"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door . . . you step into the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to . . . ". These familiar words have found a strange new meaning to me recently, as I’ve considered the 365+ days that have slipped past since returning to India last June. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like had I not made that first trip in 2005. Or even the 2 following trips. I wonder what it would be like to wake up every morning to bare walls; absent of the large map of New Delhi prominently displayed over my desk, framed by newspaper articles and newsletters. I wonder what I would keep on my dresser, aside from the several framed photos of people I would die for, accentuated by a handmade Indian scarf (who’s tribal colors would, I’ve been told, get me killed no-questions-asked, were I to wear it in certain areas of North India), an 18-inch Maharaja sword, a signed Cricket ball, and a hand-made leather journal, among many other keepsakes thats meaning (and value) would be lost to anyone but myself.
It’s been a long 5 years. I haven’t had the flu since then. It’s odd; I keep thinking I’ll get it any day, but year after year goes by and I don’t get sick. My theory is that I picked up some strange foreign bacteria that first trip and it has altered my immune system such that the common flu cannot affect me anymore, though I have no evidence to back it up. Since that first trip I've been on 6 more mission trips, 4 of them just within the past 2 years. I guess you could say I've got the travelling bug. I bought a car. I've finished 2 years of college. I am now a proud Uncle twice over. Life has moved on, and moved on quickly. You may be wondering why I haven’t come back to explain the Lord of the Rings quote in my opening line. Could be that it’s after 3 AM and my thoughts are jumbled. Could be that I figure if you’ve read this far, you won’t mind reading a bit further for the connection (which isn’t terribly difficult to figure out on your own by the way). Perhaps this is an inaccurate assumption on my part and the last thing you will have remembered reading that I’ve written is this seemingly structure-less monologue. In that case I won’t apologize for boring you because you’ve already stopped reading.
In all seriousness, I don’t necessarily expect much of what I’m trying to convey to make sense. I cannot say that all of it makes sense to me. I suppose that’s sort of the point. This journey has changed me in ways that words will not begin to justify. That’s why Bilbo’s musings resonate so deeply in my heart when I think about how the things I’ve experienced have had such a profound impact on the way I view things—every single waking moment of my life since. I’m not talking about some cute, warm and fuzzy, super-spiritual kumbaya feeling in the deepest depths of my tummy. I’m telling you my life will never be the same again, whether I want it to or not. When you experience things that have this kind of impact on your life, it changes you. For better, or for worse--it changes you forever. And I really hope that you wanted to be changed, because ignoring it doesn't work. I've seen people try. It just makes them miserable.
When you step out your door, whether that step was by your own naïve decision or caused in part by some fantastical (or not so much) wizardry invoked by someone who knows you far too well, you are confronted with things that will be irrevocably captured in your memory. Why do you think I’m still awake? My life has become quite (frustratingly at times) tangled with the plotline of this new story. There was a collision, and the world I lived in previous to the beginning of my real life has been shattered beyond repair. The sad part is that I don’t always want what’s real.
Last week I held my niece for the second time. As she slept in my arms I remembered an orphanage I visited outside Delhi last year. Even outside of comparison to other children’s homes I’ve visited, this place was a palace. I have no doubts that the children living there were receiving the best possible care in the country, maybe even the best possible, period. Nevertheless, all it took was one sleeping child to rock my entire world back on its heels. She was lying asleep in a crib. She couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3 months old. She was severely malnourished; legs and arms nothing but skin and bone. But oddly enough it was not these facts that struck me. It was her face. It is an image that, even over a year later, is perfectly etched on my memory and is not likely to fade any time soon. Her face was perfect. I don’t think I could ever make anyone understand what I mean when I say perfect. I mean that this tiny child, peacefully oblivious of the dire reality surrounding her and even threatening her very life while she dreamt, was possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. I mean that my lungs suddenly felt painfully short of air, and I quickly passed her crib because the urge to pick her up and hold her was much too strong. Had I even been privileged enough to have permission to do this, I may have still turned down the opportunity simply because letting her go would have been too painful. You can call me melodramatic if you like, but my hands still shake while I type this.
Thinking back on this journey it’s impossible not to reflect on the relationships that have been formed along the way. Like the lessons learned and the things I’ve experienced, the people I’ve met and worked side-by-side with have left a mark on my life that will never leave me alone. Much akin to the unlikely "Fellowship" of Tolkien’s stories, my own journey has included a Fellowship of its own—I daresay even more unlikely and diverse than anything Tolkien could have ever dreamed up. Truth really is stranger than fiction, after all. These are not people that I would choose for my "Dream Team" of travelling companions. They are not necessarily people I would have expected or wanted along for the ride. But the pieces of life we’ve shared are more precious to me than any souvenir. I could spend hours simply telling you what I’ve learned from these little pieces. Some of these people I can’t even discuss in detail for their own safety’s sake. These people have taken lives. These are people the world gave up on. They have sacrificed health, money, and fame. They left behind their families, their countries, and their homes. Once dead, now transformed; once cut off and downtrodden, now sisters and brothers, brought together for one purpose—to do such a work that you would not believe, even if I told you.
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Your final paragraph reminds me of the end of Hebrews chapter 11: What more can I say? There isn't time to tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, of David and Samuel and the prophets, who by faith conquered kingdoms, performed acts of righteousness, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, from weakness were made strong, became mighty in war, put foreign armies to flight. Women received back their dead; others were tortured, not accepting their release, so that they might obtain a better resurrection; others experienced mockings and scourgings, chains and imprisonment. They were stoned, they were sawn in two, they were tempted, they were put to death with the sword; they went about in sheepskins, in goatskins, being destitute, afflicted, ill-treated (men of whom the world was not worthy), wandering in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground. And all these, having gained approval through their faith, did not receive what was promised, because God had provided something better for us, so that apart from us they would not be made perfect.
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