Baby

Baby, as painted by June Steckler

It took me a long while to write about June's portrait of "Baby," the little girl I befriended at a party. I know very little of this baby, in fact, and have no anecdotes to share. The image I captured of her with my lens sums up our interaction well: shy smiles, big eyes, a little curious babbling. 

My hesitation came not from my lack of knowledge but from an emotional hiccup. I knew how I wanted to write about this painting, but I didn't want to actually go there. Write the words. Relive and process my feelings. The pain frightened me.

But after a few failed attempts, some tears, and a lot of prayer, here's my take on "Baby," my retelling of an ordinary experience I had on an ordinary day in Chillakallu. It feels incomplete somehow in the retelling; and yet in its very incompleteness it seems right. I am still learning about these things and processing them. My life--like Baby's life--is an ongoing journey. I feel as though it is still beginning.

It was just another Friday night. Unlike the children, who go to school on Saturdays, Kristin and I took a teaching holiday every Saturday to gather our strength for the week ahead. So on Friday evenings--young and silly as we are--we tended to stay up a little later than usual. This Friday, we were sitting outside in the courtyard, enjoying the cool cover of night. It was winter, so our Indian friends were shivering and bundled up... but to us, the 70 degree weather felt like heavenly relief! The compound was quiet at midnight except for the sound of our muffled laughter and chatting. Kristin was sitting by my side on the concrete bench, our knees pressed together, warm, and our backs against the cool stone. That bench, painted bright lime green and neon yellow, was the one thing that stood out in the dim light cast by the single lamp above the gravel courtyard. Several of the college boys and pastors were gathered with us, talking, joking, and enjoying each other's company.

I was just beginning to think that it was time to go to bed when the quiet of the compound was interrupted by the most terrible noise I have ever heard.

It was a prolonged cry, an agonized moan that elevated to a shriek. Instead of dying away, it only gained in volume and intensity. 

In an instant, everyone's happy chatter was silenced. I held my breath, listening as what had clearly been a single woman's voice was joined by another. Two women's wails floated through the air like a harsh wind, the cries of the tormented. Kristin and I looked at each other as the young men talked among themselves in Telugu. 

"What is happening?" I asked in a whisper. I was terrified. My throat felt tight and my stomach was in knots. 

"We do not know. We are going to see. You stay here," John replied solemnly. 

The men took a flashlight and a couple of sticks and walked down the road in the direction of the cries. I stood at the edge of the green and yellow bench, my calves pressed against the edge of the rough concrete, staring off into the blackness of the night. I watched as the single flashlight bobbed along the road and silently prayed for the safety of our friends. I'm sure Kristin prayed the same way, but we were too stunned by the continuing cries to speak to one another.

We stood there, frozen in silence, for what seemed like hours. The cries did not let up. The women continued to scream as though they were being beaten, and we were helpless as we stood by ourselves in the dark. 

Finally, the flashlight reappeared down the road and I felt some relief as the men came back into the compound. They shut the gate carefully behind them and dispatched. John came back to me and Kristin. His face was sad. 

"What is happening?" I asked him in a whisper. 

The cries continued as John explained to us that a 13-day old baby had died. Her family found her dead and was mourning for her.

A 13 day old baby was dead. 

The news was not what I was expecting, but it washed over me in a wave of nausea. 

She died of pneumonia. A family of gypsies had pitched a makeshift tent down the street on some open land, and they did not have curtains to keep the cold out. The baby was sick, but they did not have enough blankets to keep her warm. She died--across the street from us--because of the family's lack of physical resources; a lack of medical resources; a lack of blankets. 

My heart was broken over this news. It is still broken today. 

In the US, the infant mortality rate is 7. That's 7 deaths for every 1,000 babies born alive. In India, infant mortality is 48. The under-5 mortality rate in India is 63, and the rate of under-5 year olds with suspected pneumonia who are given antibiotics is only 13%. (based on UNICEF's 2010 study)

So this baby who died was one of many who face staggeringly sorry conditions and a lack of medical care. Not to mention the issue of female infanticide that plagues this male-focused culture, as many families abort their unborn daughters or kill them after birth in preference of sons. This baby's death was not an unusual occurrence by any means.  

But I heard the cries of the anguished family. I thought of the precious children in my own life--my sisters in the US, my little friends at the children's home, the ones I dearly love--and I could not comprehend losing one of them. 

This event began a long discourse between my heart and God about death and the tragedy of sin. I will never understand death; and the passing of a child is especially incomprehensible. I like what Richard Cimino said:

"Death troubles us deeply because God did not wire us to deal with death. We were created for life."

It comforts me to know that it's okay if I don't understand this. It's okay if I am wrecked by death. Even now, I am grieving the passing of my beloved grandmother. Losing her has been difficult and has brought about many questions for me. I cannot even imagine losing a baby as those women did, as many do around the world every day.

I did not know the child who died that night; like "Baby" in June's portrait, I did not even know her name. But she changed my perspective. She taught me about grief, and she taught me to mourn with strangers. She taught me to be angry on behalf of the hurting, to feel a righteous overturning, an indignation at injustice that urges me to give of my time, talent, and treasure to touch the lives of those who need love. She taught me to look at little ones like "Baby" in the portrait with a heightened awareness of the transience of life, with more yearning for a better future. She taught me to question myself and ask not just what could I have done? because that type of questioning leaves me bereft of joy in a loop of condemnation, but also what can I do now? 

I realize that this world is vast, and the needs in it are innumerable. But we all have something to give and someone before us who is in need. Love might look like a kind word. It might look like standing with someone in grief. It might look like a blanket. It might look like a meal. It might look like adoption, or it might look like a ride to church. 

My heart is broken for the loss of a tiny life and the loss of many lives like hers around the world. But I think it unwise to rest in that sorrow. Instead, I hope my sadness will propel me to search tirelessly for a need, to give with reckless abandon, to love fiercely.  

For more information about June's beautiful painting of "Baby," please visit her website. And please keep this sweet girl in prayer as she grows up in an atmosphere of difficulty.

Deepika

Deepika, as painted by June Steckler

Deepika has always been concerned about her beauty. Am I beautiful? she wonders at every turn.

Deepika loves the color pink, loves to dress nicely (in one of the two or three outfits she painstakingly maintains with daily washing), and loves to be feminine. She has distinctly-formed concepts about beauty: 

• long, carefully braided hair is beautiful (she was very upset by my short, wildly curly, loose hairstyle)
• dainty gold earrings are beautiful (she hated my big silver ones)
• matching colors are beautiful (I thought she might cry when she couldn't find the pink scarf to go with her pink birthday party dress)
• white skin is beautiful (a belief shared by most of the women I met while in India)

Deepika has very dark skin and feels self-conscious about her blackness. She thinks herself too tall, too gangly, and too dark to be beautiful.

With many burdens weighing heavy on her young heart, this sweet girl doesn't smile often. But when she does, her whole face glows. Her eyes crinkle up at the edges. The people around her cannot help but smile inwardly along with her. Her beauty is magnetic. I wonder, how can she not see how lovely she is?

All little girls want to feel beautiful, to be desired, to know they are worthy. Deep down, all women want to know that too. But for an untouchable girl, that reassurance can be so elusive. The untouchables--or dalits--are the lowest of the low in Indian society. The caste system which classifies people into a hierarchy of groups is rigid. Those born into the society of the untouchables are taught directly and indirectly that they are by nature impure and worthless. Those of the other castes refuse to interact with them. Touching a dalit would be cause for ritual purification. Dalits do the jobs no one else will do: trash collecting, undertaking, sewage cleanup. Once born into this low position, they cannot rise from it. Far from being considered beautiful, they are not worthy of a second glance.

Not only does Deepika face a cultural placement that ensures rejection by a majority of the population, but she also lost her father at a young age; and because of her mother's ill health, she could no longer be supported by her nuclear family. Worried relatives, noticing the child getting thin, referred her to New Hope Children's Home. Deepika was enrolled at the children's home at the age of 8 and has spent the past 8 years under the care of the home, growing, learning, and being affirmed as a beautiful young woman of God--a daughter of the Heavenly King. 

Jesus' radical message of equality and love between all humanity is making giant waves in the hearts and minds of young people from these low castes. Deepika now knows she is saved and loved by Jesus. She is treated with equality by a family of other orphans and caretakers who love her.

But, like many Christian women, she still struggles with feelings of worthlessness and inferiority. In a culture that places her at the bottom of every heap, how could she not be discouraged and insecure about her worth?

Sweet, timid Deepika had her 16th birthday this year and graduated from high school this month. She has had a special place in my heart for many years as "my girl" and "my Indian sister." I feel a very sisterly concern for her future in the face of the many changes she has ahead. My hope and prayer for Deepika as she becomes a woman is that she will realize the deep love of God for her and know that she is a daughter of the most high King, a precious, beautiful, and valuable person.

Please pray for Deepika as she embarks on a new phase of her life. She lives with a lot of weight upon her thin, pink-clad, 16-year-old shoulders, and now she waits. Uncertain of her worthiness, uncertain of her beauty, she waits to hear about college admissions, waits for marriage arrangements, waits for her fate to be decided by others. These things are out of her hands now, and she finds herself at the mercy of a distant family, college admissions officers, and a culture that views her as worthless. 

Her ambition--to become a doctor and serve the needy--is a lofty goal for a poor untouchable girl from Andhra Pradesh. But God is in the habit of bringing the unlikely to reality. He shows us the beauty and purpose He has for each of us. And He always, always holds His children up.

"He gives power to the weak and strength to the powerless." - Isaiah 40:29

For more information about the gorgeous painting of this gorgeous girl, please view June's website at junesteckler.com

Manisha

Manisha, as painted by June Steckler

The air was hot that night, in spite of the cover of darkness. The heat's usual trailing-off into some semblance of comparative coolness didn't happen. I would have welcomed a breeze, however laden it may be with the unpleasant scents of the distant, feces-lined roadway... but it was perfectly still and perfectly stifling. My punjabi stuck to my back. My chuni was suffocating me as it wrapped delicately around my neck. I let it slip down to rest on my chest and arms as I sat on the concrete steps of the girls' hostel. My head leaned against the cool white wall, getting what little relief I could from the smooth stone. 

Everyone was a little sluggish because of the oppressive heat. The warden fanned herself thoughtfully as the older girls sat combing each others' hair, applying the slick coconut oil that keeps it so neatly in place in those shiny black braids they always wear. The little girls played listlessly on the swings, trying to generate enough movement to create a breeze, get the warm air blowing in their faces as they flew. 

It was a quiet evening. But a whimper was coming from around the corner, in one of the two bare-floored rooms shared by the 40 girls living at the children's home. One of the oldest girls led the weeping little Manisha out into the yard and, exhausted from trying to halt her crying, simply directed her to sit on the steps. 

Manisha's tortured face disturbed me. I stood and took her hand, leading her to my spot against the wall. We sat down as she chattered brokenly to me through her tears.

Manisha's English is sparse at best, and my Telugu just as limited. But I knew she was crying for her mother. "Amma," she whispered. What could I do for this girl who missed her mother? Manisha's father died, and her mother was sick and blind in one eye. She could not afford to feed Manisha even a single meal per day, so she gave her into the care of the children's home. 

Manisha is 9 years old. Often frightened. Shy and reserved. She likes sliding down the slide at the girls' playground, a gift from a Texan church. She loves beautiful things and always examines any jewelry I wear with her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open in wonder at the American fashion of my friendship bracelet or a locket. I see her crying more than most of the other girls.

What can I do for this child? I thought hopelessly. A broken heart is not easily healed. So many of us find ourselves faced with pain in others or in ourselves, and what can we do? So often I am paralyzed with a desire to "fix it" but no vision for how to make it happen. 

As Manisha's fingers wrapped around mine that night, I wiped the tears from her cheeks and held her. I whispered a prayer over her and stroked her hair. Her tiny body relaxed, the tension softening with a simple embrace.

I was so touched by what June Steckler--a dear friend, artist, and writer who was inspired by this little girl's photographs--wrote about her painting of Manisha:

"In the photos I based this portrait on, Manisha looks wide-eyed, scared, and fairly torn up for such a little kid. I tweeked that a bit to make her look less frightened and more angry. My hope for her is that she can channel her fears into a kind of righteous anger that will propel her to have the strength, courage and love that will empower her to rise above the fear-worthy circumstances of her birth."

Pain paired with hope nourishes courage. Sadness and fear can be vehicles for change, and the best leaders in history have turned their fear into opportunity for exercise of bravery. Manisha has the potential to lead her community with love as she grows into a beautiful, confident young woman.

Pray with me for Manisha and many others like her--across all continents--who are faced with harsh realities. Maybe we cannot "fix it" but we can be there for the hurting ones who need love, providing an embrace, a prayer, a look of love. Start with the person closest to you. Pray for hope to work strength and courage into situations that seem beyond redemption. 

For more information about June's painting of Manisha, visit her lovely website, junesteckler.com

Mani Jyothi

Mani Jyothi, as painted by June Steckler

She walks quietly along the canal with a melodic skip in her barefooted step.  Tip-toeing along the concrete boundary of the drainage ditch where fetid water lurks below a thick bright green layer of moss, Mani Jyothi is on her way to school.

Eyes carefully lined in black, tiny red bindi meticulously painted on her forehead, checkered blue shirt neatly tucked into a worn blue skirt, Mani Jyothi is prepared for the day. Her younger brother and sister follow closely behind her, but she warns them not to walk along the ditch. At the ages of 6 and 5, they are not as sure-footed as she is. The caravan of children all have the same smooth caramel-colored skin, the same dark, almond eyes. The small ones follow their confident sister as she leads them on the road to the village school. They pass piles of trash, wandering buffalo, scavenging dogs, naked toddlers, and a few closet-sized shops to reach their destination. 

School is the best part of Mani Jyothi's day. Now that she has been here for over a year, she has gotten past the difficulty of adjustment and become one of the best students. "Maths" is her favorite subject, followed by English. At the weekly moral classes, Mani Jyothi always volunteers to perform in some way. She will recite a poem, sing a song, dance.... anything to be in the spotlight; anything to amuse her classmates and teachers; anything to feel beautiful and special. Mani Jyothi strives to please her teachers and succeeds. She is naturally smart and catches on quickly in all her classes. She excels and drinks in every word that the teachers say.

It's a good thing, too, because she does not have the luxury of study time at home.

When the day of classes is over, Mani Jyothi corrals her rowdy brother and gently persuades her baby sister to follow her back along the ditch-lined roads to their hut at the other end of the village, in the neighborhood designated for their caste--a class of people whose occupation has always been sorcery. The walk back is not as joyous as their morning jaunt. She knows what awaits her at the end.

Arriving at the doorway of the small hut, made of clay and roofed with palm leaves, Mani Jyothi pushes aside the curtain and steps inside, carefully laying her bag of books in the corner of the tiny dirt-floored room. Her father, a thin, wiry man with a mustache and the same toffee-colored skin of the children, reclines on a thin mat on one side of the single-room hut. His snores--and the sickly-sweet scent of alcohol--tell Mani Jyothi that he has been drinking heavily today.

The slight girl quietly goes about her duties, sweeping the hut and the ground outside with a bundle of sticks that passes for a broom, keeping track of the little ones as she goes. She carries water from the well, chops vegetables, and gently rouses her father as the curry simmers over an open flame. She doesn't want her mother to know that father has been sleeping all day. Their loud fighting tears at her heart and keeps her little siblings awake at night. It's better to do the extra work and avoid trouble.

Mother comes home from a day of work. As part of the sorcery caste, Mani Jyothi's family casts spells for a living. They travel door to door, selling charms and potions that promise to heal people, bring wealth, banish evil spirits. They are mystics with a flair for trickery... her mother is especially hypnotic, with a steady stare and empty eyes. In spite of her talent for spell casting, the family is remarkably poor.

"What are you doing with those books?" Mother berates Mani Jyothi as the girl sneaks a peek at her Telugu homework, trying to get some done on the sly. Her grades suffer a bit, in spite of her brightness, because she rarely completes homework.

"Just learning my Telugu by heart, Amma," Mani Jyothi replies meekly.

Her father chimes in gruffly, "You don't need that garbage. You should be learning charms and selling them with your mother. I don't see why we send you to that foolish school anyway. Girls don't need to read books."

Mother sits, silent and sullen, staring into the flame of the cooking fire. She knows the reason they send Mani Jyothi and her siblings to the small school. They can't afford to feed their children. They can't afford to educate them. And the school is free. The children receive a daily meal there. The allure of food was too strong to pass over, in spite of her husband's reluctance for girls to be educated. Mani Jyothi couldn't be of much help selling potions anyway. Though she could be of more help around the house, Amma reflects hazily, slowly rousing herself from a drug-induced stupor. Part of sorcery is opening the mind to the other world through medicinal agents. And Amma's mind is always open.

At night, as Mani Jyothi curls up on the dirt floor next to her sister to sleep, she closes her eyes tightly and whispers a prayer to the Jesus she's learned about at school. The Jesus who has promised to be her best friend. The Jesus who loves her. She hides her prayers under cover of darkness, only daring to talk to her friend when no one else is watching or listening. When she first learned of Jesus, she came home and told her mother all about Him, about how He promised to care for her and love her, about how He was always there, about how He wanted only good for her unlike the harsh gods she grew up worshiping. Mother had yelled, had slapped her daughter across the face with her open palm, had warned her to not speak to her father about this Christian god.

So Mani Jyothi prays only in bed or at school. She whispered to her teacher one day after class, "Jesus is my best friend." Her voice was soft and her eyes were full of joy. But her face fell into sorrow as she asked, "Please pray for my family."



This girl is far from conventional in the context of her family, and she travels farther and farther down the path of unconventionality as she grows in her abilities and her beliefs. Her confidence blossoms. She sees beyond the trap of ignorance and bondage to the possibilities opened before her by education.

Mani Jyothi hides her faith from her parents like she hides her homework. But she cannot hide her smile. Even in her moments of sorrow, her eyes betray a deep, powerful hope.

For more information about June's sweet painting of Mani Jyothi, please visit her website at junesteckler.com.

(Mani Jyothi is a student at New Hope school. The spirit of this story is true to Mani Jyothi's experiences, though some of the details have been imagined.)

Bhavani

Bhavani, as painted by June Steckler

I have been to New Hope Children's Home four times, so I've developed relationships with some of the children that have lasted for up to seven years. There are so many of them, though, that I didn't always remember their names after a long absence. Upon returning this time, I tried to refresh my memory on all the important names. I knew I would be quizzed immediately. Sure enough, during our first few times together this year, all the girls asked me, "Sister, sister, my name?"

Everyone wanted to be remembered. I did okay on these quizzes, but there was one girl who asked me whose name escaped me. I knew her; I remembered her face. I wracked my brain. When she saw that I didn't know her name, she was crushed. Her face fell. I had let her down.

But I remembered that I had a picture of her up in my room from a previous trip. I ran up to my room and got it. When I brought it down to her, she lit up. I could see it on her face, She did remember me!

It really struck me how these children so desperately want to be remembered. They cry out for it, to have their pictures taken, to tell us their names, to receive prayer. They want to be remembered. For a time, I wondered why they were so intent about it.

But I realized that many of them have been forgotten their whole lives. Abandoned. Forsaken. Nameless. Loveless. No wonder they yearn to be remembered, to be special to someone. 

Bhavani has a genuinely bubbly personality. She seems always to be making noise. Talking animatedly to the other girls, humming to herself, slapping a stick against the ground, tapping her foot. She's lively and musical and full of a fun-loving energy that just won't quit. Everything about her is fervent and intense. She studies with her brow knit in careful concentration. She worships with her feet tapping and her hands raised. She shouts with her whole body, jolting her chuni/scarf out of place with a raised voice. She prays with a fervent but quiet, speed-talking whisper, eyes tightly closed. Whatever she does, she is all-in. I cherish her noisy little spirit. 

But beneath the exuberance, Bhavani is driven by a deep desire to be loved and remembered. 

She lives at New Hope because her family is broken and didn't care enough to feed her. She was abandoned, abused, discarded. Everything in her young life taught her that she is unworthy of love, that no one cares, that she has been forgotten.

Fortunately for Bhavani, she is now in a place where people care for her and show her godly love. She has education, good food, opportunity, and love at her fingertips. She is one of the blessed, one of many discarded children who have risen above their circumstances to find a better life.

I love Sarah Young's words on God's remembrance of His people:

" Most of mankind’s misery stems from feeling unloved. In the midst of adverse circumstances, people tend to feel that love has been withdrawn and they have been forsaken. This feeling of abandonment is often worse than the adversity itself. Be assured that I never abandon any of My children, not even temporarily. I will never leave you or forsake you! My Presence watches over you continually. I have engraved you on the palms of My hands."

Remember Bhavani. And remember the One who has her name--and yours--written on His palms.

For information about June's vibrant painting of Bhavani, please visit her website at junesteckler.com 

refracted light

Sometimes God moves people in ways we wouldn't imagine. He accomplishes His purposes in unique ways using unique people who have unique gifts.

My sweet friend June Steckler is a painter. She's an artist by trade and by her very nature. Her work is bright and broad and beautiful. Her art makes you feel something, makes you lift your face to the sun.

While I was in India, June was happily minding her own business, browsing her Facebook in California when she came across some pictures I had posted of Chillakallu. The colors and faces and beauty and sadness inspired her.

So she began to paint.



June painted a series of portraits of the children at New Hope. The portraits are remarkable in their depth and give a special glimpse of the personalities of the subjects. They are full of color, overflowing with sorrow mingled with hope, full of life. I was stunned when I saw what she had done, overwhelmed by the beauty of June's work and the uncanny ability she has to capture emotions with her brush.

June is debuting a collection of art called refracted light at Capitol Public Radio on the campus of Sacramento State University tomorrow--Saturday, April 13th. The India portraits will be for sale, and June is donating all proceeds to New Hope. The paintings will remain there through the month.

Prompted by June's show, I will be posting little stories and snippets about the children whose portraits she painted.



























I am so moved by June's obedience and how she is using her talents to bring hope and justice to a needy community on the other side of the world. She inspires me. And it encourages me to see the way God takes who we are--our special talents and skills--and uses them for His glory when we exercise those gifts and embrace who we were meant to be.


For more info about June or her work (or if, like me, you want to take home a painting or a print because they're so darn gorgeous) please visit her lovely website, junesteckler.com or her Facebook page. Thanks, June!

And stay tuned for more paintings and stories in more posts over the next few days... 

Through the wardrobe...

Kristin and I have been back in California for over a month now! It is comforting to spend time with our family and friends, and we have been welcomed back tenderly. However, it's a little disorienting returning to our hometown. We saw and experienced so much, and it seemed like the 4 months was more like 4 years... it's a different world in India! If any of you have spent any time in a third world country, you may be familiar with what I decided to call "the wardrobe effect."

A dear friend --who is also a missionary and has traveled to Africa, India, Ireland, and other places-- suggested this analogy to me, and it has proven to be quite true. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis, four children enter a magical wardrobe which leads them to another land. They have a series of amazing adventures with curious creatures. They live full lives in this land, growing up to become kings and queens. Then after many years and experiences, somehow they stumble back through the wardrobe into their native earth, and at the moment they step back through the door they are back to being children again. Nothing in their world has changed. Very little time has passed. No one back home knows what they saw and experienced. It is as if nothing has changed there at all, though they had all these life-altering experiences and return quite different people.

It feels as though I stepped through the wardrobe into another world in India... a hard world... a world where children beg on the streets, where women constantly fear rape, where I could not venture outside our little home without a guard. A world of intense spirituality (both darkness and light), a world of intense poverty, beautiful vibrant colors, exuberant personalities, strange customs, different values. I lived a short time in that world, but it seemed like a lifetime. Kristin and I fought battles and forged relationships. All the things we experienced were so intense.

Then we came home--stepping back through the wardrobe--and found ourselves disoriented. Life went on here in California without us, and it continued much in the same bent as before. In actuality, things have changed, but we have changed more. 

How have I changed? It's so difficult to describe... my mind is different; my heart is different; my body is even different (can't abide the cold now). I am the strange one; misunderstood, misunderstanding, misplaced. And yet I know I am here for a reason. I've already seen how a continuing purpose is developing in my life as I spend time back in the US.

Being here has so far been a bittersweet experience. Bitter because it's somewhat disorienting, because I miss my little students, because I long for afternoon tea time and church services marked by enthusiastic clapping; sweet because my family and friends are at my fingertips, because I have freedom to drive to the store and pick up ice cream, because the street is clean and I can drink water from the tap. It's a mixed bag.

All I know at this point is that I am blessed by my experience in India. It was amazing and life-altering, and I am so glad to know all the precious people and children that I met there. I know more about myself, about the world, and about my God than I ever did before.

Perhaps the most important thing I want to convey is thankfulness. I am grateful to every person who prayed for us, supported us, encouraged us, and followed us on this journey. Thank you. You have enabled us to go, held us up, and made a difference in our daily lives and in the lives of the children we worked with.

And it's not over yet! I am working on polishing the stories I've written about various Indian children, church members, and friends. They are remarkably beautiful tales of redemption, and they touched my heart; I hope you will be touched by them as well. They'll be showing up on the blog here occasionally.

Plus, I hope and plan to return to Chillakallu soon! I don't know exactly what that will look like yet. But there is a medical camp in November, so I will do all in my power to make the long trip back to Andhra at the end of this year. We shall see what happens.... Part of me longs to go back again for a long-term project, teach again, and continue to work on the writing project. That part of me knows I'll return someday. Another part of me is afraid that I won't have the means or the time or the strength... But the transformation I underwent has given me a renewed and stronger trust in the plans God has for me. I am excited about what lies ahead and confident that whatever happens will be ultimately good.

In the meantime, I will love and serve the people in my hometown however I can as I continue to serve people in India by assisting New Hope with lesson plans for the school and writing correspondence for the leaders. It's a small world made smaller by technology, which will allow me to keep in touch with "the other world in the wardrobe."

As I thought about the wardrobe and my experience, I remembered this line from the final chapter of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (after the children return to their previous lives) and was encouraged about what the future holds:

“And so for a time it looked as if all the adventures were coming to an end; but that was not to be.” -C.S. Lewis

This has been only one chapter in the grand adventure of my crazy life. I am excited to see what's ahead. 

More to come...

P.S. -- Kristin and I spoke at Crossroads Church about our experience in India. It's a good condensed update for those of you who want to hear a few little stories, see some video, and hear about the basics of our trip. 

2013 India Update from Crossroads Church on Vimeo.