Impressions from India
I scuff eastward on the gravel road near our home on the plains. In the slanting sunlight sunflowers nod at me. Their bright golden faces follow the sun through its westward course and will turn expectantly at sunrise. Antelope graze in a distant meadow, and occasionally a dog barks. Life is steady, serene.
Jetlagged, I feel sluggish, having returned with Larry from India two days ago. Our destination was a town east of Mumbai. We were to minister with Prabha and Mary, an Indian couple who church-plant, oversee a mobile clinic, and train Hindu women in sewing classes.
After settling into their home, Mary serves us a delicious meal. The following two mornings we teach biblical principles to their staff…then on the third day drive up hills clothed in bright green. The monsoon season is nearly over—small waterfalls splash from crevasses. Chugging up a rutted road to a small village, we pass clusters of families trekking to the pastor’s home for worship. We walk into the small tin roofed house. The pastor has emptied his living/bedroom—there are just mats on the floor, with two open windows in the mud-brick walls. Prabha, Larry, and I are given three plastic chairs to sit on regally. I protest--we could sit cross-legged on the floor…but Larry says he can’t manage that position for long!
Brown skinned brightly clad people fill the room…all seem curious, open. They listen attentively as our messages are interpreted and applied. Then they want prayer—all of them—and line up by families. Larry and I and the other leaders pray according to each requested need. For healing, spiritual growth, deliverance (some manifest as delivered), and salvation. I feel exhaustion, exhilaration! We are the fingers of Christ’s body, life pouring through us to a tribal group who are hungry for Jesus.
In the following days we share at another small church, and three sewing classes for Hindu ladies where Larry teaches on discipline of children. He answers questions as Prabha interprets for him. I am struck by the tenacity of these women, learning a trade to support themselves. Shining faces, bright saris and punjabis—they have trudged through drizzle to the enclosed porch off a muddy street, to sit on mats and listen. Many are articulate, asking meaningful questions. Sewing machines line the dingy walls—their steppingstones to a brighter future.
A truck passes me on the prairie road, trailing dust onto the shining daisies. “Lord,” I pray, “help me to be diligent where you’ve planted us. To learn, give, share seeds of truth here…as well as in India.
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