, every edge was rounded and the dry mud was solid but crumbled to powder if punctured.
After waving goodbye to Miti and the kids, Padri Shamu, Paul, and I climbed back in the van and drove back to Hyderabad. We arrived at St. Thomas Cathedral where I was met by Lily’s father, Amanat, a quiet man with a gentle face. Paul and Padri Shamu said goodbye and went inside to have their meeting. Lily’s father, beckoned me over to his means of transportation, a motor bike! I swallowed hard. I knew that I would have to ride sidesaddle, like all women in this country, but I didn’t know if I was allowed to hold on to Amanat. In the end, I decided that I would hang on even if it wasn’t culturally acceptable. No use avoiding local disapproval by falling off the bike in traffic. Sitting sideways on the back of the bike, no helmet or any kind of protective clothing, both besandled feet sticking out on one side of the bike and my backpack protruding from the other side, I was glad I had at least some rudimentary experience with how to lean with the bike and not resist the momentum. I focused all my energy on not upsetting Amanat’s balance as we bounced over fissures in the road, squeezed between lanes of carts, and crunched over a sandal that suddenly flew into the road from somewhere to the left. I was glad to arrive 15 minutes later, my front leg on fire from the strain of the one position.
Amanat and his family live on the third floor of a ramshackle apartment building, very modern and luxurious compared to Miti’s village. Amanat has seven children ranging from Paris, Joy, and Lily who are in specialty schools for Civil Engineering and Pharmacology respectively, to Harry who is in high school, down to John, Johnson-John, and Joseph-John, who are in elementary and middle school. Amanat works as an art teacher since he has not found much market for his oil paintings of colorful village scenes. His wife, a large cheery woman, works in the hospital next-door to the apartment complex.
From the moment I arrived in the home, the family treated me like royalty. They ushered me into their sitting room, pushed the coffee table up to my knees and placed on it in front of me plates of cookies, chips, two kinds of trail mix, and glasses of water and coke. While I sat surveying the junk food feast, Lily rushed off to make me chai tea. The others watched me anxiously to see if I would like what they had offered me. I sat awkwardly for a few minutes, picking at the trail mix and nibbling at a cookie. When Lily came back with a cup of chai, she tittered about how I must not like the food since I had barely touched it and would I like a different kind of cookie? At that I piled a plate high with a hearty portion of each offering and the room relaxed into comfortable conversation about differing cultural values and definitions of “rude”.
After I admired a picture hanging on the wall that Amanat had painted, a blazing sun setting behind thatched huts, Amanat motioned for one of his sons to get something from another room. He returned with another painting, this one done on a long strip of black cloth. The painting was of a moon shining over a river and illuminating sleeping village not unlike Miti’s. “I make for you a gift.” said Amanat, motioning with his hand for the boy to offer it to me. “I can not sell it and you can easily take it with you.” I looked at it with eyes shining. I hated to let him give me something with such personal and professional value, but unlike the sugary snacks, this was a gift I would truly treasure. After some polite protestation, I accepted whole heartedly. “I will show it to my friends in America and tell them about you!” I promised. “You will show it to your sister and father. Show them my art.” was his simple response.
As we sat and I ate, Amanat asked me what I would like to do for the day. Bashfully, I lifted my palms, I didn’t know what the possibilities were but would be happy with anything. Amanat nodded solemnly. He told me that there was a museum of Pakistani culture situated right behind it was a place called “Ranibad” which included gardens, a zoo, and “fun land”. I smiled vigorously. That sounded perfect! Again he nodded and then stood and left the room.
Since I was no longer occupied talking to their father, the young people crowded around me. Lily, my special friend, put jewelry on my wrists, ankles and head while I looked at pictures of her family. Then she pulled out tubes of mandi (hena) and started to apply it to my hands. The little boys took from me my camera and had great fun with it. The oldest brother plugged a DVD player into the TV and started playing for me Indian music videos. After we were done with the mandi, Lilly pulled me to my feet and dragged me to the center of the room to dance with her to the Bollywood tunes. Blushing with awareness of all the brothers watching me, I clumsily mimicked her movements and was soon laughing along with the rest of them. Eventually Amanat came back and informed me that he had arranged transportation for us all to Ranibad for after lunch. And so the morning went on. I played little language games with the children, exchanging English and Urdu words, was served a snack of mangos on their tiny terrace overlooking a dusty courtyard, and discussed the American perception of Pakistan with Amanat.
Eventually, at 3:00pm, lunch was served. I was very concerned that the entire family of nine and the relative who had brought a van for us to use would formally sit and watch me eat lunch alone, but I shouldn’t have feared. Since charpai beds, on which meals are often eaten, didn’t seem to be a part of their apartment furniture, we all sat picnic-like on a sheet spread on the floor of the sitting room. When I served myself a timid portion of chicken in rice, Amanat’s wife reached over me and dumped an additional three portions onto my plate. She was also very concerned that platters of bindi (okra) and chicken curry were always well within my reach. Though at first I was wary of excessive spices, I was quite hungry for lunch at this point, and I was happy to find that the food was deliciously edible. Amanat’s wife smiled and promised to give me the recipe. After lunch, around 4:00, we were ready to set out on the day’s activities around town. I felt as though I had already had plenty of excitement for one day, but much more was to follow!
When I questioned him about his plans, Paul explained to me that he would be leaving at 8:00 the next morning to drive the hour and a half to Hyderabad city for a meeting. The meeting would go until noon, they would have lunch, and then he would go to a village on the outskirts of the city to lead a worship service. If I wanted, I could call Lily before he left in the morning to see if she was free to host me for the day. I was hesitant. It was already past midnight and I didn’t relish getting up at 7:00. Also, I was uneasy with the prospect of being stranded in Hyderabad without anyone I knew for a whole day. I was afraid of becoming exhausted and miserable. Still, it seemed as good a time as any to follow up on my promise to visit and to take the adventure given to me. What is the point of being here if I insist on staying comfortable, right?
That night I prayed that, if it would be a net blessing for me to go, I would be able to get in touch with Lily and that she would be free. I prayed that, if I went, God would sustain me and bless the time. Then I texted Lily and went to bed. Five minutes later, I received a text back, “Means you tomorrow come to my house and call in morning? Yes dear, of course dear!” So it was settled. Tomorrow would be an adventure! Little did I know then just how much of an adventure it would be.
Things started well when Paul woke me at 7:00. I had slept well and felt alert. I dressed up as I’d seen girls here do when going visiting with earrings, a little make up, and Pakistani high heeled sandals. I questioned Paul as to whether I should bring clean water and toilet paper. He said to bring water just in case, but not to worry about the toilet paper. After I made myself two fried eggs and a thermos of tea I felt ready for anything. At 8:00 sharp, Padri Shamu arrived to pick us up. When I opened the side door, I was surprised to find the 8-seat van already full of Padri Shamu’s wife, four children, water-cooler, and bags. I squeezed in next to his wife Miti, a large dark woman dressed in flaming pink tribal clothes. My backpack had to stay on my lap as the engine caused the floor bulge under my feet, leaving no extra room. In this cramped, cozy fashion, we bumped along the highway.
It was exciting to watch the road. In true Pakistani fashion, Padri Shamu weaved through traffic, never missing a chance to go around a truck or donkey-cart, avoiding head-on collisions by speeding up and blaring his horn. At one point, we accidentally got on the wrong side of a divided highway. Padri dealt with it by turning on his lights and staying close to the divider until there was a break in the wall and we were able to accelerate into the appropriate stream of traffic. I spent the time taking note of the country side so as to be able to tell you about the fields, roadside snack stands, and peculiar vehicles. At one point a motorbike passed us driven by a man with two toddlers sitting in front of him and a woman in high heels riding sidesaddle behind him! I will have to write you a description of the highway ethos in another post; this one already has too much for me to tell!
To my surprise, we didn’t stop when we reached the chaos of Hyderabad city. We navigated the construction and crowds and continued back out into the countryside. We turned off the road onto a narrow dirt path made for a cart. Surely the fashionable Lily and didn’t live out here! The path turned into a strip of mud bordering a stagnant strip of shallow water. Once we got past the water, we arrived at a village of mud huts with thatched roofs and lounging farm animals reminiscent of a nativity scene. We had come to Miti’s village where we would drop off the family to spend the day with Grandma and all the aunts, uncles and cousins.
I gingerly climbed out of the van, suddenly feeling very silly in my fancy sandals. I was greeted by a wave of short women with tribal tattoos on their weathered brown faces. They put their rough hands on my head when I bowed and then they pulled me forward to kiss my cheeks. Thus I was welcomed by Miti’s family. As Paul greeted the villagers, I wandered around. I took pictures of water-buffalo lounging in a neighboring river, some with only their noses poking out of the water. I watched two children redoing the floor of their hut by efficiently spreading a layer of buffalo dung mud over the floor, corners, and the base of the walls. Nothing about the village buildings gave away the fact that they were made of dung mud. The air smelled fresh and the buildings looked like they could have been made of khaki-painted plaster. There were no square corners, every edge was rounded and the dry mud was solid but crumbled to powder if punctured.
After waving goodbye to Miti and the kids, Padri Shamu, Paul, and I climbed back in the van and drove back to Hyderabad. We arrived at St. Thomas Cathedral where I was met by Lily’s father, Amanat, a quiet man with a gentle face. Paul and Padri Shamu said goodbye and went inside to have their meeting. Lily’s father, beckoned me over to his means of transportation, a motor bike! I swallowed hard. I knew that I would have to ride sidesaddle, like all women in this country, but I didn’t know if I was allowed to hold on to Amanat. In the end, I decided that I would hang on even if it wasn’t culturally acceptable. No use avoiding local disapproval by falling off the bike in traffic. Sitting sideways on the back of the bike, no helmet or any kind of protective clothing, both besandled feet sticking out on one side of the bike and my backpack protruding from the other side, I was glad I had at least some rudimentary experience with how to lean with the bike and not resist the momentum. I focused all my energy on not upsetting Amanat’s balance as we bounced over fissures in the road, squeezed between lanes of carts, and crunched over a sandal that suddenly flew into the road from somewhere to the left. I was glad to arrive 15 minutes later, my front leg on fire from the strain of the one position.
Amanat and his family live on the third floor of a ramshackle apartment building, very modern and luxurious compared to Miti’s village. Amanat has seven children ranging from Paris, Joy, and Lily who are in specialty schools for Civil Engineering and Pharmacology respectively, to Harry who is in high school, down to John, Johnson-John, and Joseph-John, who are in elementary and middle school. Amanat works as an art teacher since he has not found much market for his oil paintings of colorful village scenes. His wife, a large cheery woman, works in the hospital next-door to the apartment complex.
From the moment I arrived in the home, the family treated me like royalty. They ushered me into their sitting room, pushed the coffee table up to my knees and placed on it in front of me plates of cookies, chips, two kinds of trail mix, and glasses of water and coke. While I sat surveying the junk food feast, Lily rushed off to make me chai tea. The others watched me anxiously to see if I would like what they had offered me. I sat awkwardly for a few minutes, picking at the trail mix and nibbling at a cookie. When Lily came back with a cup of chai, she tittered about how I must not like the food since I had barely touched it and would I like a different kind of cookie? At that I piled a plate high with a hearty portion of each offering and the room relaxed into comfortable conversation about differing cultural values and definitions of “rude”.
After I admired a picture hanging on the wall that Amanat had painted, a blazing sun setting behind thatched huts, Amanat motioned for one of his sons to get something from another room. He returned with another painting, this one done on a long strip of black cloth. The painting was of a moon shining over a river and illuminating sleeping village not unlike Miti’s. “I make for you a gift.” said Amanat, motioning with his hand for the boy to offer it to me. “I can not sell it and you can easily take it with you.” I looked at it with eyes shining. I hated to let him give me something with such personal and professional value, but unlike the sugary snacks, this was a gift I would truly treasure. After some polite protestation, I accepted whole heartedly. “I will show it to my friends in America and tell them about you!” I promised. “You will show it to your sister and father. Show them my art.” was his simple response.
As we sat and I ate, Amanat asked me what I would like to do for the day. Bashfully, I lifted my palms, I didn’t know what the possibilities were but would be happy with anything. Amanat nodded solemnly. He told me that there was a museum of Pakistani culture situated right behind it was a place called “Ranibad” which included gardens, a zoo, and “fun land”. I smiled vigorously. That sounded perfect! Again he nodded and then stood and left the room.
Since I was no longer occupied talking to their father, the young people crowded around me. Lily, my special friend, put jewelry on my wrists, ankles and head while I looked at pictures of her family. Then she pulled out tubes of mandi (hena) and started to apply it to my hands. The little boys took from me my camera and had great fun with it. The oldest brother plugged a DVD player into the TV and started playing for me Indian music videos. After we were done with the mandi, Lilly pulled me to my feet and dragged me to the center of the room to dance with her to the Bollywood tunes. Blushing with awareness of all the brothers watching me, I clumsily mimicked her movements and was soon laughing along with the rest of them. Eventually Amanat came back and informed me that he had arranged transportation for us all to Ranibad for after lunch. And so the morning went on. I played little language games with the children, exchanging English and Urdu words, was served a snack of mangos on their tiny terrace overlooking a dusty courtyard, and discussed the American perception of Pakistan with Amanat.
Eventually, at 3:00pm, lunch was served. I was very concerned that the entire family of nine and the relative who had brought a van for us to use would formally sit and watch me eat lunch alone, but I shouldn’t have feared. Since charpai beds, on which meals are often eaten, didn’t seem to be a part of their apartment furniture, we all sat picnic-like on a sheet spread on the floor of the sitting room. When I served myself a timid portion of chicken in rice, Amanat’s wife reached over me and dumped an additional three portions onto my plate. She was also very concerned that platters of bindi (okra) and chicken curry were always well within my reach. Though at first I was wary of excessive spices, I was quite hungry for lunch at this point, and I was happy to find that the food was deliciously edible. Amanat’s wife smiled and promised to give me the recipe. After lunch, around 4:00, we were ready to set out on the day’s activities around town. I felt as though I had already had plenty of excitement for one day, but much more was to follow!
Friday, June 25, 2010
Lunch with Golden, the tailor
Today, June 24, was a bigger day than I expected. Golden, the tailor to whom Pat is so loyal, invited us all over for lunch as a way of saying goodbye to Mark, the missionary kid/college student from Canada who has been staying with us. At 2:15 sharp, we piled in the car to drive to our 2:00 lunch date. I expected lunch would be like the others I have experienced, a proud family showing us their best hospitality with food and fellowship. In a way, it was as I expected though with very different flare. Lunch with Golden was like a combination of the entertainment I have received at respectable, though poor homes, and being treated like royalty by an entire village.
We drove 15 minutes outside of town along the main road. We passed a field full of people squatting in tents made of bamboo polls and ragged but colorful cloths. We also passed an extensive graveyard, the mounds of dirt and white marble markers coming right up to the road and sprawling along for quite a while. At a gas station, we met one of Golden’s sons on a motor bike and he led us along the unfamiliar dirt allies that led to his house. We parked our car between a mud wall and a lean-to of sticks to which were tied-up two cows and a baby water buffalo. We were met by a knot of timidly staring children who disappeared as Golden came out to greet us. The six of us followed Golden and his son through door ways and across courtyards, past animals, mud pits, and squatting village women, until we reached the walled-in expanse that belonged to Golden. While being recorded on an enormous video camera held on the shoulders of another one of Golden’s sons, we filed into the cool and dark of a finished building at the back of the courtyard. We started to arrange ourselves on the rug-covered ground as people commonly do here, but Golden and the others pulled us up onto the chairs lining the back wall. They would not have their guests be so dishonored as to sit on the floor.
After we were sitting, Golden introduced us to the various members of his family, his grown sons, their wives, their children, his wife, his father etc. Every time someone entered the room to be introduced, we would all stand again, greet the new person, clasp their hands or bow our heads to be blessed or bless their heads as was appropriate to our individual ages. Halfway through the procession, Golden’s mother, wife, and some other relatives brought lays of fragrant pink and white flowers and placed them around our necks. I blushed and bowed and muttered “thank you” in every local language I could think of. I was glad to sit down again and let the conversation as equal begin again.
I was seated on the far end of the row of chairs with Pat on one side and a woman with a baby on my other side. The woman was very slight of frame, looking little more than a child herself, from what I could see of her, which wasn’t much, as she had a pink veil draped over her head and face. But I could see that her hands were soft and small, like a child’s, and that her nails were carefully painted and that she wore red bracelets on her slim wrists. She soon placed her little hand on my arm and, holding her veil out to the side to reveal her face to me but to keep it hidden from the rest of the room, (women here never let their faces be seen by their father-in-laws,) she struck up a conversation with me. I was only able to talk with her unaided as far as “Kay say hah?” (How are you?), “Teek-kay” (I’m fine), and “Obka nahm kya hah?” (What is your name?) After that, I had to call on Pat to interpret.
The girl’s name was Gourgut and the baby she held was her first child. She was the young wife of the son of Golden who was doing the videotaping. She told us proudly that she was the only one of the women of the family who could speak Urdu in addition to the tribal language of their cast; she had picked it up by listening. When we asked about her level in school, she told us that her parents had forbidden her to go to school, but that she had taught herself to write her own name and that of her husband. Now her family had said that, as a mother with a baby, there was no reason for her to study. She, however, wanted to learn so that she could better help her children to receive an education. Right now, there is no school close enough for the children of their compound to attend, so, though there is much willingness to learn among the many children, none of them are receiving any education.
I felt very sorry for this pretty young girl who was so bright in countenance, so gentle and earnest in her wistful talk of learning. I felt an instant warmth for her and wished we could be better friends. For the first time during my time abroad, I felt a tug at my heart, urging me to do something. I wished I could bring education to this compound. I wished I could tutor this woman and help her see her children educated. It wouldn’t take much, just someone who knew the language, had a few workbooks, and was able to spend some time here. This thought is, of course, accompanied by the knowledge that neighborhoods just like this are the norm rather than the exception across the poor provinces of Pakistan. How can compassion in one heart hope to turn the tide of poverty and ignorance for the people just like Gourgut all over the country?
My ruminations were disturbed by the announcement that lunch was served. I was impressed by how many resources it took to host a party of our size. Golden went above and beyond. Hand sewn quilts were spread over three bed-frames upon which were scattered an array of dishes reminding me of the mad-hatter’s tea party. Bowls of spiced yogurt, plates of stir-fired “sour-gourd”, platters of rice, containers of chicken curry in red sauce, plates of fresh tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers, and even little dishes of doughy “bhurfee” cookies waited for us on a long mat laid out lengthwise across the beds. As is customary for hosting company, we sat on pillows at the edges of the beds and ate while members of Golden’s family swished away the flies and served us drinks. Golden presided over the proceedings, a smile beaming from his gentle, kind face. Golden and his family would not eat lunch that day, the occasion was devoted to showing us honor and hospitality. After the meal, the men of the family cleared away the dishes and children gave us glass bottles of soda pop. Then four regal women came out of one of the mud buildings and presented Paul and Mark with hand printed Sindhi ajarak cloths and Pat and me with sequined wool shawls. Gifts of cloth from our favorite tailor.
I didn’t understand it fully then, but it was really quite remarkable that we were able to have such a lunch with Golden and his family. Golden belongs to the Meghwar tribe, one that is considered part of the lowest caste of the all outcast castes. No one other than other Meghwars is likely to be willing to eat with Golden and his family, which clarifies why Golden was so eager to show us honor with his best hospitality as we visited in his home. Secondly, Meghwars usually are relegated to professions that no one else will stoop to, such as making shoes, which involve handling cow leather, a Hindu taboo. Because of this, Meghwars are usually very poor and, though they would kill their last chicken to serve you, they would not usually be able to afford such extravagant hospitality. Golden, however, has worked hard, in spite of his social handicap. Golden works as a tailor, making a tidy living. His children have pursued education, one working as a medical technician and another as a wedding camera man (thus the video camera.) Because of their industriousness and our willingness to eat with them, they were able to host us to a feast.
After the meal, some of the children tried to coax Jodie to come play with them. Jodie shyly clung to her mother until I offered to go with her. I was eager for an excuse to walk around the compound and take pictures. I dragged Jodie along with me to translate and was soon engulfed in a wave of children. They were absolutely delighted by my camera and literally fell over each other to throw themselves in front of the camera and into the picture. They made a game of seeing who could rush into the frame, wherever I pointed the camera. In this way, most of the pictures of clay fire pits, mud holes, reed fences, and piles of bricks are completely obscured by clamoring children. It was great fun. I especially enjoyed photographing the children posing with the many animals, (cows, goats, water buffalo, donkeys, great green, orange, and blue grass hoppers etc.)
Pretty soon some of the mothers of the children joined in the fun, beckoning me from house to house, showing me their rooms with painted neon flowers and posters of movie stars on the walls, the outdoor corners where they cooked, the piles of buffalo-dung mud which would be made into cement for building and chips for burning. I saw their embroidery hanging above their doors and on their pillows. I saw a large boil protruding from the forehead of one of their toddlers. They proudly posed in their colorful tribal outfits, their white plastic bracelets reaching from their wrists to their shoulders. They showed me their shrines where they nightly play sitar and burn incense to their gods. They took me to one room and proudly pointed out an enormous loom on which was the beginning of a heavy, ornate rug being woven of red, gold, and blue wool in detailed designs. I had trouble photographing even this wall-sized loom because of the children crowding in front.
One golden child stood out particularly. He, Savwayi, is a cherubic sunbeam of boyhood, a prince among the others, looking to be about five years old but already capturing my heart with his smile. We all noticed him from the very beginning when he entered the sitting room, before lunch, and went down the row of us, shaking our hands. I noticed his neatly combed black hair and bashful glances. I was impressed with his gentlemanly handshake, just like a little host. It was really exceptional how all of us commented to each other about this boy, marking him out of all the children. I thought to myself, “We have found Jodie a husband.” As I was taking pictures around the neighborhood, Savwayi made it into many of them. He was rascally assertive in jumping in front of the camera and flashing his irresistible, roguish grin. But even when he didn’t run to the front, my camera was again and again drawn to him of its own accord. For myself, I wished I could catch him up in my arms and keep him forever.
Eventually, it was time to go. As the whole village crowded around, Paul prayed for them in Sindhi. Pat and I sat across from Paul and Mark, praying under our breath in tongues. Savwayi stood at Paul’s knee, watching with his big eyes wide and attentive. Gourgut stood at the fringes of the crowd, her veil over her face, still holding her child. Golden stood holding a grandchild, his father next to him, many of his 10 children crowded around. When Paul finished his prayer, it was time for goodbyes, smiles, hugs, and blessings. The whole crowd accompanied us to the car and waved until we bumped and bounced away down the unfinished path toward the main road.
This has been a long story and I congratulate you for reaching the end. I hope, however, that this is only the beginning of the relationship between Golden, his family, and those who are willing and able to bless them. As we drove away, there was talk among us of getting a Village Outreach Worker to offer, health, literacy and Bible training at this compound. I hope that Gourgut will get the chance to have the learning she craves and that Savwayi will grow up into his shining potential. I hope that these honest, hospitable, hardworking, hopeful people will have a chance to hear what I believe is true: that a living God cares about them enough to do whatever it takes, even to send his son to die, in order for them to know him and receive his blessing. I hope that God’s love and compassion may be imparted to these precious ones by the faithful ones who are his body here in Pakistan.
We drove 15 minutes outside of town along the main road. We passed a field full of people squatting in tents made of bamboo polls and ragged but colorful cloths. We also passed an extensive graveyard, the mounds of dirt and white marble markers coming right up to the road and sprawling along for quite a while. At a gas station, we met one of Golden’s sons on a motor bike and he led us along the unfamiliar dirt allies that led to his house. We parked our car between a mud wall and a lean-to of sticks to which were tied-up two cows and a baby water buffalo. We were met by a knot of timidly staring children who disappeared as Golden came out to greet us. The six of us followed Golden and his son through door ways and across courtyards, past animals, mud pits, and squatting village women, until we reached the walled-in expanse that belonged to Golden. While being recorded on an enormous video camera held on the shoulders of another one of Golden’s sons, we filed into the cool and dark of a finished building at the back of the courtyard. We started to arrange ourselves on the rug-covered ground as people commonly do here, but Golden and the others pulled us up onto the chairs lining the back wall. They would not have their guests be so dishonored as to sit on the floor.
After we were sitting, Golden introduced us to the various members of his family, his grown sons, their wives, their children, his wife, his father etc. Every time someone entered the room to be introduced, we would all stand again, greet the new person, clasp their hands or bow our heads to be blessed or bless their heads as was appropriate to our individual ages. Halfway through the procession, Golden’s mother, wife, and some other relatives brought lays of fragrant pink and white flowers and placed them around our necks. I blushed and bowed and muttered “thank you” in every local language I could think of. I was glad to sit down again and let the conversation as equal begin again.
I was seated on the far end of the row of chairs with Pat on one side and a woman with a baby on my other side. The woman was very slight of frame, looking little more than a child herself, from what I could see of her, which wasn’t much, as she had a pink veil draped over her head and face. But I could see that her hands were soft and small, like a child’s, and that her nails were carefully painted and that she wore red bracelets on her slim wrists. She soon placed her little hand on my arm and, holding her veil out to the side to reveal her face to me but to keep it hidden from the rest of the room, (women here never let their faces be seen by their father-in-laws,) she struck up a conversation with me. I was only able to talk with her unaided as far as “Kay say hah?” (How are you?), “Teek-kay” (I’m fine), and “Obka nahm kya hah?” (What is your name?) After that, I had to call on Pat to interpret.
The girl’s name was Gourgut and the baby she held was her first child. She was the young wife of the son of Golden who was doing the videotaping. She told us proudly that she was the only one of the women of the family who could speak Urdu in addition to the tribal language of their cast; she had picked it up by listening. When we asked about her level in school, she told us that her parents had forbidden her to go to school, but that she had taught herself to write her own name and that of her husband. Now her family had said that, as a mother with a baby, there was no reason for her to study. She, however, wanted to learn so that she could better help her children to receive an education. Right now, there is no school close enough for the children of their compound to attend, so, though there is much willingness to learn among the many children, none of them are receiving any education.
I felt very sorry for this pretty young girl who was so bright in countenance, so gentle and earnest in her wistful talk of learning. I felt an instant warmth for her and wished we could be better friends. For the first time during my time abroad, I felt a tug at my heart, urging me to do something. I wished I could bring education to this compound. I wished I could tutor this woman and help her see her children educated. It wouldn’t take much, just someone who knew the language, had a few workbooks, and was able to spend some time here. This thought is, of course, accompanied by the knowledge that neighborhoods just like this are the norm rather than the exception across the poor provinces of Pakistan. How can compassion in one heart hope to turn the tide of poverty and ignorance for the people just like Gourgut all over the country?
My ruminations were disturbed by the announcement that lunch was served. I was impressed by how many resources it took to host a party of our size. Golden went above and beyond. Hand sewn quilts were spread over three bed-frames upon which were scattered an array of dishes reminding me of the mad-hatter’s tea party. Bowls of spiced yogurt, plates of stir-fired “sour-gourd”, platters of rice, containers of chicken curry in red sauce, plates of fresh tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers, and even little dishes of doughy “bhurfee” cookies waited for us on a long mat laid out lengthwise across the beds. As is customary for hosting company, we sat on pillows at the edges of the beds and ate while members of Golden’s family swished away the flies and served us drinks. Golden presided over the proceedings, a smile beaming from his gentle, kind face. Golden and his family would not eat lunch that day, the occasion was devoted to showing us honor and hospitality. After the meal, the men of the family cleared away the dishes and children gave us glass bottles of soda pop. Then four regal women came out of one of the mud buildings and presented Paul and Mark with hand printed Sindhi ajarak cloths and Pat and me with sequined wool shawls. Gifts of cloth from our favorite tailor.
I didn’t understand it fully then, but it was really quite remarkable that we were able to have such a lunch with Golden and his family. Golden belongs to the Meghwar tribe, one that is considered part of the lowest caste of the all outcast castes. No one other than other Meghwars is likely to be willing to eat with Golden and his family, which clarifies why Golden was so eager to show us honor with his best hospitality as we visited in his home. Secondly, Meghwars usually are relegated to professions that no one else will stoop to, such as making shoes, which involve handling cow leather, a Hindu taboo. Because of this, Meghwars are usually very poor and, though they would kill their last chicken to serve you, they would not usually be able to afford such extravagant hospitality. Golden, however, has worked hard, in spite of his social handicap. Golden works as a tailor, making a tidy living. His children have pursued education, one working as a medical technician and another as a wedding camera man (thus the video camera.) Because of their industriousness and our willingness to eat with them, they were able to host us to a feast.
After the meal, some of the children tried to coax Jodie to come play with them. Jodie shyly clung to her mother until I offered to go with her. I was eager for an excuse to walk around the compound and take pictures. I dragged Jodie along with me to translate and was soon engulfed in a wave of children. They were absolutely delighted by my camera and literally fell over each other to throw themselves in front of the camera and into the picture. They made a game of seeing who could rush into the frame, wherever I pointed the camera. In this way, most of the pictures of clay fire pits, mud holes, reed fences, and piles of bricks are completely obscured by clamoring children. It was great fun. I especially enjoyed photographing the children posing with the many animals, (cows, goats, water buffalo, donkeys, great green, orange, and blue grass hoppers etc.)
Pretty soon some of the mothers of the children joined in the fun, beckoning me from house to house, showing me their rooms with painted neon flowers and posters of movie stars on the walls, the outdoor corners where they cooked, the piles of buffalo-dung mud which would be made into cement for building and chips for burning. I saw their embroidery hanging above their doors and on their pillows. I saw a large boil protruding from the forehead of one of their toddlers. They proudly posed in their colorful tribal outfits, their white plastic bracelets reaching from their wrists to their shoulders. They showed me their shrines where they nightly play sitar and burn incense to their gods. They took me to one room and proudly pointed out an enormous loom on which was the beginning of a heavy, ornate rug being woven of red, gold, and blue wool in detailed designs. I had trouble photographing even this wall-sized loom because of the children crowding in front.
One golden child stood out particularly. He, Savwayi, is a cherubic sunbeam of boyhood, a prince among the others, looking to be about five years old but already capturing my heart with his smile. We all noticed him from the very beginning when he entered the sitting room, before lunch, and went down the row of us, shaking our hands. I noticed his neatly combed black hair and bashful glances. I was impressed with his gentlemanly handshake, just like a little host. It was really exceptional how all of us commented to each other about this boy, marking him out of all the children. I thought to myself, “We have found Jodie a husband.” As I was taking pictures around the neighborhood, Savwayi made it into many of them. He was rascally assertive in jumping in front of the camera and flashing his irresistible, roguish grin. But even when he didn’t run to the front, my camera was again and again drawn to him of its own accord. For myself, I wished I could catch him up in my arms and keep him forever.
Eventually, it was time to go. As the whole village crowded around, Paul prayed for them in Sindhi. Pat and I sat across from Paul and Mark, praying under our breath in tongues. Savwayi stood at Paul’s knee, watching with his big eyes wide and attentive. Gourgut stood at the fringes of the crowd, her veil over her face, still holding her child. Golden stood holding a grandchild, his father next to him, many of his 10 children crowded around. When Paul finished his prayer, it was time for goodbyes, smiles, hugs, and blessings. The whole crowd accompanied us to the car and waved until we bumped and bounced away down the unfinished path toward the main road.
This has been a long story and I congratulate you for reaching the end. I hope, however, that this is only the beginning of the relationship between Golden, his family, and those who are willing and able to bless them. As we drove away, there was talk among us of getting a Village Outreach Worker to offer, health, literacy and Bible training at this compound. I hope that Gourgut will get the chance to have the learning she craves and that Savwayi will grow up into his shining potential. I hope that these honest, hospitable, hardworking, hopeful people will have a chance to hear what I believe is true: that a living God cares about them enough to do whatever it takes, even to send his son to die, in order for them to know him and receive his blessing. I hope that God’s love and compassion may be imparted to these precious ones by the faithful ones who are his body here in Pakistan.
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