"Through him [Jesus] we have also obtained access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in hope of the glory of God." ~ Romans 5:2
Nearly ONE BILLION people around the world live without clean water. Take the next 3 minutes and 23 seconds to watch a little bit about what their lives are like and what would change if clean water became available to them. Imagine yourself in their position. Remember that they are people, made by the same God, for the same purpose as you and me.
One of my favorite things to say is “We’re all in this together!” Because we are… We’re all in this world together… We’re all made in the image of God together… We’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God together. But when we look from a distance into the lives of people who live without access to clean water, can we say it to them honestly? Are we in this with them? I mean, where I live I can’t drink the stuff that comes out of my faucets without boiling it first so I have clean water delivered in jugs to my door. I don’t know what it’s like to not have that available.
The BILLION who live in the reality of no clean water need us to enter into this with them, and dream for them a life that is different… and then we just maybe we will need to DO something.
I know. There are a lot of people in the world. And a lot of issues. And it’s not possible for all of us to help with all of them. Our resources are limited. But that’s not excuse to not pay attention. Or to not try. I mean, how many of us buy soda or coffee everyday, in addition to having access to clean water anywhere at anytime? What ifwe actually believed that what was ourswasn’t really ours? And the extra we have – we should sharewith those who need. (Ya know, like in Acts.)I wonder how the world would change if we could really get that. [I'm talking to myself just as much, if not more, as I am talking to you.]
The weather around here is beginning to warm up. I like that. I wore a short sleeved shirt (without a sweater or ANYTHING) outside all day yesterday for the first time in months! There was a little bit of blue in the grey sky and I could actually SEE the sunshine! It was DELIGHTFUL! However, since I live in a “furnace city” it does make me kind of nervous because I know what is coming…
Heat. Disgusting, humid, make-you-wish-you-thought-it-was-cool-to-be-a-nudistkind of heat. I was here for it last summer and they told me it was “mild” weather compared to most years, so I can only imagine what a “normal” or “severe” summer heat feels like. Sigh.
Anyway, for the time being it’s still pretty chilly in the morning. When my alarm first goes off, I turn on the heater and push snooze - sleeping for 10 more minutes while the room heats up. By the time the alarm goes off again, the room is a comfortable temperature and I don’t freeze when I pull off the blankets. My slippers are on the floor next to my bed (because the tile floor is always a cold shock to just waking up feet). With warm feet and a warm room I get up, go to the bathroom, and head straight to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I brush my teeth and wash my face. By the time I’m done with that, the coffee is brewed and I go pour myself a cup. I walk back to my room, turn on some music, and I drink my warm cup of coffee as I fix my hair and put on my makeup.
These are routines that make my life more comfortable. If I forget to leave my slippers on the floor or I forget to turn the heater on when I push snooze, getting out of bed is a lot more difficult. If I do not have any coffee to make, staying out of bed is a lot more difficult.
I never really think of myself as a person with routines. But, everyone has SOME routines. I think living in a culture that is not my own makes me cling a little more to these small routines. It gives me a sense of sameness that I often don’t have while going through my days. I love living a life that takes me out of my sameness and throws me into otherness. I want to live this way, but it can be exhausting sometimes. It’s confusing and hard to try to understand otherness: other ways of thinking… other paradigms of living. You never really know what to expect as you move through the day. You learn quickly that you can’t control it. So, you cling to little routines that you can control. They become precious, important little things (even though they’re really NOT).
I guess I’m thinking about all of this because I’m recognizing that there is some value to finding things that help you to stay sane… but I’m also recognizing that it’s important to remember that what we ultimately must cling to is notour little routines of sameness but to Jesus, to the Father. And that even more than I need to build into my life small routines of sameness to keep me sane, I must continually build into my life routines of fixing my eyes on Jesus and focusing on eternal things andnot the things of the world, or of my culture – my sameness.
One night recently, I was chatting on skype with my dear friend Anissa. We were discussing who knows what when suddenly Anissa did some calculations and realized I was ridiculous for being awake to talk to her.
[2:20:39 AM] Anissa: PS why are you still up? [2:20:52 AM] Shanda: because I’m reading about Yemen [2:20:56 AM] Shanda: and its history [2:21:00 AM] Anissa: of course [2:21:06 AM] Anissa: naturally
That’s normal, right? Staying up until the wee hours of the morning because you can’t stop reading about the history of Yemen. Everybody does it. [Maybe not.]
You see, I had read a story. And stories, well… I believe I mentioned recently that I’m obsessed with stories. They just have this way of getting to me… changing me… and I want to know people’s stories. Everyone’s. EVERYONE’S. It’s a goal. An unachievable goal. But a goal. Because you see, I also love people. And I love that people each have a story. Stories filled with … well, everything you can – and can NOT – imagine. This story I had read, it was written by Glamour Magazine’s 2008 Woman of the Year. But don’t get the wrong idea. She isn’t some glamorously famous woman. She’s a little girl. Well, she’s a teenager now. Her name is Nujood and she’s beautiful. Look at her (and her mama).
She’s an author now because she has told her story. A story that will break your heart for her, members of her family, and others like them. But you will also celebrate in the victories.
You see, when Nujood was 10 years old she was forced to marry a man 3 times her age. She was 10 YEARS OLD. [Yes, that would be one of those things that we can NOT imagine.] She was ripped out of childhood and made to fill the “role of a woman” – a wife. No longer given any opportunity to go to school or play with kids her age (although she hadn’t been able to go to school much before either because that right is given mostly to the boys) and she was tossed into a very abusive situation. Her father was glad to have “one less mouth” to feed.
But beautiful, 10 year old Nujood, was a fighter and she ran and eventually she got the idea of going to court. She met a judge and told him she wanted a divorce. He, and other judges and a lawyer, listened to her story and were in awe of her bravery. They wanted to help. And they did. I won’t spoil the whole story because you really might want to read the book. It’s a short “easy read” [as far as the actually READING goes. It was written by a 12 year old, after all... but a hard read, if you care about people and hate seeing them in painful circumstances and knowing there are others - many others - facing the same things.]
Nujood is now 13. Her book, “I Am Nujood, Age 10 and Divorced,” came out about a year ago. I bet she’d love it if you read her story and let it get to you… and change you. Nujood lives with her family again – in Yemen. Lately, Yemen has been in the news quite a lot. As I read articles about demonstrations and the hundreds injured, and how the U.S. gov has decided that Yemen’s President Saleh should be “eased out of office,” and how that same President Saleh is threatening civil war… and as I watch videos like this one about the hundreds wounded and I see little boys who were just trying to go to school hit with tear gas:
I always think about Nujood. When I read her story, she became my friend. I always imagine other little girls like her… and other boys like her brothers… and other girls like her sisters… and moms like her mom… and dads like her dad… and lawyers like the one who faught for her… and judges like the ones who gave her victory…
And I stay up until 3am reading about the history of her country and I still want to learn more…
Because that’s the power of a story. And Nujood’s story will forever be one that has gotten to me.
And now, there are more stories to learn and more stories to live… So, I’m here (you know, like – existing) to see how I can become a part of other people’s stories in a way that matters… similar to the way people did for Nujood. But most importantly, learning how better to let my story bring Jesus into the other people’s stories… [Although, first I should probably sleep. It's almost 2am again.]
{Homorously, during the course of writing the above, Anissa texted me: “Are you going to be up?” and I responded: “Yes. It’s a holiday. And I’m writing a blog about Yemen.” Ha.}
{Remember on Friends when Chandler told Janice he was moving to Yemen because he thought it wasn’t a real place? When I told my roommate that I was writing a blog about Yemen… that was what she immediately thought of. Gotta love how Friends relates to all things and teaches lessons like that Yemen is REAL. For your enjoyment:}
There’s this kid. – His name is George. [Well... I guess he's not technically a kid (he's 20) and I guess I'm probably the only person who calls him George (because it's not REALLY his name).] This not-a-kid kid whose not-really-his-name name is George is my student. He’s not a good student. He’s majoring in English, but he can’t really speak English much at all. Why would he major in English? It wasn’t his choice. It was decided for him by his college entrance test scores and his parents. This happens a lot in this part of the world. Choices are limited and sometimes your choices are not ACTUALLY yours to make. {That’s always hard for me. I was taught to think for myself. I was always very free to do so. I try to teach my students to think for themselves and to think in ways they’ve never thought before. I always hope it spills outside of my classroom and into their lives but sometimes it feels like that is swimming against an entire culture’s current.} {Note to self: Write more about that later.}
For the first few weeks of school, George got in trouble in my class a lot. I often found myself saying, “GEORGE! WAKE UP!” “GEORGE! I told you to get in a group.” “GEORGE! I am not kidding! Follow instructions!” “GEORGE! Put away your cell phone!” “GEORGE! I don’t care if you don’t like talking to girls. This is your group. You must talk to them!” “GEORGE! Why are you late to class – again?” “GEORGE! You haven’t come to class in 2 weeks. You must come to class!” Then one day I said, “GEORGE! Come here. Let’s talk!” It was a difficult conversation because our ability to understand each other is limited but I’m pretty sure I somehow communicated to him that I was concerned for him. “George. I want you to learn. I want to help you. I know you do not like English, but you are in school studying English and you need to TRY. I can not help you if you do not TRY. Please come to class. Please pay attention.” He stared at the floor. I sighed. Did he understand that I was not trying to be mean but that I actually really do care? Then I saw him, with his phone out. AGAIN. I almost called his name again, “GEORGE!” but instead I walked towards him and looked to see what he was doing. He was using his phone’s dictionary to write me a note. I said nothing and let him work on that the rest of class, wondering what he had to say. At the end of class, George walked to the front of the room and handed me his note while saying, “Teacher… I am sorry.”
Thank you. I can’t speak anything. because I don’t understand clear. But thank you give me care about, I just say. I will let you down. Your kind teacher. but I’m not good student. so I’m very sorry.
I read it and tears came to my eyes. George cares. George knows that I care. He just doesn’t understand. Anything. Ever. He’s bored out of his mind. But he knows I care. I want to help him. But he’s sooooo far behind. He needs to start at the basics, but this is not a basics class. Sigh. It broke my heart. Teachers have just passed him through. No one is helping him. The other students have written him off and don’t care to even be his friend. So I determined I would try – to help, and to be his friend.
George showed up for class almost every week after that but when it came to the end of the semester, I couldn’t give him a good grade. He barely passed and I was generous with that. I wanted to give him encouragement and tell him to keep working. I wanted to tell him that I am proud of him. But I had no way to do so for a while. I think he was discouraged by his low marks and so this semester… George hasn’t been coming to class.
Yesterday, I was out walking with a friend and I saw George on his bike. I stopped. “GEORGE!!!! GEORGE!!!!” I ran towards him, waving my arms like an idiot! He stopped. I smiled and stepped closer. “George! You haven’t been in class! You need to come to class!” He smiled and responded – not in English – saying he’d come. Today I had George’s class. I called roll. No George. I was disappointed. 15 minutes later… in walkedGEORGE. He snuck in the back. It’s movie week. I saw him and smiled big and waved. He smiled big and waved. I pointed to his seat and to the movie. He sat down. 15 minutes later, George was sleeping, and I didn’t care. I was just happy he came. [Plus, I used to sleep in class - all.the.time. - so I can't get too mad. But don't tell my students that.]
George didn’t come to class today because he’s a student and it’s his job. George didn’t come because he wants to learn. George didn’t come to stare at the white person for an hour and a half. George didn’t come to socialize. George came because I screamed his name when I saw him riding his bike. George came because I showed him that I notice when he isn’t there. George came because I reminded him that I care about him.
One of my goals as a teacher, and as a child of God, and as a human being is to pay attention to the people that most people do not pay attention to… to find and stir up the potential in people that others give up on… to make people smile who don’t smile all that often smile…
So, while I do hope George grows as a student, and I will do all I can to help him do that, one of my goals as his teacher is just to show him that I care and that he matters and that I enjoy his presence. He smiled a lot today. I think he got the message.
When I think of India the first things that pop into my mind are:
Brightcolors. Beautifulpeople. Nose rings. The Taj Mahal. Auto rickshaws. Heat - ridiculous heat! Hindu temples. Sikh temples. Bahai temples. Mosques. Head coverings. Trash. Slums. Beggars, mostly children. Beautiful children.
Then I think about how when I was there I got pretty sick and had a lot of really uncomfortable sleepless nights but that it really didn’t matter that I was sick and miserable because I was also falling in love. Falling in love with a people, broken and lost, and falling in love with their Creator – our Creator, perfect and wonderful!
It’s a place that changed me forever. It’s where I saw more clearly than ever before what damage it does to worship gods in place of the Most High God. It’s where I was devastated by the realities of the pit of nothingness the world lives in when He is rejected. It’s where I saw the beauty of redemption, grace, and mercy as I observed those who had experienced being pulled out of that pit of nothingness and covered by the blood of Jesus.
This week I’ve been thinking a lot about India and about India’s women and little girls, in their beautiful bright colors and nose rings. I’ve been thinking about the victims of sex-trafficking. I’ve been thinking of all the little girls who have no opportunity to go to school. I’ve been reading statistics and picturing faces of the beautiful people I once met. Faces I will never forget. Faces that could easily be a part of those statistics.
One day I sat in a living room in New Delhi and a man told me about little girls. He told me how so many people do not see their beauty and do not understand their value. He told me that when a baby boy is born all the men in the area will come visit the father and bring gifts and sing a song of celebration… but when a little girl is born, there is no song and no gift. When a baby girl is born,what the men come visit the father to offer is their condolences. Little girls are often abandoned, left to die, and sometimes they are sold. Sold.
There are 1.2 billion people in India but today I’m celebrating ONE little girl. Her name is Babitha and today is her birthday! She’s 7. She has 4 brothers and sisters, a mom, and a dad. She has a teacher. And she has me, because through Compassion International, I have the joy of being a part of her life, from a distance. Today I will write her a letter and tell her that I think she is beautiful and valuable, and so does Jesus. And maybe I’ll ask her if she has a nose ring… and tell her about the day I got mine, in India. (I kinda miss it sometimes – the nose ring, and the country.)
There are so many parts of the world where girls and women are not seen as the precious creations our Father made them to be. We should all probably think about how we can love them well, following the example of Jesus.
