O Holy Night

O Holy Night
The stars are brightly shining
Orange, blue, pink, lime
Mariam and Yeshu
With all the angels adoring,
Radiant beams from thy holy face

The cattle are lowing
The poor baby wakes
What Child is this, who, laid to rest
Outside our gate is screaming

Plastic roasting on an open fire—and glass and paper and more plastic
Mosquitoes nipping at your nose

What grandmother is this, who, dropped and left
Inside our walls is seeking
The hopes and fears of all her years
To be met in someone
Anyone
O come, o come Emmanuel!

O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree
How wide and green your branches
How tall and bare your trunk is
You never change the whole year round
With coconuts you hit the ground
Nature’s purest water
Wassail!

What grandfather is this
Who mourns in lonely exile here
Until a son or daughter or wife or grandchild or friend or acquaintance or stranger or human
Appear
God rest ye, merry gentlemen
Sleep in heavenly peace

On a hot winter’s night that is so deep
A night not silent, a night not calm
No cribs for beds
The children can’t sleep
No cribs for beds
The aged, they weep


Yet in these dark streets shineth the everlasting light
They come and behold him
Joyful
And triumphant

O come all ye faithful!

For on the first noel
It was to those certain poor that the angels did say
Born is the king

Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel has come to thee

This, this is Christ the king
Who runs around joyfully with his brothers, barefoot on the hard dirt and cow dung
Who talks to herself and to God and is shunned for it
Who is rejected from his hometown
Who has no father but her God above
Who smiles with crooked teeth for the sake of others even amidst great suffering
Who has no possessions but a walking stick
Who loves the children
Who welcomes the foreigner
Who is persecuted by unjust economic systems
Who lights up the world with her infant smile who grabs you by the hand and leads you to the unknown who calls you a member of his family when there is no blood relation who trusts and accepts you no matter what your race gender class or creed who weeps at the death of a friend who is hungry and needs food who is thirsty and needs drink who is naked and needs clothing
The babe, the son of Mary

O Night Divine!

On A Lighter Note...Musings

-In Kerala, we drink hot water and shower in cold.

-There is a skeleton in my closet. No, really, in my classroom at the nursing school there is a full human skeleton in a cabinet.

-If I said “There is a skeleton in my closet” here, people would think there was a skeleton in the toilet, their use of the word “closet.”

-For Dad, the word “film” here is truly thought to be “filim,” so you have many millions backing you up.

-We are entering into the winter season here, and people are gearing up for it with sweatshirts and sweaters. For 70-75 degrees Fahrenheit.

-I am pretty sure I was proposed to the other day by one of the ammachees.

-I know my posterior was pinched by another ammachee.

-The Malayalam for “crow” is kaka. The other day a crow pooped on my hand. So, I had kaka kaka on me. To take it further, the word for “hand” is kai. I had kaka kaka on my kai.

-When water runs out here, it is a major problem. Wiping is fully a bidet system.

-I teach conversational English to the first year nursing students here. The only handout I have given them so far is the lyrics for What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Unfortunately, I entitled the song What a FRIED we have in Jesus on the handout. That is great for the supposed master of English. I will use it as a segue into talking about fried chicken and bananas.

-You know the roll the hoop with a stick game that you would think of for pioneer times or while visiting Conner Prairie? I played the other day at a boys’ home here with old, flat bicycle tires. Those boys were masters, going up and down hills without the tires collapsing in on themselves. This guy was not a master. I think I only managed to get 4 or 5 revolutions in before it toppled to the ground. Still, I never thought the hoop roll could be so much fun!

-We just completed a retreat at Thomas John’s house. We wake up and begin our evening relaxation to the sound of Muslim prayer being amplified throughout the surrounding neighborhood. It is hauntingly beautiful music.

-Sometimes before the evening prayer, there is wildly rhythmic percussion emanating out of a nearby Hindu temple. When it happens to coincide with the Muslim prayer, we get a veritable concert of true religious devotion.

-There is a pickled item at each meal, which has become my favorite part of dining here. Variations include: lemon pickle, lime pickle, garlic pickle, mango pickle, gooseberry pickle, puli pickle (a vegetable grown at Mandiram), and a new one as of today—banana pickle. Now these pickles don’t taste like our vinegar based cucumber pickles at home, but they follow the same concept of sourness with a mix of spices. They sound horrible, but I have grown to love them.

-We just got to try out the local fishing method, which consists of giant nets tied to an impressive wooden structure controlled by a pulley system of ropes and rock weights. We didn’t catch anything but the smiles of the onlookers as we yanked on the ropes. I’m okay with that.

-I live with over a hundred grandparents and 13 younger sisters.

-I am in India.

We YAVs joke around that sometimes we have to remind ourselves how novel and exciting our lives are here. Our way of putting it is, “Hey, remember that time we were in India?” It is so easy to get into the routine of life, yes even in India, and forget to truly notice the wonder that is life. We fail to see the joy, the strangeness, and the sheer funniness that God so intricately weaves in to keep us interested and on our toes. We were not made to be creatures of the mundane, but too often that is where we thrive. Rather, we were created by an indescribable, awesome God in a world whose perfect functioning is logically inconceivable and shaped in a global community of truly unique and exciting neighbors—of the human, flora, and fauna variety. Somehow with all of this going for us we still manage to miss the big picture and the small details that point directly to that big picture. Life is exhilarating!

I mean, holy cow! I am in India!

Wait a minute, I actually saw many holy cows today…

The Dalit Church

Every once in a while you have one of those experiences that simultaneously manages to knock you off of your feet with awe for God’s transcendent and ever-present love and to crush you with the realization of the vast brokenness in this world. This past weekend happened to be one.

After about two months of discovering and getting settled into our respective communities, the four YAVs—Cameron, Cynthia, Sarah, and myself—gathered for a retreat with Achen (Reverend) Thomas John and his wife Betty. It was great to get together and share stories, laughter, struggles, hugs, and Halloween candy in a language that we all understand (not just English, but a shared language of having taken a leap and embarked on this journey together). The purpose of the retreat, though, was much more intentional than that. Through discussions and direct interaction, we were there to learn about dalit realities in Kerala. I will not describe the caste system in India at length because I am by no means qualified, and that would take several libraries’ worth of writing. The important thing to know for this post is that dalits are those who are without caste altogether. In other words, they are so low in the social order that they are excluded from it altogether. In traditional Indian society, the dalits were basically agricultural slaves to those who had caste. In modern times, those who are able to find work period are usually very poor day laborers.

To continue the history lesson, in the 19th century dalits started to turn to Christianity, as it offered liberation from a religion entrenched in casteism that dictated their oppression. And truly Christianity should be such a liberating force. Jesus offered salvation and the perfect example of his life to all, but it was the poor and the outcast of society with whom he chose to spend his time. He bucked the social system radically and explicitly empowered the oppressed of his time. For some reason the church has drifted from this radical empowering stance, though, if indeed it ever had it right in the first place. Thus, the churches that were already in place, called Syrian churches (claiming connection to the Syrian church supposedly started by St. Thomas in the 50s AD and that were what we would see in most mainline protestant churches in the U.S.—ethnically homogeneous congregations of the upper middle class), rather than welcoming dalits into their congregations as fellow members of a family of Christians, set up separate churches with separate congregations. So, welcome to ‘Christianity,’ but not our family.

Now, I have seen many churches in Kerala that are quite the impressive structures. Money and time have been poured into these buildings in attempts to make houses of praise fitting for the greatness of the God being worshipped. I had not encountered the likes of the church we ambled up to on Friday, though. There was a humble building with old benches, a pulpit, and an altar for Sunday worship. I would describe the ‘church,’ however, more as the community outside of this building. Surrounding it were winding paths leading to the small homes of the congregants. I think they called it a church or mission compound, for the entire neighborhood around the building is part of the church. We walked these paths into one of the most beautiful communities I have ever encountered. We were welcomed into homes where we prayed and tried to chat with our limited language skills. We were followed around by an excited and fast-growing group of children. We were offered tea, snacks, and smiles. We would see many of the same people pop up in different houses, because they were all welcomed as family in each others’ homes. We were welcomed as family into their homes.

Then on Sunday came the true highlight of the retreat, worshipping as part of this community. We went to the church building mentioned above with only the knowledge that we were to sing a few songs and give a little speech about who we were and why we were in Kerala. We got special chairs in the front of the church since we were honored guests. To my great delight, my seat was right next to a group of kids ranging from 2 or 3 years old to 12 or 13. Rather than paying attention to the sermon given by Thomas John, which was surely great but in Malayalam, I paid attention to this group of kids, and they paid even more attention to me. We held a whispered conference throughout the service about my name, why I was white, who my favorite actor was, what car I wanted, etc. in mixed English-Malayalam-Manglish. Really, though, they just wanted to talk with somebody who represents a world reality so different from their own, to get my attention and be noticed. Let me tell you, they got far more than my attention, they got my fullest love. I needed their attention, their smiles, their innocence and candor surely much more than they needed me. They gave me so much, some knowingly—one gave me candy from a hidden stash, for it was his birthday, and another gave me an amazing portrait drawing of yours truly (my cheeks are not that big these days, though!)—but unknowingly they gave me the realization that the very act of paying attention to somebody can be an unfathomably huge ministry of love and empowerment. Needless to say, I have never felt so welcomed by a new community in my entire life as I did with this one. It truly felt like being welcomed by Jesus himself into his people. After a rousing rendition of Siyahamba and a short talk followed by loud applause from my new friends in the front pew, we had communion and walked out. It was very difficult to leave this place, firstly because we truly felt like part of the family now, and secondly because the kids would not let go of our hands.

These kids and their families have so little in this world, little money, little social status, little notice by others, but they have one of the most vivacious Christian communities I have ever seen, they have each other, and now they have us. I have always thought that Jesus sought after the oppressed because they needed him most, that he did so as a supreme act of charity. In truth, though, I would not be surprised if his real reason was that in such communities lay the true heart of the Kingdom. Of course they needed him, but perhaps he needed them just as much to be his church.

What It Means To Be

Scene 1: Krishnapanicker (Yes, that is his name), one and the same winner of the aforementioned smiling contest, is sitting on the porch of the appachens’(grandpas for those of you joining in on this post) home—short, bare-chested, barefoot, and hairy. As per our custom he says, “Hello!” and dazzles me with that amazing grin. That is the extent of his English, but why the heck does he need more? I amble up to him and sit down, having with me by happenstance the little travel journal so graciously given by PFOJAT (Thanks again!). I spit out a little of the Malayalam I have learned, asking him how he is and then pointing at various objects whose vocabulary I have learned: Chair! Window! Ground! Crow! Eyebrow! After this little exercise, I decide just to sit there and gaze at the little garden and birds. I idly start flipping through my journal. Watching me the whole time, this wonderful old man reaches for my journal and opens it. A lot of the people here know the English alphabet, so I start saying the letters that we see. He doesn’t seem to go for this. Instead, he finds a very poorly drawn map of India that I had done during some note-taking for orientation. He goes through the surrounding seas and oceans, parts of Kerala, and important cities of India, trying to teach me his home. Then he takes my pen, finds a random page, and in big, shaky writing, scratches out the word ‘Malayalam’ using the Malayalam alphabet. He says the word to me, disarms me with the smile again, and we part.

As I said, he needs nothing of the English language besides his “Hello!” I am the one who has to learn language and culture. Knowing this, he becomes my teacher.


Scene 2: I am wandering around and decide to step into a room in one of the ammachee (grandma) buildings that I have not spent much time in. I can’t verify it, but I think this room is for the youngest ammachees. They definitely strike me as younger than the rest. Anyways, as I walk in, they are all lying on their beds as though napping, so I quietly turn around to leave. Immediately they all pop up and beckon for me to stay. They all pat their beds for me to sit down, so I sit on the only empty bed, choosing not to choose between them. We start out with a new and favored game in which I read or try to read their name tags and learn names. If I get it right, it is cause for great celebration. If I screw it up, it is a cause for great hilarity. After this, we exhaust the topic of my family. My family is a very popular topic, perhaps because many of them have lost or been abandoned by their families. So, don’t be surprised if many South Indians know your names, ages, and professions, guys! (There is of course so much more to share about my family and that I hope to share, but our limited Malayalam/English stops us there). Finally, we turn to food. We can never go wrong with food, because they are so amused by my eating, and the cook is making sure that I know the names of the different foods. So they start shouting out different foods and asking if I like them. Dosha? Chore (rice)? Fish? Beef? Upamawa? Parotta? Egg curry? Sanbar? Upon my expressed dislike of sanbar, a very common item consisting of watery stew, curry spices, and soggy vegetables, they all contort their faces in agreement. The whole room is delighted that we share this aversion to one of the staple foods. I exit with all of our faces lit up happily.

Sometimes I feel isolated by language, culture, my ignorance of both (though I am learning!), and homesickness. Don’t worry, I am very happy here, but feelings of isolation are inevitable every once in a while. These ladies show me that they also miss their families, and they can dislike some of the food, too. We have much in common. People are people everywhere. They are my teachers.


Scene 3: I go up to the hospital to visit patients with the hospital chaplain on a Thursday. Now, Thursday happens to be the day he climbs the hill to the psychiatric ward. I am a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect. We go to several different rooms, all inhabited by one patient and at least one family member. It is incredible to see the care and longing for healing given by these family members. The patient we visit first, a lady in her thirties, follows us into the next room to pray with us for the woman suffering from depression and paranoia. This second woman’s husband is very jolly and welcomes us heartily. We make our way to an older mother with her adult daughter. Upon seeing us, the daughter sits down in the corner, turns away, and refuses to talk to us. During prayer, the mother starts crying and kisses our hands in thanksgiving. We finally end up in a bigger room with several beds and several patients. It turns out that this is the “poor room,” for those who can’t pay for treatment but thankfully get it anyways. Without an insurance plan, and without going into incredible debt for being there. What a concept! Anyways, this group of people is elated to see us. One man is lying in his bed and doesn’t notice us, so the others arouse him in order to ensure that he won’t miss out. They don’t have family members with them, so they become family members. One man comes up to me and asks me to compare America to Kerala. “Which one is more beautiful? What is your name? Why are you here? Will you come back tomorrow? I like you very much.” At some point in the clamor of this room, the jolly husband mentioned before hears the joyous uproar, wanders in and starts visiting the patients with us. We close in a big circle of prayers and ‘praise the Lord’s.

I am learning much about the brokenness of the world, about social injustice, poverty, and illness. They show me that resilience lies in love. They are my teachers.



These past several weeks I have been preoccupied with that awful question, “What exactly am I going to do here?” With much anxiety I came up with quite the list. I will be serving meals to the residents, taking some part in daily chapel or Sunday worship services, teaching communicative English to first year nursing students, visiting hospital patients with the chaplain, taking Malayalam ‘classes’, doing documentation work for the Kerala Council of Churches, giving a lecture or two at a local gender and culture studies program, doing some manual labor, doing some kind of tutoring with Balika Mandiram (the girls’ home), leading an English Bible study, and eventually exercising with the appachens. No worries, several of these ‘duties’ are only one or two hours a week, if that, so I am not going to be overwhelmed by any means. As you can see, though, even I, who consider myself to be laid back and happy in just existing and going with the flow, cannot easily escape the western mindset of DO DO DO! When I take the time to actually reflect on my time here, though, I remember best and rejoice most in the smile of Krishnapanicker, the delight of the ammachees on discovering commonalities, the prayer circle at the psychiatric ward, the loud gurgling of Manna, the eight-month old, during austere moments in worship. These are the times when I just be. I am absolutely happy to do the things mentioned above, for they are fun, productive, to my strengths, and will have positive gain for me and the institution. It is in the times of being, though, that I see with greatest clarity God’s presence in this world and all of its people. And that is what I need to experience most. So, please pray that I don’t ever lose sight of being for the sake of doing. I will pray the same for you.

Let the Games Begin!

Let it be known that I am a tall guy. Also let it be known that although not unheard of, my size is not typical for India. After being here for three weeks, I am no stranger to having to sit in the front seat of small cars, ducking into shops and then remaining hunched under the merchandise hanging from the ceilings, and hanging my feet over the end of the bed. These are all occurrences I have experienced elsewhere, including the states. Today marked a brand new ballgame, though. Mandiram celebrates its founding annually with a weeklong convention (which is kicked off by a weekend of games for the residents—I will get there later), consisting of a large revival-like religious service every evening for a couple of hours. Now, a lot of people from the community come to these events, which is great. Unfortunately for me, in order to accommodate the added people, more pews are added and then shoved closer together. I went in to sit with the cook, found a reasonably comfortable spot, and got settled in. As more and more people started coming in, though, I was ushered forward to the pew of my nightmares. Imagine the pew in the back right corner of First Presbyterian Church, Shelbyville, that the Orem clan unwittingly chooses much too often, in which Dad, Josh, and I all have to decide between sitting completely sideways or legs spread wide open (adding width while subtracting length of leg room), with knees being slammed into and ultimately branded by the hymnal holder or communion cup holder. Now cut two-thirds of that space out of it. I actually could not stand up straight in this area because my pew held my calves at one angle and the pew in front of me my quads in a different position. Indeed, there was not enough room between the legs of the pews for my foot to lay flat. There was a packed house and a very distinguished panel of white-robed clergy on stage looking over us, there was no movement that would go unnoticed. Luckily, with much concentration I was able to squirm enough through the service and keep up circulation without having to resort to my backup plan of jumping up and shouting as though overcome by the Spirit. In retrospect, that backup plan probably would have only resulted in slamming my legs into contortions and falling back down. Ironically, it turns out that the sermon of the night was about taking pain as a gift from God and using the experience to help others.

This little scene has the makings of a possible metaphor for my time here. For obvious reasons—whiteness, height, utter lack of language skills, inability to eat comparably huge amounts of rice—I do not and will not perfectly fit in here. It will be a constant struggle, with much squirming, to keep my energy and passion circulating. And I will probably come up with lame excuses to get out of tough spots or challenges, much like my sad backup plan (Hopefully I will actually feel the Spirit, though. That would be wonderful!). Don’t get me wrong, I love it here and know I will experience lots of joy on a daily basis, but I doubt I will ever be fully comfortable. Truly I hope that I do not become fully comfortable, because the discomfort and pain is what forces me to look to God in humility and ask for help, something I need to learn oh so very much. Then I can take the experience and share it with others who need to hear about it, because perhaps it can help them through their pain.

Anyways, back to the joyous part. The week was kicked off by a weekend of fun for the residents and surrounding community. Opening day consisted of competitions for the residents. Events included: solo singing, Bible reading, elocution, group singing, flip through the Bible fastest, lime on a spoon races, lit candle races, draw the tail on the elephant, and best of all, SMILE COMPETITION! Line up in front of the judges, including myself, and smile without showing your teeth. It was glorious. The ammachees and appachens really got into all of the events, and it was great to see the vigor still in them as they belted out songs and ran, walked, and trudged across the dining hall with limes on their spoons. The next day was community singing and elocution competition day. Thankfully I got to take part in the youngest bracket. These kids were hilarious and courageous. Some walked up and sang very well. Some walked up, forgot why they were there, and just stood behind the mic staring. Some even sang English, causing the whole audience to stare at me, hoping for some exciting reaction. Please note that Lord I Lift Your Name on High has made it to India.

Next on the horizon is a retreat with my fellow YAVs this coming week and then decision time on what exactly my role here will be. Here are some pictures to hold you over until next time (If I can get it to work. If not, use your imagination).

Peace and love,

Tyler

Mandiram

After a week of eating mountains of rice, riding elephants, studying the Bible in new perspective, getting over jet lag (I much more slowly than the others), shopping for local clothing, learning Kerala’s history, politics, and customs, eating more rice, hoping for sloth bears, dodging cars and buses, watching a parade, partaking in an Onam feast on a banana leaf, experiencing bananas in many colors and sizes, eating more rice, singing as a quartet in front of a no-English church, and acclimating to the beautiful landscape and amazing people surrounding us on all sides with my fellow YAVs and Thomas John Achen, I traveled roughly two hours from our original home in Aluva to my final destination—Mundakapadam Mandirams, about 4 km from the city of Kottayam.

I came to this community with only the knowledge that it takes care of the destitute elderly, runs an orphanage for girls, and operates a hospital. My imagination took me to a sterile compound, a hybrid of American-style nursing home fully equipped with the accompanying smells and a M*A*S*H-style tent hospital. Don’t ask me where it came from, but that’s what my image was. Man was I mistaken, and thank goodness! In Malayalam, the language of Kerala that I am going to need to learn very quickly, Mandiram means home. For me, home connotes, indeed mandates, the presence of family. Truly that seems the best way to characterize this place—one giant family. There are the grandmas (ammachees) and grandpas (appachens), the majority of the population here, and a lively and inspirational bunch to boot. At the risk of over-generalizing, think of Ma and Pa Kettle, but in India and quite a bit older. Then there are the parental figures—the administrators, wardens, doctors, nurses, cook, and groundskeeper. These people amaze me with their selfless love for every person here and their skills in making everything run smoothly. Finally, there are the children. The girls of the orphanage range in age from 8 months to high school. I fit in this category as well, as I am the baby just opening my eyes to the new world around me and trying out my first sounds of the language (I think it is actually a joke amongst the staff that I am a baby, and they have to babysit me). There are so many parents and grandparents here to love us! So, as a family, they all eat together, worship together, work together, fight with each other, laugh with each other, and the separate groups even sleep in barrack-like rooms together. Thus the fighting with each other.

A steep climb up the hill will bring you to the hospital, which cares for the surrounding towns along with every resident. Mandirams also reaches into the wider community with a child sponsorship program aimed at getting poor children through school and developing their leadership skills through seminars here, as well as with involvement in an alcohol abuse clinic. Finally, Mandirams is very active in the faith community. It is a truly ecumenical organization, with leadership from the Church of South India, Mar Thoma, and Jacobite Orthodoxy. Throughout the week there are worship services led by these organizations as well as by local musicians and Pentecostal evangelists. This diversity of Christianity, coupled with the tangible feeling of familial love, keeps faith and spirituality vibrant and active. Indeed, Jesus is at the very center of all that takes place here—loving one’s neighbor, loving God with heart, soul, and mind, and in the most direct sense taking care of the poor, widows, and orphans.

I have not yet decided exactly what my role will be here. There are so many wonderful options to take part in, and there is the larger community around me that still needs to be explored. For right now, though, my days are full and content with pure existence, just being here with the family—serving as the butt of the joke while the ammachees try to teach me the Malayalam for everything in sight and then roll over laughing at my pronunciation, watching serials that surely give The Young and the Restless a run for its money, as well as cricket, with the appachens, being in constant awe of how much food these grandparents can put away (reciprocated by everyone’s amusement at how little I am able to eat in comparison), chatting with the few English speakers, singing, laughing, and learning with the staff. I know that there will be bumps along the way, that I will come up against challenges too big for me, get homesick, witness the fruits of social injustice, experience loss, encounter continual instances of culture shock, doubt, and question my beliefs. I am ready for it, though, because even if it wouldn’t pass all of the board of health regulations for sanitation and sterility in the U.S. and Korean Police Action front, it is so full of life and love! (Also, along with all of you fellow YAVs out there, I know a few fingerholds if all else fails)

Arrival

I am here. I am in awe. Pray for our group this week as we learn about Kerala and head off to our respective sites.

Mad Love