Thursday, June 2, 2011

And They Were Called Yellow...

Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you, and everything you do...

     My fingers and nails are stained with yellow. Curry, spices, all on my fingers as a beautiful brown face teaches me. "No auntie, like this", she tells me while placing the freshly cut gourd in the boiling oil to fry. "Nice auntie", she encourages, smiling and laughing and my clumsiness. She is patient. Other brown faces move in and out of the small kitchen... some to help, some to watch, some just to hug and walk away.
      Gourds are finished, set aside. We toss onions into the oil, then potatoes, soy, tomatoes, cilantro, and more spices. An aroma fills the kitchen with the promise of good things to come. "Sit auntie", they tell me, taking note by my face that I am not used to the heat. Sweet little hands fan me with a newspaper. I laugh and try to make them stop. It's no use. Don't you know I am here to serve you? They are too selfless. We wait as the food sizzles and simmers in the pot (how's that for alliteration). Music floats from the living room. Laughter. Joy. Hope.
     We gather together, bodies encircled on the ground. Plates in front of us. Fingers move to collect rice and vegetables, scooping them into anxious mouths and hungry bellies. I am still not good at this. Their fingers move like a dance, while my own are clumsy and awkward. Maybe I will get it. Oil drips down my hands from the gourd. Yellow, smooth. We fall asleep on our mats, the heat still there, but not as oppressive. We dream...

I came along. I wrote a song for you, and all the things you do...

     It is light that expells the darkness. The soft yellow of a flame. The dark yellow of a light. The glowing yellow of the sun, signaling that day has come. Weeping lasts only for a night and joy comes in the morning. I am greeted by those lovely brown faces, eyes bright like sunshine. I am given ginger tea, warm but sweet on my lips and tongue. We eat toast with butter, a yellow that is warm and cozy. Reminding me of home. Welcoming me to a new home, a new family.
     We sing together and offer songs to the Lord. There is something holy that I am discovering about seeking His presence in the morning. He is here in our midst, loving, relishing the adoration of His little ones... the rubbish of the world that He sets apart as diamonds. Oh, He is here. I listen to their voices and learn how to worship. I listen to their words and learn how to pray.
     The day continues. Trying to help with chores is like trying to pull teeth from a lion. I insist. She gives in. I can rinse out the dishes. I smile and thank her. Something small. Sometimes the holiest moments come from the littlest acts of worship. The day is still filled with laughter and music. I braid hair and pray blessings over them... finally understanding in a small way what it means to pray without ceasing.
      Lunch is served. My fingers are becoming more accustomed, more stable as I eat my potato and okra. My yellow chapata scoops up the leftovers my fingers could not. We rest together. We learn to communicate. We grow.

Your skin, oh yeah your skin and bones, Turn into something beautiful...
     We sit together as the sun begins to fade from its bright yellow. We sing more. We share our stories. Rejection, abandonment, hurts, sickness, betrayal... a common thread no matter the shade of the hands and face. We speak blessing and healing. We speak life. I place my hands on her head and hand as water drops spill from eyes and down cheeks... brown and white cheeks. We cry out to God together, my voice and her heart. Our tears mix... I am learning how to cry, to let the tears go, a real gift for someone like me. I am learning so much.
     You are loved by the King of kings, called His daughter, His precious child. He chose you. He wants you. The words fall from my lips. Brokenness exchanged for healing. We begin to heal... she and I. Believing in a God of restoration. A bruise turns yellow when it has almost healed. Sweet girl, the yellow is coming, and all things will be made new. Yellow dispells the black. Light overcomes the dark.
     We return home with hugs and kisses before we leave. Leaving hearts behind. How like God to use his treasures to polish each other, to bestow crowns of love and grace upon one another. Healing. Restoration. Wholeness. Holiness. Joy comes in the morning. Light comes in the morning. Yellow.

D'you know? For you I bleed myself dry? For you I bleed myself dry...
     I noticed her sitting by the wall by herself. "Speak life over her", He whispered. I began to braid her hair, and I prayed over her. I spoke life.

"Auntie are you praying?"
"Yes I am. For you."
"Oh. My mother?"
"Yes baby, I will pray for your mother".

I spoke life over her mother as we sat together in a rare stillness. Salvation. Healing. Peace. God, thank you for the honor. To be let in to just a little. The chance to offer what I can. The chance to use my hands and my heart to love.
    
     Couldn't I do this in the States? Why go all the way to India?
    
     Dear friends, if only I could make you see. Yes, I can pray over someone in the States... anywhere. But this is the God I serve... a God who calls and beckons us to run towards the light, bringing everyone we can with us. He invites us to touch and taste and feel. He invites us to glow with the brightness of His fire, rather than remain in our own black coldness. If the only reason I flew over the ocean is to pray for this one child, then it is worth it. If I can give her just a glimpse of His love for her... a love so great that He would bring someone across the earth just to love her, this dear girl whom the world considers unworthy but who is so jealously loved by the God who made her.  Dear friends, a soul is always worth it. Saying yes is always worth it. She is always worth it.
     Sometimes we run away from the light because we like our darkness. We are afraid that stepping in will hurt, expose the black filth that must be cast away. Further... stepping into the light forces us to see those still in darkness who need the light. And then we must do something. We cannot look away.

     The darkness is an empty hell. The light is streets of gold, brilliant color, a warmth that comforts and does not oppress.  He is in the light.

     Run to the yellow.

Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you, and everything you do. And they were all yellow....

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