Today.
My heart is far too small today. I literally feel like my heart is out of room to store and process all of today’s emotions.
As most of you know, I’ve got some pretty incredible things going on in my life. I’m currently working as an aide for an at-risk elementary school in Houston, and in 22 days I get to marry a man whose character far surpasses the standard I had set for myself. From 6:50 a.m. - 4:30 p.m., my day is spent at school: tutoring, substituting, cafeteria monitoring…the works. From 4:30 p.m. - midnight, the rest of the day is spent crossing off (and adding) things on the wedding to-do list. Ever since our engagement, I have been running like a machine - a well-oiled machine, I’d like to think!
But here’s the problem: more than wanting students to conquer fractions, more than wanting my invitation layers to be perfectly aligned, is a much deeper desire to see my little sisters in that safe home physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally stable. That in itself feels like a daily struggle.
In need of a new location. In need of a physical healing. In need of discerning house moms with the desire to serve long-term. In need of cooperation with the families involved. In need of a good night’s sleep without nightmares. In need, in need, in need.
For the past eight months, my eyes have been glued to my email updates. However, the more things go “wrong”, the more helpless I feel. It’s like I’ve gotten into the routine of desperate prayers that ricochet back and forth against the walls. I’ve stopped believing in the power of my prayers - therefore I’ve stopped believing I’m making any impact on my little sisters.
If you’ve spent five minutes with me this past year, you’ve most likely heard me tell a story about the girls. What can I say? It somehow fits perfectly into every conversation! (At least, I cram it in there nicely…) Here’s the story of the day:
About eight months into my internship in Delhi, I got a message from my friend *Julia back in Houston asking me to call her. Turns out, a situation occurred that would carry long-term negative affects. At that moment, I just wished I could have been with her. That night during devotions, I shared it with the girls and asked if they could pray for my friend. After praying, 9-year-old *Sima came over to me and patted my leg. So, so precious.
For the next two nights, Sima asked me for updates on Julia. I told her I didn’t know, and that I would call America that week to talk with her. On the second night, Sima hesitated and then responded:
Sima: “Didi, I pray for Julia?”
Me: “You want to pray for Julia…on the phone?”
Sima: “Yes didi.”
I made the call that night. As soon as I handed Sima the phone, she closed her eyes and began boldly praying in Hindi. I only caught bits and pieces of what she was saying, but I was so moved - I couldn’t contain my tears. I felt so honored to be in that room, watching that little girl completely grasp the heart of God. Sima knew nothing about Julia, nothing about Julia’s country…nothing about the big picture. However, all she needed to know was that Julia was hurt and needed comfort. Somehow, somehow that little 9-year-old understood that through a simple prayer, she could aid in that comfort.
When we hung up the phone, I gave Sima a big hug and told her how proud I was, but more importantly, how proud God was. I told her how happy it makes God when we care for people - even those we’ll never meet. I told her to never stop praying; to always help people.
Today, April 20, 2012, I sat in an empty classroom and bawled my eyes out. I had just read the most gut-wrenching update. A mother of one of our girls suddenly passed away. She was only 36 years old.
I couldn’t believe it. This young mother loved her daughter…so much that she put her daughter in a safe home to protect her from the life she lived. The daughter adored her mother…she was always praying for her.
I began to picture how she would take the news that her mom had passed away and I lost it. When school was over, I drove straight home, crawled into bed and just cried and cried. Every time I started a prayer, I felt completely helpless. There was nothing I could do for my hurting little sister on the other side of the world.
Except, pray again. As that story about Sima (conveniently) ran through my mind, I remembered how much power I felt in her prayer. I also remembered how I encouraged her, and I suddenly felt very convicted.
The greatest disservice I could do to my little girls is to not follow the advice I’ve given them. This whole “me talking to the wall” thing - that’s what they need. Sure, I’d love to hop on a plane…sure, I’d love to hand them a lifetime check, but what they need from me the most is what I am blowing off. They need people talking to God on their behalf. This little girl who just lost her mother needs people talking to God on her behalf.
What I need is confidence in picking up the phone.
Rest in peace, beautiful mother. You are a slave no more.
Storytime.
“Let this be the year I learn to love.”
That was my New Year’s Resolution for 2010. Shortly after, the process began that brought me to India. I just finished my 10-month internship with Project Rescue and I gotta tell ya - my heart is completely full.
Throughout my time in Delhi, I made status after status about my beautiful little sisters and the way I saw God move in their lives. If you ask, I could talk for hours about them - I already do. But today, I want to talk about someone else.
You know what can happen when you’re off pursuing God’s love? Sometimes, love finds you at the most unexpected time. And friends, I am completely in love.
Once upon a time (10 months ago) in a far away land (that would be India), I met someone. Someone = a blue-eyed, 6’3” American who has the same Mr. Rogers shirt that I do. When I met him, it kinda freaked me out. He was a lot like me - except better in every way. He teaches street children how to read, along with a million other incredible things. It was the first time I had met someone and really thought, “I wonder if I could ever keep up with this person…”
Two weeks after knowing him, we had a conversation like this:
Boy: “Hey, I like you.”
Me: *pauses* “I like you too.”
Boy: “I mean, I really like you - and I wanna get to know you - but I wanna get to know you with the hopes of one day spending the rest of my life with you.”
Me: *pauses* “Okay.”
Boy: “Yeah?”
Me: “Yeah.”
That conversation really happened. And every day since then has been better.
He lives in a different city, so we’ve been getting to know each other at a distance. For us though, it’s been perfect. At the end of the day, we’d talk and he’d tell me about school, I’d tell him about the girls…it was almost unreal. Almost :)
If you know me, you know I’ve never dated, never kissed - all that jazz. I’ve always asked God: if He wanted me to love someone - let it not be complicated. It’s hard enough living life without having to analyze a guy’s text messages, wondering if guys find you attractive and worst of all, defining relationships.
Everyday as I poured into those 16 beautiful girls, I knew there was a guy who loved me with all of his heart and I loved him with all of mine. There was not a confused bone in my body. I’m convinced God never intended for love to be so complicated. It revolves around faith. It’s about taking a hugeHUGE leap and trusting that maybe God really does have someone picked out for us…if we’re okay with waiting.
One day this guy and I will get married and then we’ll go back to India together. Unreal. Completely unreal.
I told my girls that I was going home to America, marrying a guy and then coming right back - naturally they approve of him. I’m a big fan of him too.
God honors faithfulness, friends. Story of my life.
And now, the story of ours.
Keeping Tabs.
“Wow Melissa, it’s so cool what you’re doing in India!”
I hear that a lot. Sex trafficking is a hot topic and India is a blazing brothel. It’s an honor to be a (small) part of the solution to such an obvious problem, but it doesn’t start and end here. Let me tell you about my home.
Houston, Texas is my beloved hometown. Six-lane highways crisscross in the sky, winter season is marked by pure sunshine and people of every ethnicity co-exist in the 4th largest city in the U.S. – not to mention, we have fantastic Mexican food. This is home.
Home has more than 130 (reported) operating brothels. Let that blow your mind for a minute. How do we not know? I can tell you all about the situation in India, but ask me about my own city and I’m baffled. Are Houstonians that naïve, or did we unanimously agree to keep the spotlight hidden? Either way ignorance wins, masquerading as bliss…that is, until someone is sick of the game.
Take one look at her beautiful curls and you might mistake her for a girly-girl, but Tabitha Hawthorne is a force to be reckoned with. Challenge her to any sport and you’ll quickly realize her strength. Ask her what she’s passionate about and you’ll quickly realize her inner strength. She wants women to be free. She wants to get them there.
In a surrounding Houston suburb, the foundation is being laid for a safe house. In the next year or so, a facility will open complete with a counseling center, room and board and technical/educational training for any enslaved woman with enough will power to escape. Think of the women whose lives could be changed…think of their future daughters. God can restore them – it’s what He does, but someone’s gotta lay the groundwork.
So where does a 16-year-old girl fit into this? Tabitha’s not an architect, she’s not a therapist – she’s not even a high school graduate, but her heart is stirred. Sometimes, that’s all God needs.
It started with a simple t-shirt design. Maybe her friends and family would buy them and she could donate a good amount of money to the Houston Project…or maybe it could be much greater.
In less than a year, she’s sold hundreds of shirts and raised more than $4,000 to donate to this safe house. I am continually amazed by her drive. When I was her age, I would come home from school, plop down on the couch and fall asleep to the soothing voice of Oprah. Tabitha comes home, inquires about her t-shirt supply and reviews the calendar with her (incredible) mom Kim to schedule speaking/t-shirt selling events. That, along with basketball practice, volleyball practice, choir, youth group, shopping, texting…all that good teenager stuff.
Point is, the fundraising Tabitha does in her free time will help revolutionize women’s lives. When a woman enters that home, she’ll have her own living space. For the first time, her bed will be a place of peace and safety – nothing less. She may never meet the girl who paid for her bed, but she may come to know a God who can redefine her life – that’s what we’re fighting for. Physical freedom is a great start, but physical freedom without spiritual freedom is still bondage. Our job is to lay the groundwork and let God take it from there. Even a 16-year-old can do that.
For this season, my job is to be available to the beautiful daughters of these bonded women. Whether it’s facilitating art sessions for self-expression, hosting Twister tournaments and laughing till our stomachs hurt or assisting with financial needs – this is what I’m here for. I am continually humbled by the opportunity I have overseas, but my heart still goes out to the struggling women in my own American city. “What is being done for them?” I often ask myself.
Then, I look in my closet and pull out a t-shirt – a t-shirt made by a 16-year-old girl – and I smile. God is moving in India, but He has not forgotten about Houston.
He’s keeping Tabs on the home-front.
http://www.rescuethegirls.org/
Photo by Larissa Floyd
Dry Bones.
Here in Delhi we call the Home of Hope “Suraksha”. In Hindi, it means “protection”.
For the past five months, I’ve had the pure joy of watching new girls enter the home. It’s a beautiful process to watch them adjust to a higher standard of education, a houseful of new sisters, an unconditional love and above all, an understanding of the source of that love. Soon they get into a routine – we all get into a routine – of how the home operates.
Then, a mother demands her daughter back…didn’t see that one coming.
The day she left, I had no words. The following week, I still had no words. How can a mother put her selfish gain over the safety and security of her own daughter? How can her heart be so callous?
When I would pray for this precious girl, I would cry my eyes out. It became too much…I couldn’t cry like this anymore, so I stopped praying…I stopped really praying. I started talking to God on a surface level so I wouldn’t have to acknowledge what I was feeling: the hurt, the confusion…the doubt. Around that time I was studying the book of Ezekiel and it too became too much. Ezekiel describes in length God’s wrath and sorrow for a rebellious nation, and the more I studied it, the less I wanted to read it. Call it a spiritual depression, if you may.
One day I lost patience and started flipping through the pages, searching for something in Ezekiel that would speak of life…hope…goodness. In Chapter 37, God shows Ezekiel a valley of dry bones and prompts the question, “Can these bones live?” In reality, God was able (and willing) to raise the bones up, but He was waiting for Ezekiel to show obedience and speak life over them.
The following Sunday was difficult. Just a week ago I was standing in that same church, holding that little girl in my arms. I knew her situation was up in the air, so I picked her up and said, “Nina, I love you so much…and you know what? Jesus loves you so much.” My voice was breaking. I looked straight ahead, trying to fight the tear running down my face. In that moment I felt a tiny kiss on my cheek.
Now, we don’t know where she is.
It was the most unsettling feeling to attend service the next week and know she wouldn’t be there. As the congregation clapped and sang – I too clapped and sang, but I felt a sense of numbness. Suddenly, the worship leader began playing a soft piano part I didn’t recognize. Curious, I strained to figure out which song was next. He quietly began singing the verse:
“Where You go, I go.
What You say, I say.
What You pray, I pray.
What You pray, I pray…”
As I sang that last line, I was overwhelmed with a single thought:
“Pray for Nina’s Mom.”
That whole week, not once did I ask God to soften her heart. Not once did I ask God to heal any brokenness. Not once did I ask God to reveal His love to her. She was the last person I wanted to pray for, but God…God loves her as much as He loves beautiful Nina. God loves her as much as He loves me.
Someone has to pray for her.
Tears were streaming. We think we know how to pray, but so often we bring our subjective requests to God and wonder why His response leaves us unsettled. Why is it so hard to pray for both sides? Why can’t we bring ourselves to pray for the needs buried at the root of the problem?
Maybe, just maybe…we don’t believe dry bones can rise. Maybe our faith is more pathetic than we realize. God is able (and willing) to completely change someone’s life, but He’s searching for obedience first: someone has to speak life to the bones.
Pray for Nina. Though she no longer lives in “Suraksha”, we can still pray for His suraksha over her life. Also, pray for her mom. Pray for every person you’ve never wanted to pray for…
Today, let’s choose hope in the valley.
Photo by Rebecca Grant
Rain.
Today’s date: February 14th
I’m alone in my apartment, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops outside my window. I didn’t expect it to be such an eerie night, but I imagine this is how real writers sit and gather inspiration. I can dig it.
A few weeks ago we were spending our usual Saturday with the girls. The lesson of the day was healing and the importance of bringing our requests to Him. A few of the girls had been sick for a while, so we designated a time to pray for them. An ear infection, a constant headache, a paper-cut on a 4-year-old’s finger…whatever the request was, we prayed with all sincerity.
I saw little A* raise her hand. It caught me off guard because she wasn’t sick – she’s been healthy (and joyful) this whole time. The house mom explained that A’s been dealing with stomach pains for most of her life; they say it’s because her mother gave her alcohol as a young child.
Our hearts were breaking. Alcohol…really?! There’s nothing worse than realizing this precious girl is still suffering because of her past. Her mom gave her something bad —> now she has pain. That’s all she knows.
Suddenly all the girls wanted to pray for their moms. “My mom is beaten.”, “My mom has a swollen leg.”, “My mom is sick and also beaten.” Little A was among them; she wanted to pray for her mom’s health and that she stop drinking. I scooted over and squeezed her tiny hands.
At times when I stayed at the home, if she was near me during nighttime prayer she’d lean toward me and listen to my prayers. I always thought it was adorable, but in this moment I understood the significance of it. [Sometimes, children need to hear you pray.]
“God, you see A’s mom…I pray that you heal her. Heal her body and let her be healthy. Also, help her to stop drinking. *pause* Lord, A’s mom is a good woman and a good mom – she just needs Your love. We pray that she finds Your love…”
At that point, I squinted out of the corner of my eye to see A’s reaction. There she knelt – eyes clenched shut…tears flowing down her face.
That’s when I lost it. As she continued the prayer in Hindi, all I could do was cry and sit in awe of this girl. Were we not just praying against the actions of her mother a minute ago?? Her mother abused her; her mother gave her alcohol…her mother made so many mistakes. And yet, none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered to A was, her mom was a good mom in need of Him.
Not a hint of bitterness. Not a hint of resentment. What I sensed from her was unfamiliar to me…in that moment, I was understanding what it meant to love unconditionally.
I love love, but the love I know is convenient. I love when people are working for my good. I love when things are working in my favor. My love is comprised of positive associations; of things that make me happy.
In other words, my love is all wrong.
As soon as she finished praying, I felt A’s tiny hands rubbed against my face – wiping away my tears. Little girl, let me take this moment to cry for your mom. Let me take this moment to cry for you.
I want a love that requires nothing in return. I want a love not based upon what’s fair or even what’s optimistic…just let it be unconditional.
Beautiful A, I’m gonna try my hardest to love like you do.
Get used to wiping my tears.
Welcome to the most hilarious week of my life.
I love watching people in their “element”. I smile every time I see others perform/work/function in second nature mode; it’s comforting to see them find fulfillment and joy in something they love and have prepped for in life. It reassures me that in everything, there is purpose.
I see purpose in my roommate Vickie. Almost immediately upon arriving last month, she was given the opportunity to volunteer-teach special education at a school for underprivileged students. (A major side note: Vickie just graduated with a teaching degree specializing in special ed.) I quickly volunteered to tag along on her first day of school for moral support. When we got there, I sat in the corner and observed her student interaction – incredible, by the way. Suddenly, I was approached by another teacher.
Teacher: “Are you busy?”
Melissa Didi: “No, not at all! Do you need any help?”
Teacher: “Yes, can you teach a class today?”
Next thing you know, I’m being led upstairs to the class I’ll be teaching from 9:30 a.m. to 2 p.m. I couldn’t contain my excitement: I love kids, I love education – and I was sure no language barrier would be too difficult to handle. Also, this was a remedial class…even more fulfilling.
There were 14 children – all adorable. Most of them were about eight years old and the majority of them were boys. One girl in the class is from the Home of Hope. The minute she saw me, she exclaimed, “Melissa Didi!” (“Didi” is a respectful term for older sister.)
In a normal situation, the students would refer to me as “Melissa Ma’am”, but my name quickly became “Melissa Didi Ma’am”. Mmmm, catchy.
Time to educate the children! I told them to pull out their English books, and every boy proceeded to tell me they didn’t have theirs’ that day. After digging through every backpack and magically finding every boy’s book, I was ready to teach some grammar goodness. Today’s lesson: how to change words from singular to plural form.
Melissa Didi Ma’am: “For the word ‘city’: change the ‘y’ to ‘i’ and add ‘es’. Tik hai?”
I showed them the same pattern for words like “country” and “sky”. Then I started quizzing them up at the board.
Melissa Didi Ma’am: “Ok, how do you spell ‘key’ in plural?”
Adorable Student: “Ma’am, k-e-i-e-s!”
Melissa Didi Ma’am: “Very goo…ummm, wait a minute, that’s not right. Ok, how do I explain this… Umm, in this case we don’t follow the pattern, but that was a good guess!”
By now every child is looking at me thoroughly confused. Time for the next subject: Environmental Science. Today’s topic: seasons!
Melissa Didi Ma’am: “Ok, raise your hand and tell me what season is in July.”
Adorable student: “Didi Ma’am, rainy season. Monsoon.”
Umm…say what? Holy smokes, I can’t even teach seasons. Luckily, it was time for the next subject. The students began taking out their Hindi books. I took one look at it and told them to put it back. The rest of the day was spent doing multiplication drills. Dear mathematics, thank you for being so universal.
I went home that day with a huge smile on my face. Did I have any business teaching that class? Probably not, but there was a void to fill and I was able to fill it. The next day I rode with Vickie Ma’am to school. I figured I could go to the nearby coffee shop and do some reading, but first I stopped by the school. I said hi to one of the teachers and casually asked if they needed any help that day.
Teacher: “Yes, same class!”
Melissa Didi Ma’am: “Oh, is the teacher still sick?”
Teacher: “No, the teacher is gone for the rest of the term.”
Suddenly I was very confused. I head upstairs to my favorite little class and the students are thrilled to see me. The boys celebrate by pushing each other and letting me break up their fights. (Side note: I have so much love in my heart for rambunctious little boys. If I ever have a son, he will be the boy running around with his arms flinging wildly in the air – nothing less.)
I caught one of the boys passing notes, so I confiscated it. He put up quite a fight before giving it to me, so I was pretty excited to read it. I unwrapped the crumbled paper to discover a note written in Hindi script – just my luck. With a semi-straight face, I gave him a disappointing look and told him to stop writing things like that. For all I know, he could have been bragging about his new didi ma’am.
I ended up substitute teaching for five days. Day #3: a teacher came in and announced it was time for recess. Next thing you know, I’m being led by eight little girls to come play a game with them – which they explained in Hindi. When it occurred to them I had no clue what was going on, the ringleader smiles at me and says, “Didi, you no play this time. Just watch.”
Oh the sting of rejection! Forget the adorable girls…I’ll see what my rowdy boys are up to. It quickly turned into a game of tag involving Melissa Didi Ma’am and every little boy on the playground. Let’s be honest: I just wanted to prove that I was faster than all of them.
When we returned to class, we practiced conversing in English. I asked one of my troublemakers to tell me his favorite dancer.
Troublemaker: “Didi Ma’am, my favorite dancer is Michael Jackson.” *stands up and attempts the moonwalk*
As a teacher, you’re probably not supposed to pick favorites. That’s very fair and all, but I just had a child (poorly) attempt the moonwalk. We are kindred spirits.
Speaking of precious bonds, I discovered an effective way to punish the children. When a boy would start punching someone or stealing a pencil or passing gas (which, the children referred to as “pollution”) I would threaten to send him downstairs to Vickie Ma’am’s class. How that instills fear in their hearts is beyond me. I’ve been to Vickie Ma’am’s class before – it’s fantastic. Interactive learning, fun worksheets, “good morning” songs…I feel like I’m watching an episode of “Barney” in India.
It was a bittersweet day when my substituting came to an end. I was glad the students had a new teacher to…you know, actually teach them – but I was going to miss interacting with those precious children. When I told the students they had a new teacher, they looked confused and pointed to me.
Melissa Didi Ma’am: “No…I am not your teacher.”
Precious boy: *jumps out of his seat* “You are not my teacher. You are mera dost.”
Mera dost = my friend. That comment was a confirmation of two things:
1) No student believed I was a teacher.
2) Every student believed I was his/her friend.
And you know what? Maybe that’s exactly what they needed.
Maybe those children needed to play “multiplication-ring-toss” and have Melissa Didi Ma’am applaud them every five seconds. Maybe those rambunctious boys needed to see me excited to greet them day after day, despite the amount of times I disciplined them.
I didn’t earn a teaching certification. I didn’t possess classroom management skills. I didn’t even speak their language. Nothing about this situation involved me being in my “element”, but India is constantly teaching me that being out of my “element” is in fact: my element.
Today, volunteer to do something that makes you feel inadequate. Take on a project that leaves you overwhelmed. Know that in your greatest point of weakness – it was never about you. Maybe it’s about everyone else around you. Maybe it’s about Him.
Never forget that in everything, there is purpose.
*dismissal bell rings*
“Today, only small things with great love.”
A month and a half. It’s been a month and a half of traveling via auto rickshaws, downing chai like it’s water and adjusting to snapshots of poverty from every street corner. It’s been a month and a half of calling this place home.
As a (naive) intern, I hopped off the plane full of excitement about the established role I was coming to fulfill. What I quickly realized was, India didn’t need my “establishment”. India didn’t need my agenda, my preferences or even my way of getting things done. What India needed from me was a willingness to learn and a willingness to adapt. My greatest contribution = my availability.
I’ve been filling in as a house-mom for the most incredible girls I’ve ever met. I fix hair in the mornings. I wash dishes. I initiate tickle-wars every hour. I organize craft-time. I hold them in my lap as we watch Power Rangers (in Hindi, naturally). I put them in time-out. I spin them around in circles and tell them how beautiful they are. I watch in amazement as they pray, and I sit in awe of a God who rescues His daughters.
There is no logical explanation for the hope that envelops these girls. It’s a daily choice to believe in liberation. In restoration. In transformation. Therein lies my role:
My job is to wake up every morning and declare, “Today, I choose hope.”
Best. Job. Ever.
You Probably Think This Blog is About You
When I studied broadcast journalism, I learned the importance of looking good. My education/future career not only depended on how well my script was written, but also how well my make-up was applied. During that time, I was gaining confidence in my appearance…perhaps too much.
Flash forward and suddenly I’m not pursuing that path anymore. However, I’m still clinging to my standards of vanity. It’s Day Three of settling into Delhi and we’re (my host family and I) getting ready to take a roadtrip to a church up north. That night I stared at the mirror, perplexed. I had developed the most hideous pimple on my face and I didn’t know how to deal with it. It wasn’t the size of an ant - it was more like an ant mound, and there I stood: debating whether to pop or not to pop.
I’m a big fan of pop, but it wasn’t the wisest choice. Tissue after tissue I’m dabbing away at it, just hoping my face will go back to normal. I was insistent on trying, but unfortunately I just made it worse.
At one point while washing my face, I thought to myself, “Wow, now would have been a really good time to prepare for the kids church lesson I’m teaching this weekend…” I felt ashamed for a moment, then quickly refocused on Operation Mound Destruction. I could be spiritually productive some other time.
The only problem is: this is my time. If I spend ridiculous amounts of time improving my physical image, can I be satisfied in knowing that at the end of the day - it might be the only thing I improved? On the flip side, if I dump the tedious routine of “putting my face on” every morning, will I be able to present myself with the same sense of confidence? Will I be able to go about my day without subtle hand movements in an attempt to cover my face? Do I have any clue how to embrace inner beauty and let that be enough?
I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure. I’m gonna have to re-train myself. I need to be ok if acne chooses to connect-the-dots across my face. I need to be ok if the power goes out and I don’t have time to straighten my hair. I need to be ok if I’m in excessive heat and it looks like I’m sporting a man-stache. Yikes.
In the end, no one is going to dwell on how I look - they’re going to dwell on what I did with my time.
And I’m quickly realizing: it’s a little hard to serve others if I spend all day looking in the mirror.
Waiting to Exhale.
I leave for India in less than a week. This time around, my ticket is booked from Nov. 16th-Sept. 14th. This is what happens when you tell God you don’t want your life to make sense.
You know what else happens? You have to forfeit your fear. There’s a verse I’ve adopted as my life-verse: “There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear.” [1 John 4:18] It sounds great in theory, but applying it to my life is anything but realistic. I thrive on fear – fear of being unsuccessful, fear of disappointing people…the fear of dying before my time.
I recently read about a guy who moved to Uganda to conduct health research. He had just settled in and was excited about learning the language, conducting studies – whatever he could do to improve the living conditions of a struggling country. After scanning his blog, I was really impressed and excited to follow his updates. Later, I was informed he died in a motorcycle accident on the streets of Uganda – not even two months after he arrived. I don’t even know this guy, but I cried.
Why him??? He was doing an amazing thing…it’s just not fair. It’s not fair that life refuses to operate on a scale of what’s fair and what isn’t. And yet, we’re so convinced that life is on our side; that we have a set “time” life won’t mess with.
After his death, I wonder if anyone thought, “Wow, if only he hadn’t gone to Uganda…” Let’s say he hadn’t gone to Uganda: let’s say he stayed here and died in a motorcycle accident. What would be the difference?
In the first instance, he chose to live life without fear.
We have to get beyond the notion that the quantity of life is more important than the quality of life. Not only does it provide a false sense of security – it provides a false sense of Christianity.
We aim for hefty retirement funds. We aim for condos in Florida. We aim for top-of-the-line wheelchairs. Why aren’t we aiming to love people? Why aren’t we aiming to live for a higher purpose?
We’re living life through shallow breaths and we don’t even realize it.
Take a moment of silence for anyone you know who has ever died too soon. Then, take a moment of silence for yourself – because you’re still living. Think of how you can make your life count.
Take a breath friends, and let it be deep.
Ready, set.
When I arrived back in the states, everyone asked if I was missing India. Truth is, I couldn’t wait to get home. I needed to be home so I could make plans to go back.
Plans = a 10-month Project Rescue/Rescue Arts internship in New Delhi. I’ll be serving rescued girls, working in a school, creating media…the list goes on.
There’s another list that goes on too - it’s called my to-do list. Hepatitis A shot. Paperwork. Hepatitis B shot. Electronic purchases. A bunch of other shots. A language with symbols, and my personal favorite: a budget yet to be raised.
The other night I was working at Old Faithful (aka Old Navy) and my mind was consumed with what still needed to be done. As I folded clothes with my co-workers, the topic of India came up (as it always does) so I began discussing my internship. One of the newer girls, Emily, was hearing it for the first time. She thought it was really interesting, and asked how I was paying for it.
Me: *hesitates* “Well…I actually have to raise my funds.”
Emily: “Oh my gosh, can I give you money?”
Me: “Whoa, what?”
Emily: “I have cash in my locker. Can I give it to you?”
Me: “Ummm, yeah….you can.”
When we got to our lockers, she immediately handed me a $20 bill. I stared at it for a few minutes, and then it hit me: she gave me that money because she believed in what I was doing. She gave me that money because she believed in me.
Whoa…maybe she should take it BACK. What if I let her down? What if I let those little girls down? This whole thing could possibly fail because Melissa Joseph is nothing more than an inadequate dreamer.
Except now, I’ve got $20 in my pocket.
I just became a little more adequate.
I don't want my life to make sense.
