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| 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.
