A New Communion

    The wine and the bread... two objects I have seen all my life. The body and the blood, broken and poured for us. We take and do likewise as he did on the night before he was crucified. We take and we remember.

     Throughout this internship, we have been reading a book entitled One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp, which is one of the most beautifully written books I have ever read. Throughout the book, Ann speaks of communion, of the bread and the wine. She speaks of learning to be continuously grateful... for every moment... the good and the bad, the ugly and the beautiful, because these moments make up our life stories.

     It is in these moments when we are grateful, thankful from the inside out, that we are truly able to experience communion with God. Communion... fellowship... a relationship where I know my Beloved deeply, intimately, and He knows me. I can love Him because I know Him. I can trust Him because I know Him. Because I know that every moment where I am acknowledging His hand, His touch, His love... in this present moment, I am drawing closer, falling more deeply in love.

     While in Kolkata, I have been trying to figure out what to do with my life. I have a greater awareness of my passions, but I am still very unsure about the next step. I have been trying to figure out the next year, five years, ten years. Is India home? Where is home?

     And God stopped me from my anxious wanderings, and whispered gently, "Today, India is home. Let me worry about tomorrow. Today, it is home." Today. This moment. The present. I am alive in this moment. I am engaged in the present. I am grateful for this moment.

     There is so much rest and peace that comes to an anxious soul when I simply stop and wait. I stop straining to see the future, and instead I focus on the present, and my world is brighter. Colors are vibrant. People are noticed, appreciated. The air is cooler. Loved ones are cherished, instead of cast aside because I am too busy. My sense heightened. I feel. I touch. I can hear his whisper, instead of trying to tune my ear to a cry from the distance. There will be no greater purpose than the present, no greater grace than in this moment... becuase that's what He gives... grace for the moment, strength for today.

     I am grateful for so many experiences, people, and moments from my time here. And because I love lists, here are a few things that deserve special attention:

1. The Godly wisdom I have had poured into me by Beth, Janelle, Emily, and A. They lead by example, and they speak truth into my life, pushing me to give more, serve more, love more, and allow me the freedom to let God move in my heart.
2. Jessica, our Indian intern, who I swear is my twin. She has also led by example and taught me so much about how to pray continuously and worship every moment. She is a gift and a blessing to me.
3. Chelsea and Carolina... my partners in crime. Three different personalities, three different sets of gifts, but God knew what He was doing when He brought us together. I am a better person because of them.
4. The children of the ECC who have completely stolen my heart. I don't know if I have ever been so attached to a group of children and so burdened. They are so precious. Miracles-- every single one.
5. My ice cream girls... the ones who call me Auntie Joy, and make my heart light up every time I see them. Beautiful.
6. The amazing church in Kolkata with a pastorial staff that longs to see God transform their city. This church is going to change the world.

     I am learning the art of gratefulness. When I am overwhelmed, I stop and I look for things in that moment, and I thank God... coconut water, that woman's smile, a cool breeze, my shoes, feet that can move, cool water...

     Tonight at Beth's house, we took the bread and wine. We circled around the elements, prayed, and sang.

     Intimate, quiet communion. Fellowship with the God who has brought us together and captivated our hearts. Moments of reflection. This do in remembrance of Me.

      He is sweet. He is good. He is a God of communion, relationship, knowing... and I want to know Him more. A Holy Experience. The present.  

And I know that there are angels all around...

     She is a tiny little thing with dark brown skin, big brown-almost black- eyes, and a smile that lights up her entire face. Five years old, and one of the cutest little girls I have ever seen.

     We caught up with her and her older brothers as we were leaving the Evening Care Center and walking to get a taxi. She held my hand.So small... she doesn't even come up to my waist yet. We walked through the mass of men, vendors, smokers, and women headed home... or atleast, I think they were headed home. I tried to lead her as best as I could, wanting to shield her from everything... from hands that may reach out and grab her. From the dog bigger than she is. From the open flames of street food.

     She waved goodbye,  and grabbed the hands of her older brothers. She blew us a kiss, and with a smile, turned down the dark alley towards home.

      I pray harder.

     I have seen those alleyways.

     It feels almost surreal, as if you are walking through a portal into another universe, where suddenly, these women are standing in doorways, some in miniskirts, some in saris, some with lots of makeup, some with little. Some smile, some stare, some just look away. The brothels are separated by language groups... Bengalis over here, Telagus there, Nepali just in front of you, etc.

     I followed an Indian woman into her home, up the stairs into the darkest hallway I have ever seen. Steep staircases. She unlocks the door to her room. We remove our shoes. This is home... one bed that feels more like a cloth covered bench, cobwebs on the wall, clothes folded on shelves, dead garland underneath her picture of Cali. Smaller than my bathroom at home. She talks, we listen, we pray... my feet are bare... standing on holy ground.

     We walk more, and I can feel their stares. The men, look me over, and despite the fact that I am in complete Indian garb, they still notice me. Ugh. It's at these moments when I envy Muslim women. I want a burqa.

     We follow another woman into her home... her room is on the roof. Steep brick steps shrowded in darkness. I am surprised no one has broken their necks on these things. The middle is worn from years of walking up and down. Smaller than the last room... just enough for a bed. This is where she lives, she cooks, she does business with customers, she sleeps.

     I learn that children sleep underneath the bed. While the mothers work, they are often chained to the beds and drugged so they will sleep.
    
     Two more women come, one is an alcoholic. Their eyes are dead. We pray with them. Shoes once again removed. Holy ground...

     I will forever associate tobacco with the men buying and selling women on the streets. It is spit everywhere, with that ridiculous hacking sound. Disgusting. Some of it is red, and you think someone has a bloddy mouth, but really it's just tobacco. Could you imagine having to service a customer with that crap dripping down his chin? There are no words...

      We walk through a narrow alleyway, only able to walk single file. I catch glimpses of women in the dark shadows and corners of their rooms, waiting to be looked over and chosen. There are women standing outside, but many more waiting in doors. It's a buffet for the sexual appetite. Take your pick and feast.

     We make our way back to the ECC, the edge of the district, shoes once again removed before we enter the room.

     I have been given a group of about twelve 9 and 10 year olds, and I adore them. We are creating stories... writing thoughts and feelings, using imaginations, and learning English in the process. I want them to find their voices.

     It is chaotic... so many people in one small room. Yelling for markers to color our pictures. Trying to translate from Bengali to English and back to Bengali. Singing loudly at the top of our lungs. Cookies flying. It is chaos. Sweat on my forehead. Bare feet. Holy ground.

     There is a small group of boys I just love. Nine and 10 years old. Sweetest hearts, and biggest smiles. I watch them protect their younger siblings. I watch them pray and sing. Too cool for hugs, not too cool for secret handshakes. I just love them.

     And I am afraid... because I watched the men around them. I know of brothers who have sold their sisters. Men who were once sweet boys that become pimps, buyers, and abusers. I know the men they have as role models and examples. Good God. I could be a better example of manhood than these clowns gambling and stumbling on the side of the road.

     My heart hurts, breaking for my boys. My heart that is growing attached and will soon be ripped away. Oh God please... raise them to be a new generation of men. Men who follow you no matter the cost. Men who stand for purity and justice. Men who protect their mothers and sisters, who love their wives and children. Men who will not stand for laziness or take the easy way out.

     Jesus. Jeshu. Yeshua. Yahwah.

     He walks here. In the red light district, among the garbage and waste, the idols and the sex. He knows the corners of every brothel room. He created the men and women here... formed them, fashioned them, designed them and knows them by name. This is his home... the places he chooses.

     I am beginning to realize that maybe God isn't very impressed with our clean walls and pristine sanctuaries. He rarely visited the temples. Instead, he walked among the people. He touched their sores. He called them from their sin to a better life. He got dirty, bloody, disgusting for the sake of his people. He demands we do the same.

     I can't help but think that this is where he dwells. He is here, when all hope seems lost. He is working, bringing light to the darkness. I want to be here, where he is. Do you? Are you willing to be dirty and uncomfortable, just so you could catch a glimpse of his face? Or are you content to live life safe inside the padded pew, and wait until heaven to see him. Yes, heaven will be amazing. But why wait when you could have the unspeakable joy of seeing him now? Touching him now? Walking with him now?

     Oh dear friends, I have seen glimpses, and it is beautiful... glimpses in the midst of hell.

     So I take off my shoes... because it is holy ground.

Finding the Beautiful...

       Acne. Mosquito bites. Dirty finger nails. Frizzy hair. Chapped lips. Dry skin. Sweat. Added cellulite do to an excess of rice, potatoes, and oreos.

      I can neither confirm nor deny that I have been suffering from the above conditions since I have been in India.

      And I have a confession to make: It bothers me. I don't like the added bumps, the dry skin, and the fact that I can't really wear make up because I will sweat it off within five minutes. Even though monsoon season is now upon us, it is still very hot. My clothes are less than fashionable, my hair is in a pony tail, and I've been wearing the same shoes every day. Please understand, I am not saying all this to complain. Rather, I am sharing with you my struggles. I am being honest. I am sharing my heart (and please, no emails telling me how beautiful I am and God made me special... that is not what this is about).

     I have always struggled with self esteem issues. Maybe you can relate to the feeling of never really being comfortable in your own skin. The fuzzy hair and stained teeth didn't really help me growing up. I always wanted to be my older cousins... beautiful, loved by everyone, straight hair. I couldn't wait until I was older and I could finally wear better clothes, and um, mature. Of course, I had friends and family tell me I was beautiful, but you know it doesn't matter how many people tell you. Knowing and believing are two very different things. I devoured fashion magazines that told me to mix prints, avoid prints, wear bright colors, black is now in, pink is now the new black, avoid carbs, eat carbs, embrace the natural look, wear more eyeliner, blah, blah, blah.

     For me, beauty has been a process... actually more like a roller coaster, but nevertheless a process. I had braces in middle school and my stained teeth were bleached. I finally stopped wearing these awful green overalls when I entered high school. In college, I discovered the diffuser, so my frizzy hair could now be managed. Now, post college, I am awaiting my next beauty break through... but I just might have it.

     I think it takes being pulled from my comfort zone to truly realize just how dependent I am on things to make myself feel beautiful. In America, I am able to seek solace in eyeliner, and I have foundation to cover the blemishes. My hair is decent. My clothes match, and I have jewelry to accessorize. When I scratch my skin, my nails are not black underneath. I am presentable. I can hide my insecurities behind lipgloss and mascara.

     I can't do that here. I think what bothers me more than anything is the fact that I have nothing to hide behind. My face is bare (and sometimes looks a little dehydrated). My feet are dirty. My pants are big enough for three people and do little to enhance my figure (Pants here are not One size fits all... instead, they are One size fits everyone you can possibly put in them).

    Today, I sat on the concrete floor of the Evening Care Center in my Indian clothes, muddy from the monsoon rains and hot. My hair is disheveled and has not been brushed all day. My acne... let's just not even go there. I am removed from my comfort zone in every possible way.

     And yet, I have never felt more beautiful. In fact, these are the times, as crazy as it seems, when I actually feel like my skin and I fit perfectly together.

     When my little five year old is genuinely excited to see me.
  
     When another little girl showers my cheeks with kisses.

      When I am covered in spit up and in desperate need of a shower, yet she is still in my arms letting me rock her to sleep.

      When my group of boys can't wait to sing the Coconut Song ("The fruit of the Spirit's not a coconut...")
     
      When my baby boy puts his forehead against mine and squeals.

      When the former pr*stituted woman opens the door of her home to me.

      When I share oreos after church with my ice cream kids.

      When I hold my daughter as she is released from my arms into the arms of Jesus.
      
      When I am walking through hell and seeing glimpses of heaven.

      When I am dirty, tired, feeling a little nauseous, and have been in the sun too long, but I am still singing and dancing with all my smiling brown faces....

      When it's not about me.

      Because following Christ means taking everything I hold on to... all my material possessions that define who I am... and throwing them away. Because when I, as a fallen human being, am completely emptied of myself and allow Him to shine through me, then I become everything I was meant to be... a reflection of Him.

     One of my favorite quotes comes from the movie Little Women, in which Marmee is speaking to her oldest daughter Meg. She says, "My dear, if you feel that your value lies in being merely decorative, then someday that may be all you really are."

     I don't know about you, but I don't want to be remembered as someone who is "merely decorative", focused only on my outward appearance, so much to the point that I neglect those I am purposed to love.

     But I think I beginning to discover a precious secret... something counter cultural. Beauty is not found when I am looking at myself. Instead, it is found when my heart is turned towards Him, and He then turns it towards others. It will never be found standing up straight... rather, on my knees, bathing the feet of the little girl who lives in garbage.

     Beauty... real and lasting beauty... is only found when my heart is being poured out for my King, and in those precious moments, it's not about me. Because really, in my broken and sinful heart, there is nothing genuinely beautiful about me. The only good in me comes from Jesus Christ. He is the ultimate definition of beauty, and my prayer is to be His reflection.

     My advice to you: You don't have to come to India (although it really is fabulous and you should be here). You don't have to forego all make up completely and walk around in baggy clothes, although God likes to use those situations to get my attention.

     Instead, let your arms wrap around the shoulders of those around you in need. And get dirty.

My first word, My hero, My heart

     Your name was the first word I ever spoke.

      I have your eyes, and my ear does the same weird folding thing as yours. When you do things to embarrass me, I jokingly ask if you are really my father. But there's no denying it. I'm yours.

     I love that I inherited your sense of humor... corny jokes, Monty Python, and the ability to make yourself laugh at your own silliness. Your laugh is my favorite sound in the entire world, and whenever I am away, it's what I miss the most.

     I want to write a beautiful letter to tell you how much you mean to me. I wish that I had better words, or I could write a beautiful poem... but really, how do I tell you just what you have done for me, when really, you have given me everything. I will try, but I will fail. So I'm doing my best.

     I am who I am because of you, and that may sound confusing or cheesy, but it's true.

     I am a Florida Gator because you took me to my first football game at six months old. You explained the game to me, and watching football with you as I have grown up is one of my fondest memories, and one of my favorite things to do. UF vs. South Carolina in 2006. Jarvis Moss saves the season... we were there because of you. Heck to the yes.

     You took me on my first mission trip when I was 14 years old to Honduras. I served the people with you, and I watched you love those who were unfamiliar. When I told you I wanted to become a missionary, you didn't question God's calling or tell me to pick something else. Instead, you let me say "Yes" when so many other fathers I know of said "No". You let me dream and gave me the courage to be obedient.

     You taught me to speak words of life over those around me. I love that you prayed over me before I went to sleep every night, blessing me with "Happy Thoughts" and declaring the promises of God. I have in turn done "Happy Thoughts" with the little ones God has placed in my life, carrying on your tradition of blessing.

     I am safe when I am with you. I have never once had to worry that you would lift a hand in anger or hatred. I have never had to worry about being abandoned. Here I am, on the other side of the world, surrounded by women and children whose fathers are absent and evil. I am grateful more and more for who you have been as a father to me... a protector. I can trust you.

     You love my mom, and not just with words, but with actions. You value her and treasure her. You take care of her. Thank you.

     I have never once felt as though I needed the attention of a boy to fill any needs in my heart. I have never needed to flirt or get attention from other boys because you have been present with your heart and mind, not just your body. You give the best hugs (and the best presents). You have filled the need in my heart to be loved and valued.

     I have been told that I have high standards when it comes to boys, but it's no wonder considering you are my standard of comparison. I have watched as you love Jesus and my mother, and I know never to settle for anything less.

     I love hearing you sing and watching as you worship the Lord. I love your prayers, and the family meetings that go on for three hours.

     I love that playing games with you is impossible because you always accuse the other team of cheating.

     I love it when you try to dance.

     "Rule #1, obey all rules".

     "In the book of Chauncey, chapter 3"... Really sir, you're hilarious.

     You are my hero. You are my favorite person in the world. You are my strength, and you are my constant. I am able to love and minister to those around me becuase you have taught me how to love... completely, sacrificially, unconditionally.

     You showed me Jesus. How do I thank you for showing me life?

     I love you Daddy. I hope that your Father's Day is amazing, and know that I am lifting you in prayer every day, speaking "Happy Thoughts" over you.

     You are my heart.

      And all I said was this halibut was good enough for Jehovah...
    

Light in her eyes...

     She has one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen. Even when she is not smiling, her face is soft, as if ready to laugh at any moment. Her hair is long and curly, falling gracefully down her back.
    
     I didn't think she was older than 35, and even she is unsure of her exact age... but she is a mother with two daughters, and she knows she is older than thirty. One is married, and the other will be married in a week. And she is a grandmother to a small baby girl.
    
     I tease her, saying that I will look fifty by the time I am her age, and she will still look the same. Her eyes sparkle, and she is absolutely beautiful.

     I don't know what life has done to her. I know that she is not married, but I am unsure of the details of her story. But I know that life has been hard. I sit beside her as she sews her quilts... sewing to support her family... to support herself. She threads her needle with skill, tenderly weaving it through the fabric to create intricate patterns.
 
     She comes from a Muslim village. Every Friday, she and another friend journey for several hours by bus into Calcutta to deliver their products, work in a clean and quiet place, and then return to their village with more quilts to complete. If she can make ten quilts a month, then it is a good month for her.

     Her daughter will be married at 15 years old. I learned that according to the traditions of her religion, it is best if a girl is married as soon as possible in order to preserve her virginity and insure she is untainted before she is wed. The mother of the groom sat next to her sewing her own quilts as she shared these details.

     For some reason, my heart is just drawn to her. She is always ready with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. She is the type of person who, when you enter her presence, your soul just relaxes. Her presence is soothing, comforting... the presence of a mother, a friend.

     And she doesn't know Jesus. But He is wooing her. I believe he is. To her, He is just a prophet, just a name. But I pray that He will soon be so much more. I pray that she will be captivated... through dreams and visions, through His presence, through the people she sees every Friday that reflect His love. The hold of Islam is strong, but my Jesus is stronger. He is bringing light into her heart. I believe it.

     Pray for my dear friend. Pray that she will see the truth. Pray that she will fall in love with Jesus.

This might give me a few enemies...

     This has been on my heart for a while. I promised to be honest. I promised to be truthful, to share what I have seen and heard, what God has been doing in my heart. And this post might make me lose a few readers, as well as gain some enemies. Oh well. My purpose is not to offend but to make you think.

With the summer months come summer movies... blockbusters, lots of explosions, romantic comedies, and highly anticipated sequels... one such sequel was The Hangover II. I do recognize there are many movies I could talk about dealing with this subject, but this is what God has put on my heart, and if I don't share with you, it's my fault. I have not seen this movie, so I am getting my information from detailed reviews (pluggedin.org) and magazine articles (relevantmagazine.com).

I did not see the original Hangover. I have a belief that if a movie is rated R and does not include any violence, then it is probably filled with cursing and sex. Since I don't find either of those things entertaining, I typically avoid them. The good news is all of the funny jokes are usually quoted to me about a million times, so I feel like I'm getting the high lights, and I don't have to pay a dime. It's a win win for me.

Yet, when I saw previews for the second Hangover, I began to feel uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.

The movie is set in Thailand, and it could just that my sensitivity is heightened because I am hanging around a red light district these days... but something about this movie just didn't feel right.

You see, Thailand is, in the words of pbs.org, "a land of opportunity" for traffickers in Southeast Asia. In fact, Thailand has become one of the poster countries, along with India, for human trafficking. Thailand's beautiful beaches and rich countryside make it a hotspot for tourists, and with the tourists comes the opportunities for someone to profit off the selling of another's body.

Here are a few facts:
*Trafficking in Thailand is a roughly $12 billion dollar industry... more than its drug trade
*Many of the people in Thailand's North region do not have Thai citizenship and live in poverty. Therefore,  they are very vulnerable.
*Victims from Cambodia, Laos, and Burma are often brought into Thailand... it is believed that roughly one fourth of prostituted women were from Burma
*In 2003, it was estimated that there were roughly 200,000 being forced to work in prostitution

Why am I sharing this? What does this have to do with the Hangover II?

One of the reasons I became uncomfortable while watching the previews was because, knowing the history of this film, there would probably be a visit to a brothel. Researching the movie confirmed my suspicions.

The characters do indeed visit a brothel, the services of one prostitute are used, other prostitutes appear nude, and a Russian club owner offers the sexual services of a child for $2,000.

And it earned $61million within the first two days of opening in theaters.

Dear friends, there is something wrong here. I observed my Facebook news feed as people posted their excitment in watching the film, their reviews, lamentations about recycled jokes and plots, etc.

It broke my heart... because in this film, men and women in real danger are portrayed as objects of entertainment. Because in reality, the majority of those people in the brothels are sold, beaten into submission, and forced to sniff rubber cement to remain compliant. They are numb, their feelings fried, and hearts damaged beyind repair. They are forced to have abortions, suffer incurable diseases, used and then sewn up to be resold as virgins to fetch a higher price.

And we laughed.

There is something seriously wrong when we choose to suspend reality for the sake of our own entertainment. Am I overreacting? No, I'm not... because I know the woman forced to sell her body for over thirty years. I know the man abused to the point he is confused about his gender and giving his body away. I looked into the eyes of the girl standing on the line, waiting for a customer. I know the girl with scars on her arms and back from years of torture.

You can argue with me and say that it wasn't real. It was just a movie. I am being uptight. Lighten up, it's a comedy. The problem comes when the joke is based on reality, and I don't care how cleverly it is told. I can't lighten up. I go home from the red light district knowing it could be the last time I ever see some of the children there because they could be sold at any moment.

Friends, I promise that I am not lecturing you....what I am doing is trying to make you aware.

You see, when we watch something, our minds become used to what images are put in front of us. I am a testimony to this as much as the next person. Horror no longer scares us. Blood no longer sickens us. And image of a woman being prostituted does not render the honor of a second thought. This film, while promoting entertainment, has also promoted the selling and trading of more women and children into sexual slavery, whether it realized it or not. And we as Americans with our obsession to be entertained went right along with it.

But wait, you didn't know... Well, now you do. And you can turn away, but you can never again say you didn't know.

Please remember my purpose in this post is not to make you angry or guilty. But, I want you to think. Research before you invest time and money into something. Please. What messages are pouring into your heart if you see this film? Will be become calloused to the cries of those around you?

I beg you, think. Because I know the woman sold for someone else's pleasure... and she was too stoned to look back at me.

The Bruise on Her Face

She always has the biggest hugs and the softest heart. Sweet, gentle, shining brown eyes, and soft cheeks you just want to kiss over and over. She always wears a sparkly dress. She is always smiling.

There was a bruise on the right side of her face today. Running from her temple to just above her eye. She didn't fall...

Sweet girl, what did you do? Were you just in the wrong place when his anger grew too hot to control? Did you say something and he responded with a hand instead of words? Where was your mother? Is this man even your real father?

How is she still smiling? Does she pretend everything is ok to escape? Has she just become numb? Does she turn up the charm to receive extra love?

I want to take her away and run as fast as we can from this place... from hell. She is fair skinned. She could pass as my daughter.

But I can't. So I lay hands over her, begging for protection and blessing. "Come again", she told me as we said goodbye. You too baby. Please God.

I look around at all of the brown eyes that have captured my heart. All with bruises on their hearts. It's so dangerous, the alleyways they call home. Evil not only lurks in the darkness but parades on the streets in daylights.

My sweet little ones. God protect them. Heal what is broken. They have seen more than I can possibly imagine... mothers being raped, being raped themselves, abused with words, objects, hands and feet, drugs, the brutal beatings of their mothers and siblings and neighbors, friends cut to pieces. I wish I was exaggerating. God, I wish I was being dramatic, but I'm not.

This is their reality. Don't pray for me. Pray for them. Pray for her. God, get her out.