TRAVELLING TO BUDALUR

The rest of our visiting team doesn't plan on telling me that we're driving through anaconda or King Cobra country. They're in one of the other vans and their driver casually points this fact out to them when they talk about the passing scenery.

My friend, Hilary, stresses to them, "Do not tell Christine."

Good thing they keep me in blissful ignorance—I’m enjoying the drive out of the city of Trichy and into the countryside. The thought does cross my mind that there has to be snakes out there in the swaying grasses and down by the river. But I push the thought away. Somehow I know God will not ask me to confront my phobia on this trip.

We drive along the wide, powerfully flowing Kallanai River, over a narrow road in the midst of construction. There are no giant graders or bulldozers to build the infrastructure of this roadway. Men and women do the work by hand with shovels, picks, and buckets of stones. I wonder about the women wearing worn cotton saris, doing such hard manual labor. Rail thin, the flesh of the women's cheeks sink deeply into their faces. Have they left their children at home during their work day? Could I do the same to put rice or lentil stew on the table for my children? Of course I would do anything to feed my kids, but what hardship the poorer Indian women face.

Coconut palms and banana groves dot the emerald green countryside. We come to the Grand Anicut otherwise known as the Kallanai Dam. An ancient Chola king built this dam over 2000 years ago. Sitting at each end of the dam are stone statues of elephants in full royal regalia. Flood waters from the past monsoons have receded, exposing sand bars in the middle of the river. I can see the pride and pleasure on Antony's face as he invites us out of the vans to stroll across this dam built of Indian engineering so long ago.


The air is delightfully warm without the sweltering heat that will come in the summer months. As we walk across the dam, the occasional cow with brightly painted horns meanders along with us. Goats playfully butt heads. People from nearby villages run to capture the cows then lead them home. Children play and stare at us with inquisitive and laughing eyes.

At the far side of the bridge we get back into our vehicles and drive through more tiny villages until we come to a Catholic retreat center. A large church with white Gothic spires takes center stage, but I already feel as though I'm in a natural cathedral from the towering palm trees. Their shade will be a gentle refuge from the harsh heat in the hot months to come. But right now it’s cool with a late afternoon breeze. Everything in this retreat center is scrupulously clean, but it's the raucous din of thousands of birds cawing, singing, squawking in the trees above us that makes me feel as though I'm already standing in church. The birds are so loud; it's hard to hear the person next to you unless they raise their voice slightly above normal.


Inside the building, people kneel or sit on the smooth stone floor on either side of a long nave. There is no stain glass on the large windows. Intricate grail work in the shape of Christian symbols keeps the birds out but allows their song to enter.

We take the stairs up to the Adoration Chapel. Behind a glass wall, a life-size statue of Christ kneels in the posture of the famous painting of the Lord’s agony in Gethsemane. The only difference being the landscape behind the Christ figure doesn’t look like the familiar olive grove in Jerusalem, but the landscape of India. I make out the flat lands and rivers of this land, a countryside reminiscent of the one we just drove through.

The statue of the praying Lord makes me think of Thomas, His disciple who came to India centuries ago. Here in this place of towering palms, gentle breezes and riotous bird song, I feel not only the apostle Thomas’s prayers for this subcontinent, but that of the Lord's—centuries of prayers for India.

Last week I shared about our first visit to a Hindu temple. Moses, the accountant on staff for the India Bible Camp Ministries, was one of our guides through the sprawling edifice. Though we hushed our voices, they still echoed against the stone walls and pillars. Just at the threshold to the inner temple we were stopped by a notice painted on the floor, "Only Hindus Past This Point."

When the Hindu priest rushed over to us, worried that we would enter, it was Moses who assured the indignant man that we had no intention of intruding. At one time Moses would have been one of the devotees to this temple.

But Moses wasn’t always Moses.

Moses was born a Hindu and his parents gave him the name, Morhar. For generations Mohar's family has run a lucrative business in artificial diamonds and gems. As a young man Morhar used to drive his motor scooter to this temple several times a week. Here he would religiously pay for pujas to be performed for various gods and goddesses. Those pujas could be a small sacrifice of flowers or food burned in a brass plate. Or quite often he would pay for the more expensive pujas to the gods, like the sacrifice of expensive ghee.

A few years ago Morhar heard a woman in his neighborhood talking about Jesus. Not much later he came to believe that Jesus was the living God he was looking for. But Mohar's family were outraged at his exclusive faith in Christ.

They shouted, "We do not mind you adding this Jesus to our Hindu gods. But do not reject Lord Brahma or Vishnu, or any of our other Hindu gods. You will bring curses down upon us and on our business."

Mohar said, "I cannot just add Jesus to Vishnu or Sita. I believe Jesus is the son of the true and living God. I believe Jesus is the only way to God."

Angry and broken-hearted, Morhar's family cast him from their home and entire family. Even the area around the family business became off-limits to him.

As a Christian outcaste, Morhar changed his name to Moses. His birth name clearly meant that he was a Hindu, and he was no longer that. His new name, Moses, means Deliverer, God had delivered him from hopelessness. Moses had assurance of eternal life with Christ. But how was he to eat? What was he to do with his life?

Not long after, Moses met up with other Christians in Tamil Nadu and came under the mentorship of Pastor Prasad Devasitham. It was Pastor Prasad who introduced Moses to India Bible Camps. With Moses’s background in accounting, he was just the man Antony Samy was looking for and Moses joined the staff of IBCM.

These days Moses scrupulously records every rupee and receipt that enables IBCM to operate. He's the man who reports to Antony the cost for every chocolate, or biscuit, or book, right up to the rental costs of facilities for the children's and youth ministries. Thousands of rupees run through Moses's fingers each day as he works from early morning to late at night.

One of the ladies on our visiting team was a woman with a career in commerce. Caroline was more interested in looking at the books and accounting files than the rest of us. During our visit to the IBCM office earlier that afternoon, Caroline had a long chat with Moses. He was pleased and proud to open and show her the books. Caroline told me later, that in all her years in accounting, she'd never seen such exceptionally accurate bookkeeping.

As we finish our visit to the temple that evening I notice that Moses eyes hold a deep sadness. It bothers him that so many of his people either don’t know about Christ or reject His message. I think I also see traces of the pain in Moses that his family want nothing to do with him. I'm sure he misses them. I'm sure he prays for their salvation in Christ daily. Yet in his proud and sensitive face I see joy in the brotherly relationship he has with the rest of the IBCM staff. I also take joy that Moses is my brother in Christ. Moses has lost his earthly family, but Christ has replaced it with His own.

With a gentle Indian waggle to his head, Moses smiles. "Before when I was a Hindu, I was very rich. But I had no peace. Now I follow Jesus. I am poor in personal money, but I have great peace."

Luke 18:29 Jesus said, "Truly I say to you, there is no one who has left house or wife or brothers or parents or children, for the sake of the kingdom of God, who will not receive many times as much at this time and in the age to come, eternal life."

DARK STONES

We slip our sandals off outside the entrance to a Hindu temple in the city of Trichy. This particular temple doesn't compare in size to the gargantuan temples in Tanjore. But it's huge compared to the tiny, street-side shrines where miniature idols sit with a few candles burning at their feet, or flowers strewn at their base.

The stone floors feel cool to the soles of our feet. These stones have been smoothed to a patina by centuries of people walking over them. The walls and floors of this particular temple are a dull charcoal colored stonework, not the lighter sandstone of more elaborate temples. Intricate markings are engraved on the walls, a Hindu script we can't understand. Wide, round pillars hold up the roof that covers the outer area where Hindu devotees congregate. The day's fading sunlight doesn't penetrate into the corridors. The dark walls soak up the light, making everything dim.

In the outer area an elderly woman lies on the floor. This isn't strange. People sleep outside on the ground all over India. Then her strange position catches my attention. She's old. Has her family just left her here? At first I thought she had just raised her head from her almost fetal-like position to stare at us. Then we realize that her awkward and painful position--of holding up her head and shoulders---hasn't changed the entire time we've been viewing this outer room. Is this suffering of her painful position supposed to appease an inanimate god?

At the threshold of the inner temple we're stopped by a notice painted on the floor, "Only Hindus Past This Point." Without stepping on the threshold, we dart quick glances inside and move on. From deep inside, the flash of gold gleams in the midst of flames. But it happens so fast I have no idea what god I've just glimpsed in mystic splendor.

An incensed Hindu priest wearing only a cotton lungi that covers him from his waist to his ankles, and a stream of marigolds across his bare chest, rushes over to us. He's worried we'll enter into the place where his god sits. Moses, one of our guides, assures the agitated priest that we will not intrude.

As we stroll through the temple I'm struck again by the contradiction of what I've seen in so many movies. So often Hinduism is held up in North American media as such a joyful religion. Yet as I look around this temple--and others in the days to come---I'm not seeing any joy. The woman lying on the floor in a travesty of worship has no smile on her face. Her features writhe with pain. The Hindu priest is angry and resentful, and yet we have done nothing to insult him or his place of worship. There is no sound of laughing children. The children wait silently with their parents to walk into the temple. I can't help but compare this to the singing and riotous laughter I'd heard only the night before at the children's Bible Camp program.

Moses and a number of other India Bible Camp staff take us out to the sprawling grounds of the temple, to a large area surrounded by high stone walls. Our bare feet sink into deep, course sand. I expected to smell flowers or even incense in a Hindu temple. Instead I'm suddenly shrinking back from a rank stench.

Moses tells me that we are close to a spout where from inside the temple, ghee is poured out. Ghee, an expensive milk product like clarified butter, runs along a narrow canal inside the temple and out. Wealthy Hindus---even poor ones who sell all they have---sacrifice this expensive food product to the gods. Each year, for centuries, millions and millions of gallons are sacrificed. And for centuries the gritty sand along these temple walls has soaked up the smell of this ghee as it has soured.

This particular temple may be physically darker than others. But the only light I see is in the faces of the men who act as our guides---Pastor Antony Muthu, Pastor Hendry, Moses,and Thomas. Christians of Tamil Nadu.

THE MONSOONS ARE COMING

The doors of our air-conditioned vans swoosh open.

As if we're visiting dignitaries our 11 person team from Canada is delivered to a small, open-air church under a corrugated metal roof. A small mountain of kid-sized sandals sits close to a wooden beam holding up the roof. The constant honking of Indian traffic behind us is covered up by the pulsing sound of music. The voices of hundreds of children singing fills this tiny church in the center of the bustling city of Trichy, home to 1,139,000 people.

Not missing a beat in their up-tempo song, the children turn to watch the vistors come in. Their dark brown eyes grow round with excitement. Approximately 200 children sit on rugs, thick blankets, and bamboo matting on a floor of deep, clean sand.

We sit down to watch a camp follow-up program on couches specifically brought in for us. It's one of hundreds of follow-up programs going on in this district alone.

Tamil Nadu's evening air feels like warm silk. Our bare feet sink into the cool sand where the scattered rugs don't quite meet. Fluorescent lights hang from the ceiling so that the little girls's saris and churidars dazzle like an array of flowers. In contrast the boys wear mostly western clothes, short-sleeved shirts with shorts or long trousers. The children tuck their bare feet in as they sit cross-legged on the rugs. They sit so obediently, but like children from all over the world,every ounce of their nervous system strains to jump up and rush toward the visitors--to touch us--to make us their friend.

Our cheeks hurt with an exquisite pain smiling at the kids. We're only matching their wide grins for us.

The counselors--teenagers and youth in their early twenties, along with the pastor--run the program. The leaders and specially chosen kids from the congregation lead in the dance sequences. Each song, newly written by India Bible Camps each year, holds the children rapt. This year's scriptural theme, Victory Through Prayer is ingrained in each new song and deepens the children's understanding of faith in Christ.

My breath is taken away when children are brought onto the shallow stage to dance to various songs. The Indian style music, heavy with the beat of tom toms, and each willow-like hand gesture and foot movement holds traces of ancient India. In my spirit I feel the Lord's smile on this worship of Him so enriched with Indian culture.

At the end of the program the pastor instructs the children, "Stand up. Go to the visitors and tell them, 'Jesus loves you'."

Two hundred children rush toward our team with smiles and laughter. They grab our hands and each one tells us, "Jesus loves you. Jesus loves you."

With tears streaming down our faces we take each small hand, and say over and over and over to them, "Jesus loves you."

Can a person fall instantly in love with so many tiny faces at once?

As we leave and are about to get back into our waiting vans, the pastor beams with joy over the children.

He catches my hand before I can step into the van. "Pray for us. We cannot have church during the monsoon season. Heavy rains wash into the sand floor, making it dangerous with the electrical wiring. Pray for us, that God will provide the funds for a proper floor and roof."

Looking back on a sea of beautiful children's faces, I promise. "Yes, I'll pray."

If you're reading today, I hope you'll join me in that prayer for this pastor and his church in the city of Trichy, but also for the many other needs in so many other humble churches in India as well.

GOD STILL USES RAINBOWS--Guest Blogger, M.L. Tyndall

Do you ever wonder if God is hearing your prayers--after years of praying--for your kids who aren't walking with the Lord? I asked my friend and fellow writer, M.L. Tyndall to share her heartaches for her kids, and the way God encouraged her to never give up praying.

GOD STILL USES RAINBOWS By M.L. Tyndall

For all the promises of God in Him are Yes, and in Him Amen, to the glory of God through us.
2 Corinthians 1:20

One day last week, I was walking on a trail behind my house, deep in prayer. Every Monday I fast and pray for my prodigal children. I cry out to God for their salvation. I quote scriptures He has given me. I bind the enemy. I remind God of the promises He’s put on my heart for them. But on this particular day, instead of things getting better in their lives, their situations had become much worse, and I found my faith waning.

You see, over the past years, God had promised me through Scripture and through His inner voice that my kids will be in His Kingdom. But the years pass and things don’t get better and I start listening to the nagging voice of the enemy.

As I was walking along that day, I heard God’s inner voice again saying quite clearly to me, “Turn around”.

I did. And there stretched across the sky was a rainbow. Not just any rainbow. An entire rainbow from start to finish, enormous and beautiful. I froze, numbed by the sight.

Then I heard the Lord say to me “Like the promise I made Noah, my promise to you stands firm. Just believe.”

I started to shake. Tears filled my eyes and I would have dropped to the ground on my knees if there hadn’t been a mud puddle at my feet! I continued walking, but this time instead of pleading with God, I praised Him, singing and nearly dancing down the trail! When I turned around to head home, the rainbow was gone—vanished without a trace of its beauty. And I realized that God had to get me up on that hill for my walk at that precise minute, that precise second in order to see that rainbow and give me His message. He is so good!

No matter what you’re facing today: sickness, a prodigal child, lost loved one, financial problems, marriage problems, etc... remember God is willing and able to work all things out for your good. I encourage you to search His Scriptures for a promise that pertains to your need and then recite it, cling to it, and seek confirmation from God. Submit to Him.

And then believe!

-----

Oh thank you MaryLu for sharing such a beautiful encouragement from the Lord. The Lord has used the beauty of rainbows to lift my heart when it was broken too.

And rainbows aren't the only way God encourages us. He uses writers like MaryLu as well. I've just finished reading her latest book, The Raven Saint .

In The Raven Saint, between crying with laughter over the one-eyed cat, Spyglass, I found my favorite M.L. Tyndall hero--Captain Rafe Dubois, debonair and seemingly despicable. Maybe it was Rafe's savory French accent added to his dark, swashbuckling ways as he kidnaps Grace Westcott with the intent of selling her that did it for me. How often in a Christian novel, where ALL propriety is met, can you find a heroine literally carried away in such a romantic story? Not often. But in The Raven Saint you can.

As Grace and Rafe's tender love story grows, you taste the briny sea on your lips, feel the heat of the sun that dazzles like diamonds on a turquoise sea, feel the gentle breeze blowing through coconut palms, or experience a squall out on the open Caribbean. You feel Grace's despair as she fears Rafe will really sell her into slavery. And what does he do with all that money he steals? She soon senses he has a heart that cares deeply for the hurting and the poor, just like she does.

In my opinion M.L. Tyndall has surpassed herself with book 3 of the Charles Towne Belles series. Grace Westcott is a heroine that in my mature years--when I think I am so terribly wise--I can truly identify with. In book 2, I identified my early life with that of Grace's sister, Hope, relating Hope's experiences to how the Lord healed me when I'd failed so miserably, casting my wild oats. In The Raven Saint I see my current sins in Grace, a tendency to peachiness, a lack of true grace towards others, even though in many other ways Grace has great spiritual depth and is filled with God's Spirit. But no matter how far we've come the Lord has so much more to teach us, as Grace learns.

MaryLu teaches these deeply scriptural lessons within a delightfully light adventure.

I heartily recommend this book. It's fun, tender, romantic, exciting, and yet scripturally true. Bravo, MaryLu.

Here's the cover of The Raven Saint to help you find it in your local Christian book store or online.

INDIA--DAY 2-- Worst and Best Train Trip of My Life

Antony had a good plan. Take the Canadian team on a real Indian train for the 6 hour journey from Chennai to Trichy. No special compartments. No special treatment. We all eagerly agreed. Antony booked the seats for us, so we could all sit together, giving Antony a chance to share his burden for his country. And we could experience the real India on a mode of transportation that the majority of nationals use.

I think I was the most excited of all. A real Indian train, rumbling through verdant green rice paddies, banana plantations, coconut palm groves. After all, 2 of my missionary heroes, Amy Carmichael and Dr. Ida Skudder had at different times traveled on this very train system at the beginning of the last century.

Our team arrived at the station. Sure enough the train was on India time—45 minutes late. But this only added to the charm. We laughed and found seats on the platform, an overhang to shade us from the sun, and sat back to watch India stroll past. My eyes couldn’t get enough of the women’s exquisite saris in every shade of the rainbow, dotted with sequins or fake gems. Bangles tinkled on the little children’s ankles. Many men wore Western-style clothing—crisply tailored slacks and shirts. Still a number of men wore traditional South Indian clothing—a lungi—a sarong with a longish shirt overtop.

As much as we wanted to take in the beauty of the Indian culture, and tried not to stare impolitely, I found the children round-eyed with curiosity at the sight of us. Then the children’s large brown eyes crinkled with laughter. What funny people we must have looked to them.

At last the train arrived and we quickly bundled in. I kept my giggles to myself. Could this train possibly be one left over from when the British were asked to leave India in 1947? No. It couldn’t be. The windows didn’t have any glass, only steel bars to protect us. But with the peeling paint, the general grubbiness and lack of care, I allowed my imagination to take flight. Maybe Dr. Ida Skudder travelled on this very train.

Antony, and Jerald with speed and outstretched arms, shepherded us along the narrow aisles to our hard, upright seats. But there were other people sitting there—in our numbered seats that clearly matched the tickets Antony had purchased.

Our little flock of white folk stood around, letting Antony take care of everything. It was so nice to let someone else worry about the details. How I wish I would relax that way all the time with God. So often there is nothing I can do to change my circumstances. Yet I fret. Why can I not just do like I did in India, and let the Lord who knows better take complete charge?

Antony’s well-laid plan didn’t turn out quite the way he—or we—had expected. Our team was split up and sent to different sections of the train. Some of us had to perch uncomfortably on the end of a seat mostly taken up by others who stridently claimed it was theirs. Any discomfort of ours was minimal making us laugh. One of the well-dressed Indian ladies in the section where I sat showed her indignation by sticking her feet out on the floor so far, my team members had no place to put their feet. I watched the sweetness and patience on Cheryl’s face, Hilary’s kindness, and Judy and Caroline’s overtures of friendly conversation to the Indian ladies.

Judy with the Indian ladies.








On my side of the compartment I had the same problem—a man who also insisted on stretching his feet all the way out so that I had nowhere to put my own. I confess I’m not as sweet as Cheryl or Hilary. I shuffled my feet so that the man across from me got the message. I had to put my feet somewhere!

So often we get an idea of what God wants us to do. We lay out the plans. See schematics in our heads. And then the Lord allows those plans to be altered . . . to show us something He wants us to see.

At home in North America our people look for spirituality. They reject Christ but want a mystical experience, thinking they can find the spiritual truth they are looking for in Hinduism. Hollywood movies popularize that type of thinking. But I didn’t see God in the face of the average person on that train. The people in our section who didn’t allow us much space seemed to me just as self-absorbed as many North Americans. Just as self-absorbed . . . as me.

Antony wanted us to see the real India so we could share the burden he carries for his people. He planned well, but the Lord changed his plans, and blessed them better than we could imagine. The Lord allowed us to see the burden weighing heavily on His heart .

As the train swayed, sellers swaggered constantly up and down the narrow aisles. They carried their wares—chai tea, nuts, fruit—desperately trying to scratch a meagre living. A blind beggar in threadbare clothing, shook a few coins in his metal cup and slowly inched his way along the aisles. Outside various stations people crippled or exhausted lay in a heap of skin and bones on the cement platform. A great weariness cloaks these people, a hopeless acceptance of a bad fate.

These were the faces of people starving for God. And He is yearning for them to come to Him—-to know the difference between a hunk of stone and the true and living God. He doesn't want them to live with hopeless fate, but hope in Him and His son.
Matthew 11:28 And Jesus said, "Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest."

LIFT UP YOUR EYES

And there it is. The trip is over.

Twenty hours flying, not counting a layover in the Hong Kong airport, and I’ve left behind me that fascinating place, India, on the other side of the world in another hemisphere. A real place with real people, not just the fictional dream of my novel created out of research and history books.

Am I changed forever? Oh yes. Was it a God-ordained adventure? A hundred times, yes. But I’m home now and will try to share the experience with you over the next few months.

I knew it was a different world from all I’d ever known as soon as we disembarked the jet in the Chennai airport two weeks ago. Yet, I knew this land. I recognized it from all I’d read and written about. This warm, humid place with Hindu gods of multiple arms and legs set along the airport walkway was the same place our European and British forefathers had also set foot when they first disembarked from wooden sailing ships hundreds of years ago. India is a land of great natural wealth. Yet over all lies a layer of sooty grime and lack of maintenance.

But soon we were through the airport’s glass doors, no longer separated from the real India—her people—and best of all meeting the people of the India Bible Camp Ministry.

Outside the airport, at the same moment that I met Emery, Antony’s wife—-and Jerald who will come into this story often--I was also met by the deafening clamber of India’s traffic. It was almost 2 in the morning and still the horns of cars, buses, 3-wheeled auto rickshaws and motor scooters, bleated and blared like an unending squadron of honking geese. I lifted my nose to gather the scents and smells and laughed to myself. There was also a faint trace of tangy vegetation—perhaps from the nearby coconut palm trees—but that fragrance was covered up by the more invading stench of diesel exhaust from hundreds of vehicles roaring past. I stood there with a face-splitting grin. I couldn’t believe it. I was in India.

Before leaving home I’d asked my prayer supporters to pray that I would encounter God in India. The Lord answered that prayer as soon as I stepped out of the airport. However it took me a day or two to recognize His answer.

Antony the leader of IBCM had already left the airport with the first half of our 11 person team from Canada and was settling them in a hotel about a kilometre away. So the first person I met was his wife, Emery. The smile on her lips matched the honest friendliness in her laughing brown eyes. Though a stranger to her, she made me feel truly welcome.

And then I met Jerald. This 40-year-old Indian man has been with Antony and the IBCM team much longer than Emery. Jerald has known Antony since they were both children. But I’m saving Jerald’s fascinating and inspiring story for the book. All I’ll tell you now is that Jerald is a walking sermon on what being a follower of Jesus is all about.

Jerald, a married man with 2 young children, has the small slender frame of a teenage boy. He stands at about 5 feet, several inches shorter than me. He has the dark delicate features of people from Tamil Nadu and his deep brown eyes convey the wisdom of one who has experienced pain and deprivation. But his wide flashing smile shows that past pain has long been healed. Inside of Jerald beats one of the warmest hearts for Christ and for others that I have ever met.

Shortly after grasping my hand to shake it, Jerald whisked away my luggage and that of Hilary, Judy, as well as Greg and Oonaugh Wood to take our suitcases over the broken and uneven sidewalks to the waiting vans. Like Oonaugh says, Jerald moves with the quickness of a mosquito, but every movement is engineered to take care of or to help another person. He doesn’t drive a vehicle like our other helpers did. For the next 12 days I found myself under the gentle care of Jerald. Speaking in his rapid Tamil language and few English words, he became our personal shepherd. He watched each and every step we took, that we wouldn’t stub our toe, or trip on uneven ground or a stair as we got out of a vehicle. Jerald was always there with his arms outstretched to protect and guide us through crowds. Yet who were we to this small-framed man? What had we ever done to deserve such tender protection?

The second part of my prayer request, that I encounter the Lord in India, was that He change me to be the servant He wants me to be. Other than Christ giving up His life on the cross there is no better human example than that of my friend, Jerald. I need to pay careful attention to the memory of 12 days in his company. He doesn’t strive for a place of prominence in the team he works with. Others preach or sing. Others are responsible for adminstration. Others drive the team on their visits to the 15 districts of Tamil Nadu each and every month. But Jerald is happy in his role of simply taking care of other people, of giving of himself. And when our visiting team has gone back to Canada Jerald returns to his work of maintaining the IBCM offices and doing whatever task he is given to further the ministry.

That first night, with Jerald’s assistance I made it over the uneven sidewalks and potholes to the vans waiting to take us to our hotel. The litter and rubble along the side of the street became easy to ignore in the presence of such shining selflessness.

To see the beauty of India all I had to do was lift my gaze from the streets, to the sultry breeze moving the coconut palms and tamarind trees, then let my vision settle on the face of one of India's Christians.

Jerald’s face was the first place I encountered God in India.

Colossians 3: 1,2,3 "Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God."


Jerald and Justin, one of our awesome drivers, and myself, the first night in India.