India

I close my eyes and see thousands of people, taxis forcing their way through the congestion, and women in brightly colored saris, faces aged beyond their years. I face the market place with stall after stall selling silk cloths, fruits, vegetables and a variety of spices. The smells of curry and spices drift into my nostrils. That small is mixed with those of body odor and the lack of modern day sanitation. I am jostled by the throngs of people and hold tightly to my purse in fear that the hands of the beggar children will craftily find their way to what little money I dare carry with me.

Fighting my way through the crowds, I make my way to the overly crowded train station to find a seat in a railway car made for fifty, yet carrying one hundred. This is my dream: to ride a train across India: each stop finding hundreds of vendors thrusting their samosas and fruit into the window of the railway car in hopes of making enough to feed their children that evening.

In between stops and overly crowded villages, we travel through jungle. I strain my eyes to find a stripped tiger, yet am thrilled just to catch a glimpse of monkeys and the odd elephant.

This is all a dream, a dream that has woven it’s way in and out of my subconscious for years.

My dream will become my reality in three weeks when I have the unimaginable privilege to go on a mission trip to India. The details of the trip are yet unclear but one thing I do know: I will meet those dear Christians for whom I have prayed for years: those persecuted for their faith.

I have prayed for boldness, for faith, for protection and steadfastness. When I look into their eyes I will not pity their poverty nor turn from their filth. My heart overflows with admiration as they bravely face the beatings, the loss of jobs, disownment of family, the burning of homes and even death, because they have chosen to make known their faith in Christ.

I am humbled at their bravery and wonder if they might hold the places of honor in heaven, seated to the right and left of Christ.

I am indebted to those 100 prayer warriors who prayed twenty four hours a day for my daughter, Adele, as she faced the possibility of a future with cancer. Their weekly prayer cards, written in Hindi and signed by each member, is forever dear to me.

I do not place these fellow believers on a pedestal as I am all to familiar with the dangers that accompanies. I only go in thankful humility to serve the people of a country I have long desired to visit. If even one is encouraged and strengthen in their faith, if one has an extra meal for their children, and if one received a comforting touch, I will feel honored.

And I go in thankfulness, knowing I will be the one changed by visiting India. I pray my faith will be challenged and I will come away to live out my faith with more boldness and more intensity.

I'm linking back to a previous post: Easter and the Persecuted Church