fifth thing that ruined me for the ordinary

The fifth thing that ruined me for the ordinary is one of my favorite days. In 2006 I spent one month in India.  We visited a  village one afternoon that was extremely poor.  Large families lived in small one or two room cement buildings with dirt floors.  Often all of the belongings of the family could fit in a single trunk.  There were small fire pits with metal pots in the middle of the dirt floors for boiling water and making food which they served on their stainless steel plates. We were not allowed to bring any belongings with us into the villages, for it was a known fact that these people made a habit of steeling from those around them.  Although ultimately their sweet nature won us over, we were reminded by our translators that we were entering into a subculture of India where stealing our belongings to sell on the streets could literally mean the life or death of a starving child.

As we entered the puppet village, instantly children swarmed us.   Our translator told us that we would be splitting up into teams of two or three to go into the homes of families from the village to visit for a couple of hours.  

As we walked into a small two room cement building the woman who owned the house motioned for us to sit on the floor.  There was a small chalk board up on the wall, a single trunk in the corner of the room next to a drum, and we could hear the crackle of a fire in the room next to us.  The doorway to the house from both the front and the back stood open with no door or curtain separating it from the street. The woman was in her early twenties, and already had seven children ranging in ages from 9 down to a small baby who couldn’t have been more than five or six months old. All of the children gathered around smiling and laughing.  The oldest children chattered away in Hindi, followed by silence as they awaited our answers.  

I had the tiny baby girl in my arms as her brothers and sisters climbed all over me as if I were a human jungle gym.  The kids laughed as I tickled their tiny bellies with my free hand.  One little girl stood over my shoulder asking me the same question over and over.  I kept replying with a shrug of my shoulders to indicate I was not sure what she was asking me.  She slowed down her speech looking at me directly in the eye as she asked again with a sweet smile, the quick hindi words rolling off of her tongue in anticipation. 

After asking me several times she ran over tugging on the shirt of our translator.  She whispered the words shyly into her ear as she pointed at me with a giggle and ran by my side to await the answer.  Our translator stopped, smiling at me before translating the question into english.

“She would like to know if you like children,” the translator asked. With a broad smile I felt my heart melt. 

“Tell her I love children,” I replied, knowing that a piece of my heart would be left right here in the puppet village.  Upon hearing my answer all of the children squealed in delight as they began dancing around me laughing.  

The next several hours were filled with the kids singing and dancing for us, teaching us clapping games, and asking us questions.  They brought out the drum that they used for puppet shows trying to teach us how to play.  It wasn’t the type of drum that I would find at home, but either end of the instrument was a drum — a two for one deal.  The tiny children attempted to show me how I was supposed to pull the sound from the middle of the drum, not hit either end expecting music.  Perplexed I made an attempt causing the room to erupt in laughter.

The woman who owned the house motioned for her kids to go into the other room giving them directions.  Shortly after they showed up with a single metal plate with homemade naan bread, and a can of sauce to dip it in along with one single metal cup filled to the brim with cold water.

We had not seen where the food or water had come from, but it wasn’t even a question in our minds.  These people had opened up their home to us, shared their laughter, and they were now offering us what we were sure was the only food they had in their home.  We were not going to offend them by denying the meal, so we ate and drank with smiles thanking them for their kindness and hospitality.

The woman walked to the corner of the room opening up the trunk and pulling out a beautifully decorated sari. The bright colors and jewels along the fabric glittered in the sun that came through the open door.  The woman motioned for me to stand as she dressed me in the sari, telling me through the translator that this had been her wedding sari.  I felt so honored that this woman felt comfortable enough around me that she would share something so treasured, and special.  

We had made a genuine connection with these people.  The children ran in and out of the house laughing and the tired frame of this frail woman, who really was only a few years older than I was, smiled at us from the floor of her home.  The type of smile that broke through language barriers.  The type of smile that told us all she was grateful for our presence, and thankful we were in her home.

Soon the leader of the base we were working with showed up at the door of the small house telling us it was time to go.  My heart sank at the thought of leaving the house and going back to the YWAM base.  My heart was so happy in this place.  It didn’t matter that there was no furniture.  I didn’t care that there were no bathrooms, or lights.  I felt joy being around these people.

As we got into our rickshaw we literally had to distract the children so that we could drive away.  Kids chased the rickshaw down the street waving and smiling as their laughter rang through our ears.  I waved back knowing that this day would be etched in my memory for eternity.

But it's things like this that make me realize - my life isn't ordinary. And I love it.