How Can There Be Too Many Children?

Friday was a good day, rich with love and emotion. It didn't start out that way. I went into the office with an overwhelming amount of work to do. Stories that needed to be done, and an office newsletter that needed to get out. When asked the day before if I could go to one of the aftercare homes with some of the staff on Friday, I reluctantly declined so I could get work done. Needless to say, at the last minute on Friday afternoon, I changed my mind and decided to go with the team... work will always be there and could wait.

The six of us left the office around 2pm and made our way to the home, arriving 45 minutes later. This home was in a Muslim part of town, bustling with people going about their daily lives. We pulled up to the home, right in the middle of the busyness, walked by a couple of goats and were greeted by the sweetest elderly man who was the guard at the gate. It was amazing how one could step off the busy streets into a peaceful oasis, or what seemed like one for this city. The front office is in somewhat of a courtyard, with vines growing up the walls, beautiful potted plants and a rustic white door with cracks in it that led into the main area of the home. Girls started coming to this door, shyly peeking in with smiles on their faces to see who was here. It was like this door was the door to the outside world; a world that used to hold tragedy and abuse for them. A world they used to have to face on their own. Now they were safe; now they weren't alone. Somebody cared.

After waiting several minutes we were ushered into the main office and met several of the women who worked at the home. Five of our rescued girls live here so our social workers already have relationships with these women who were the caretakers. The main purpose of our visit was to celebrate the birthday of one of our rescued girl's new little baby girl. She was going to be one year old. But first, some of the ladies took us into the main courtyard and we proceeded to get a tour of the entire home, since some of us were there for the first time. This I will never forget.

Two of our rescued girls immediately came to greet us. It was my first time meeting them. They were beautiful and glowing… that is not an overstatement. They stayed with us the rest of the day, practicing their English and showing us around. We saw where the girls ate, where they had their schooling, where they slept, where they played. There were rooms for training in everything: sewing, cooking, beautician, computers, etc. They were proud of what they were learning. With 350 children and young women at this home of all ages, there was a lot to see. Then we came to my favorite part: the baby rooms.

We walked up the stairs and were first ushered into the newborn baby room. With rows of little beds, they were each wrapped up tightly in blankets, with their tiny little heads popping out. One of them was only seven days old. We didn’t know where their parents were; some of them were abandoned, some of them unwanted and some of them had moms that lived at the home. There is something about the sight of a newborn baby that makes you want to cry and laugh all at the same time. It’s funny how you can have the deepest love for a baby, even when you first lay eyes on him or her.

We didn’t get to hold the newborns but were then taken to the next room where the 6 month to 1 year olds were. These babies we got to hold! I have never seen such smiley babies in my life. The little girl I held would not stop laughing and smiling. So much so, that it really made me wonder… how often do these babies get loved? With so many children at the home, the staff cannot possible give attention to everyone all the time. As we met more and more children, the desperation for love and affection became more and more evident to us. The desire to be loved was overwhelming. It broke our hearts.

Then we moved on to the toddler room. As soon as we set foot in the door, several dozen of these little ones ran to us, with huge smiles on their faces, clinging to our legs and reaching to be picked up. They wanted to be held, to be played with. The first little boy that reached out to me was mentally and physically handicapped. He couldn’t use his legs and used his hands to make his way towards me, smiling and reaching up to me. He was rather large to be picked up, but I did anyway. Then we sat and played for a few minutes. It almost wasn’t real. I couldn’t fathom their lives. How can these little ones not have a mommy or daddy to love them? We know that orphans exist, but when you hold one in your arms, so desperate for love, it strikes you in the deepest place that you almost forgot existed.

Unfortunately we only had a short time in each room. We made our way back downstairs to sit with the older girls. They brought the cake out for the birthday and we sang and ate, everyone huddled on the floor in little circles, chatting and giggling. It was surreal being there.

When our time came to leave, we walked out the same rustic door we had walked in through, entering back into the outside world. The feeling was bittersweet. Physical needs were being met in this place… but who would love these children, kiss them, tickle them, give them piggy back rides? Who would hold them?

We made a decision that this would not be our last visit to this home. The fight for justice in this world is not only about rescuing victims from slavery. It’s about holding a baby, holding a child. Even if just for a few moments, those are a few moments that they know someone cares, someone loves them.

Mother Theresa says it best:

“How can there be too many children? That is like saying there are too many flowers.”

(as much as I would like to post pictures, for the safety and confidentiality of the women and children, we cannot show any)

Walle the Gecko

This is our creature friend who lived in our bathroom for a few days.
I named him Walle. He just looked like a Walle. He's a gecko.
I was showering one night and he fell into the bathroom, out of nowhere. Or maybe from our open window.
I was soaping up my hair and there he was, watching me shower, his two little eyes popping out.
I kept waiting for him to get up on his hind legs and ask me if I wanted to save 15% or more on my car insurance. Okay maybe not.
Anyway, I let him sit and watch me shower. Then I tried to set him free.
My efforts were futile and in my last effort I accidentally dropped him into our squatty potty.

I again tried to get him out and then he fell into the water part of the squatty potty.
I left him there, and he lived there for two days. Or maybe I should say he was stuck there for two days.
I used the other toilet. Mostly.
My last ditch effort to try to get him out failed.
So I flushed him.
I was really saving his life, because he would have died just sitting there in the toilet.
Now Walle is floating along somewhere in the makeshift sewage systems of this massive city.
Maybe we shall meet again in the future.

The man outside my building

There's a man that lives outside my building.
Or maybe he lives in the makeshift house outside my building.
He has no legs.
I've lived here for four months and never saw him.
Until last week.
He sits on the side of the road and "walks" with his hands.
He just sits there.
He doesn't beg.
He just passes by and one cannot help but notice.
I almost cannot look at him.
I don't want to deal with how it makes me feel.
That's how selfish I am.
It hurts.
What do I do?
Does anyone take care of him?
I should.


There's a man that lives outside my building.
He has no legs. 

The Remedy

One of the things I love to do in this country, or in any country for that matter, is to sit and people watch, while listening to my ipod. Usually the songs that are playing in these instances are songs about life... and God. I like to imagine what people’s lives are like. What hardships they face, what joys they just experienced. What they long for. It is particularly fun to do in an airport. However, here in the city, while sitting in crazy traffic, I kill time by turning my ipod on. And then I just watch. This happened a few days ago, as I sat in traffic on my way home. It almost brought me to tears.

Traveling by rickshaw, you see a lot of things. In fact, every time you stop, you get beggars that come up to your rick, reaching in asking for money. Sometimes they leave after you say no, more often than not, they will persist. Sometimes they are in rags, sometimes they don’t even look like beggars. Sometimes they are naked little children, sometimes it is a man with one leg. Sometimes they reach in and touch you, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes you know it is a man, and sometimes you know it is man dressed in a sari and lipstick.  And then of course, you see the hundreds of people walking by. Sometimes you will see a bunch of boys playing a game of cricket on the side of the highway. Sometimes you will see a taxi driver stopping to pee, or a child squatting and pooping.

On this particular night, the words from a book I just read, portraying the character of God, came to my mind.

“Michelle, I am particularly fond of him.”

“And that woman, she is one of my favorites, I am particularly fond of her.”

“See that man, he’s lost, but I am quite fond of him too.”

The people just kept passing by. A man selling something on the side of the road. Dozens of men walking home from work. Who knows where their final destination is. Maybe a slum. Maybe a nice flat. Who knows how much money they made that day. What religion are they? Probably Hindu. Maybe Muslim. Maybe they’ve never heard the name Jesus. Maybe they have, and rejected him. The words of the song started playing in my ears…

“Here we are.

Here we are.

The broken and used, mistreated abused.

Here we are.”

Maybe he is on his way to a brothel. Maybe that woman sells herself every night to feed the rest of the family. Maybe he’s a good father, trying his best to make ends meet. The scenarios kept going and going. The words to the song kept coming…

“Here you are.

Here you are.

The beautiful one, who came like a son.

Here you are.”

Later at night some streets are lined with people sleeping on the side of the road, wrapped up in a raggedy blanket or sheet. Some families live under the highway in makeshift tents. The words kept ringing…

“So we lift up our voices and open our hands.

To cling to a love that we can’t comprehend.

Lift up your voices and lift up your hands.

To sing of a love that has freed us from sin.”

At one section of the road there are little alters with Hindu gods set up with incense and candles and sometimes music playing…

“He is the one who has saved us.

He is the one who embraced us.

He’s the one who has come and is coming again.

He’s the remedy.”

The main road to our house is lined with rickshaws and taxis. They are parked for the night. Often the rickshaw drivers sleep in the back of the ricks. A days work done. How much did they make today? A few hundred rupees? Do they have families? How many mouths to feed? I wonder what they spend their money on. Food? Chewing tobacco? Clothes? Why did I just argue with my rick driver for that one extra rupee back he owed me? Did I really need my two cents back? And the words played…

“Here we are.

Here we are.

Bandaged and bruised.

Awaiting a cure.

Here we are.

Here you are.

Here you are.

Our beautiful King.

Bringing relief.

Here you are. With us.”

These people. These people I see on the streets, sleeping, working, driving, pooping, living… they are all created in the image of God. God didn’t just die for me, he died for them. They have giftings, they have talents, they have dreams…

“So we lift up our voices and open our hands.

Let go of the things that have kept us from Him.

Oh I can’t comprehend, can’t take it all in.

Never understand such perfect love.”

Perfect love. God knows their pain, he sees their abuse. And he hurts when they hurt... when we hurt. He’s constantly whispering their name, reminding them that he is there. Maybe they would hear. Maybe not. In the midst of our brokenness, our dirtiness, literally, our filth, He is there. Though the world would like to argue otherwise. 

Seeing these scenarios everyday makes it become nothing unusual, in fact quite ordinary. This is life in this city. It’s not shocking anymore. This is the way it is. But when you sit back, and think, and realize, it’s enough to make you cry. How lost is this world. How lost is this city. It’s a lot to grapple with. It’s overwhelming to think about.

“Come for the broken and beat, for the wounded and weak.

Come fall at his feet, he’s the remedy. He’s the remedy.”

He’s the remedy. He’s the remedy. I have to remind myself of that every day.  But I believe it with all my heart.

Thoughts on "The Shack"

After many weeks of procrastination, I finally accomplished a great feat: I finished reading the book “The Shack.” I must say, I did NOT want to read the book, though I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s an inner subconscious rebellion that I have; because it was so popular and everyone was reading it, I refused to. Nevertheless, thanks to my new friend Danielle (an amazing “Aussie,” pronounced "aw-zee" I've been corrected, who lived with me for six weeks), I was finally convinced and coerced into reading it. I thought I might as well read it and see what all the fuss was about. Since I have a horrible habit of starting four or five books at one time, it sometimes takes me awhile to finish a book, but I did it. I must say, the first few chapters were quite intriguing, and sad. I found myself wanting to know what happened next (though I didn’t want to admit it). And then of course you get into the actual “shack” part which kind of turns your perspectives upside down.

SO… what are my conclusions:

1. First I want to say that I realize there is much controversy about this book. Believe me, I’ve read articles for and against the book and it’s quite intriguing to me. My opinion? I don’t agree with everything in the book. But I do think there are some good spiritual truths we can take away and learn from. God certainly spoke to me through the book. It’s a story, NOT the word of God. As long as we remember that and compare everything WITH the word of God, I think we’ll be okay.

B.      2.  The whole “God as a big black woman” thing. Well honestly, I STILL don’t know what to think about that. I’ve been wrestling with it over and over in my head. I don’t know if I’ll ever come to a conclusion about it. Maybe I don’t have to. On the one hand, I have always “seen” God as a father. In scripture he is always referred to as God the Father… as a “he.” Jesus refers to him as God the Father. I didn’t have a true father growing up; therefore, God is my father and that is the most precious and comforting thing to me about God. But on the other hand, God is the “I AM.” Who am I to say what he is and what he isn’t? Yes, it was difficult for me to read the book with God’s character being a woman. Is it a wrong characterization? I don’t know. My final conclusion is that I’m okay with not knowing. Despite the characterization, I did glean some spiritual lessons from the character of “papa.” Maybe that’s all that matters.

       3. This book really helped me get a firmer grasp on the concept of the trinity. The trinity is and probably always will be something that man will never fully comprehend. But having characters for all three really helped. The author did a fantastic job of showing them as three yet one. Jesus was shown as a “real” person, someone who has experienced the human hurt and pain that we experience. Also someone who just wants to be with us; who just wants to know us and be known by us. Who wants to lie in the grass and gaze at the stars with us. Who wants to walk on the water with us. And then there’s Sarayu, the Holy Spirit. What a comforting mystery. The ever present spirit of God, who leads and guides us. It still makes my head spin, but I kind of like that. I like that I cannot understand some of the mysteries of God, but just have to trust him.

D.      4. This book challenged my legalistic, judgmental self. And I am the queen of it; it’s my downfall, my weakness. It challenged the way I look at other people. When Mack was asked to be the judge, I knew that was me. I often judge people for the sheer reason of making me feel better about myself, not because I sincerely care about their eternal destiny. And by judging other people, by giving my own opinions about how I think God should deal with them, I’m in turn judging God. I’m telling God what punishments their sins deserve, as if my sin is any less.

E.      5. Amazing quote:

“Rights are where survivors go, so that they won’t have to work out relationships.”

Man is that me sometimes.

F.       6. Despite my efforts not to get emotional in this book, I did. I thought I had made it all the way through without crying, and then came the chapter towards the end about Mack and his earthly father.  There is a scene of forgiveness and to some extent, reconciliation. I don’t have to expound except to say that I related to Mack. I know the feeling of freedom that comes when a burden like that is lifted from you. Or better yet, a burden that you finally let go of.

G.     7.  I really do have a religious spirit! (no, that’s not a good thing). Yes, I claim not to be, I claim that I have a “relationship” not a “religion,” but there is so much residue of legalism in me. Things that are different than what I’M used to, I don’t like. Deep down I like institutions, I like certainty, I like predictability. God is big, he can work in ways I can never imagine; if only I’d take him out of my “this is how it should be” box.

WARNING: I realize this argument can be taken to an extreme in which I do not intend. I too often see people stretching or twisting the word of God because they are trying so hard not to be legalistic. We can sometimes justify things, saying that others are being too legalistic. But it’s simple: I love God, I’m saved by grace, and as a result, I live in freedom by obeying him.

H.     8. Overall, I think this book made me want to know God more, want to know Jesus more, want to listen to the holy spirit every moment of every day. I wand to KNOW my God. Not just confess that he is my Lord. Not just live by the law, by the rules. Not just do what he tells us to do, like a robot. But continue to have a living, thriving relationship, and the rest will follow. This book certainly challenged the mental paradigm that I had God in.

I.        9. Criticism: My overall main concern of this book would be that as I kept reading, page by page, chapter by chapter, I found myself clinging to every word that the characters said. I was so engrossed in the story that I easily found myself taking every word that “papa” spoke, every word that Jesus spoke, every word that Sarayu spoke, as truth. Because in my head, if Jesus is saying it, it must be true, right? I had to constantly remind myself to make sure I thought about and challenged everything that I was reading. And like I said earlier, to line it up with God’s word. Though there were many spiritual truths in this book, just because a man’s made up portrayal of God is speaking it, does not mean its true. That would be my warning to readers. Like with anything we absorb and take in, let’s make sure we’re looking at it with a bibilical worldview.

      So there it is. I could probably go on and on about thoughts, ideas, criticisms about the book, but I won’t. I didn’t even touch on some of the many great quotes I came across; which I could analyze and think about and discuss for hours probably. Maybe you agree with me, maybe you don’t. Bottom line, God can speak to us any way he wants, including a book called “The Shack.” Let’s take the truths we can glean, and let the rest fall to the ground.

      Remember: He is “especially fond of us.”

      Michelle

Is This My Life?

Thought I'd post my most recent "newsletter"...

It has recently become a common occurrence for me to find myself often sitting back and thinking, “Is this really my life?” As I walk to work in the morning, past the massive piles of garbage and human excrement with rickshaws and taxis whirling past me, I cannot help but wonder what the day holds. Some moments are still surreal to me as I remind myself how privileged I am to be on the front lines of fighting injustice.

Work begins promptly every day at 9:00 AM with communal devotion and prayer. “Any updates from yesterday or prayer requests?” our director will always ask. Usually the list grows as several staff members present their news and requests. Bail was denied yesterday to four perpetrators and therefore they will remain in jail throughout their trial. Today one of our victims will be testifying in court. Tonight some of our operatives will be investigating a brothel. This week we are working on some structural changes in one of the aftercare homes. The list could go on and on. We fervently present our requests to God and move on into a half hour of personal stillness time. I clear my mind and gain spiritual strength as I get ready to begin the day’s work.

As the communications intern my tasks are various, with much focus on writing stories. The stories remind us of why we do what we do. When discouragement comes, and it usually comes daily, we can look at the victories we have won. That is what pushes us forward. Before I arrived here, I had heard stories of girls who were victims of sex trafficking. But after I arrived and began to sort through files and files of documents, I never could have imagined the details I read about. From home inquiry and police reports to victim statements and photos, the details began to come together and form in my head. Oftentimes, the stories are not complete. Maybe the perpetrator still has not received just punishment. Maybe the victim now has to live with HIV/AIDS, or she is still facing severe emotional problems from the trauma. There is never a fairy tale ending. But there is one thing the stories never lack: hope. No matter where the stories begin or end, love, justice and hope are always interwoven throughout them. The victim no longer has to suffer brutal abuse in a brothel. She will no longer be raped by strange men countless times a day. Futures begin to change as opportunities for an education and vocation are now available to our girls. There are always victories, large or small, that must be celebrated.

The day usually wraps up around 6:00 PM, oftentimes later. Our work must be continued in the morning. I take a back way home, as it is quieter. I walk past the neighborhood boys playing a game of soccer or cricket and the women in their saris and tennis shoes doing their daily power walk. There is never a lack of things to observe as I reflect on the past day. Correspondence with home or a run at the neighborhood gym are often nightly things that keep me going. “Auntie,” a Hindu woman in our neighborhood, cooks us traditional food for dinner most weeknights. My American taste buds are getting used to the delicious spices abounding in all the food, with some that occasionally make ones eyes water.

Sleep is usually much anticipated after long days. As I doze off, I can still hear the plethora of sounds in the neighborhood through my open window. “Is this really my life God? This crazy, amazing life in a foreign land?” I can hear the faint sound of chanting and prayer music coming from the Muslim mosques in the early hours of the morning. Worship to gods that do not exist. I reflect on the majesty of my own God, my living God. My life and work seem somewhat insignificant in comparison.

The classic question arises in my head: “What difference am I really making God? How can such small daily tasks make any difference in the brutal world of sex trafficking?” Then I can hear his gentle answer:

“Because I go before you. Trust me, and obey.” 

Being

December 15, 2009

Things at the office are always busy, always crazy. There is forever work to be done; justice to be sought. But today proved to have a refreshing break from the normal duties our days usually hold. At Christmastime, our office usually participates in all the Christmas parties at the aftercare homes we work with. Our aftercare department is bustling with excitement with gifts spread out everywhere for the rescued girls, as the social workers wrap and sort them.

Today I had the privilege to attend one of the parties at one of the homes in which several of our girls reside. I had read and seen the cases, reports and photos of some of these girls, and even written up stories about them; finally I got to see where they lived their lives.

We set out around 3pm, swiftly making our way to the home and having favor with the traffic. We eventually arrived at the gate of the home, which was on a hectic and busy street. The guard opened the gate, allowing our entrance. As we drove down the narrow road, I suddenly forgot that I was still in a city of millions of people. Trees and foliage were abounding, creating a sanctuary around the many buildings that housed hundreds of children and teenagers from all different situations and backgrounds. The sounds of honking and traffic quickly disappeared as an overwhelming sense of peace stole its place. After a few minutes, we came across the building in which our girls lived and unloaded the gifts, snacks and guitar. A few of the girls immediately came out to greet us with smiles on their faces, helping us carry in the parcels. Our arrival came at just the right time for afternoon tea, a daily occurrence here. A few aftercare staff members from our office were already there and we waited several minutes for one more to arrive.

Finally, the time came to assemble for the “party.” The bell was rung and the girls began to gather in the large room adjacent to their building. We stood by the door as they filed into the room decorated with tinsel and balloons. Names were exchanged, which was the extent of our knowledge of their language. We gathered everyone in a large circle, with about thirty girls sitting on the floor.

The first game that we played intrigued me. Little pieces of paper were passed out with words written on them such as “faith,” “hope,” “peace,” and “love.” The girls were to one by one explain what that word meant to them. They were shy at first, not wanting to share. But as we went around the circle, they started feeling more comfortable. Much of it was not in English, which made me focus on their faces, looking into their eyes. I couldn’t help but begin to wonder. How many of these girls had never experienced pure, unconditional love? How many of them have yet to have peace or joy in their lives? Some of them had glimmers in their eyes, with the most beautiful smiles. Others had eyes that lacked any sign of life at all. One girl stared off as the other spoke about what hope meant to her. What was she thinking about? What horrific memories were forever etched in her mind? The girls were on all different levels of healing from the brutal atrocities they lived through; a process that I cannot begin to fathom.

The next activity was to break out the guitar and sing some songs. Our aftercare director sang a beautiful song and then it was my turn, along with a fellow intern, Ashley. We were requested to sing the butterfly song. Every child who has grown up in church has heard the butterfly song, but these girls had never heard it. The lyrics were translated for them and we proceeded to sing. They fixed their attention on us as the words were sung, “For you gave me a heart and you gave me a smile. You gave me Jesus and you made me your child, but I just thank you Father for making me me.” These girls were no longer children, many of them approaching adulthood. But they were still children of God. Their innocence may have been stripped from them, but they were still beautiful in the sight of God.

The more serious time transitioned into a fun time of dancing. Ashley and I had learned some choreography to a popular musical in the US.  We were aware of the tremendous skill these girls had in dancing compared to our desperate attempts at hip hop. Despite this, many of the girls were too shy to come up and dance with us. We finally convinced a few to learn it and they followed our lead, many of them eventually warming up to us. Then came the time of testing when they broke out their own music. Their bodies moved with such grace and fluidity in ways I don’t think I’ll ever be able to imitate. But we tried, and they found it quite entertaining.

To top the night off, we had some amazing snacks, as the girls giggled and talked. The camera that Ashley brought was quite the attraction as the continuous flow of flashes helped light up the room. Even though we could not communicate extensively, the girls seemed to enjoy our presence as we did theirs. As I looked around the room, I almost could not believe I was there. What a privilege to be in a room so full of grace, redemption and hope.

As we began to head out the door, one of the girls requested that we let her do some henna on our arms. I had never had it done before though it is quite a popular here. I certainly wanted my first experience to be with these girls. As she took my hand into hers, she began making lines and curves and swirls on my arm. I didn’t know what the end result would look like, but trusted her. After about ten minutes, I finally saw her design. I had beautiful flowers and leaves drawn on my arm extending down onto my hand and two of my fingers. It was beautiful, just like the artist who drew it.

We finally said our goodbyes, promising we would return to visit again soon. It was dark by now and we headed down the small hill, back to the reality of the city. The gate was again opened for us, this time for our departure and we headed home.

It was a good day. A day of just being. Being with girls who have had experiences I could never imagine. Nonetheless, they were still giggling, silly girls, just like me. I don’t know when I will have the opportunity to return, but I hope it is soon.