It's my turn

Today I spent a day watching Under the Tuscan Sun, completely escaping my world of noise, pollution and filth with a cozy couch and a cup of imported Starbucks coffee. By the time the credits rolled on I was dreaming of rolling hills covered in delicious sunflower fields that sparkle in the cool summer breeze. And like, most plots of far off cultures, I found myself wanting so badly to be there, to make new friends in new communities. And as the credit music ended, releasing me from my whimsical trance, I looked out my window to an unkempt courtyard of jungle trees. And suddenly a smile grew out of nothing, reminding my yearning heart that I am Frances building a new home in a strange, far off place. I have a family of aunties and uncles, sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, didis and dadas. I have watched those dearest to me here get married, have babies, create new families, fall in and out of love. We’ve cried together, celebrated together, prayed together, cooked together and danced together.

Forgive my cliché, but it’s been one heck of an adventure.

Anyway, I’m off to explore Bengali cuisine with my friend from Missionaries of Charity. She’s this awesome Mexican girl who picked up and moved to K-town because she needed to figure out who she was before she embarked on changing the world ... aka a kindred spirit. We both realized we’d gotten in a rut with our ‘usual’ and wanted to branch out. So wish us luck and pray we choose wisely J.

The Destitute and the Dying

Recently my office has talked a lot about paradigms shifting and allowing our scope to mold into Christ’s. At first I nodded along while proudly refusing to believe it pertained to me because, after all, I already have a biblical worldview. But my loving Father, being so patient and so kind, gently reminded me this weekend that paradigm shifting is ironically a constant thing.  We must constantly refocus our example to be Christ.

This weekend was one such time as I volunteered with Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa’s original house for the destitute and the dying.

I have loved just about every moment of my time in South Asia but it’s always been somewhat from a distance. You can only get so close to a culture eating, drinking, watching and observing. But for the first time, working with the dying, I felt as if I was a part of it.

The first thing I noticed walking through the doors of the home was, not surprisingly, the stench. I could actually smell the decay of human skin. The floor was coated with debris of illness and disease and I could hear a chorus of hacking, whimpering, and moaning.

Nuns in white and blue sarees were calmly walking from patient to patient feeding, cleaning soars, changing bed sheets, and offering simple yet profound smiles to each and every face. What should have been a place of detest was actually a sanctuary of peace and hope. 

The next thing I noticed was that no one greeted me. No one rushes to the door to give you a big thank you for your ‘precious’ time. In fact no one even looked up to check that I was supposed to be there. (The sisters never turn anyone away.) Instead I spotted a group of people to my right and walked over. One elderly Asian woman looked up, handed me a raggedy Kurta that had just been washed, and said one word, “dry.” Taking note from the preexisting assembly line, I started to wring out the patients clothing. At first it was a menial task, but soon, too soon, it started to get difficult. My arms ached and the skin on my thumbs slowly tore away layer by layer.  A girl next to me began humming worship songs as she wrung and quickly it spread to a full-fledged gospel choir of mismatched outcasts. It was the most beautiful sound I had heard all year.

After we finished washing, and still having no clue as to my purpose, I once again followed the workers into the waiting room.  It was snack time and the women were being hand feed mush made from roti and warm milk. The stench grew fierce and I had to choke back my gag reflex. Breathing through my mouth I started to feed the women. Many of them had skin diseases, which left them completely disfigured and few could form words. But their eyes, the gateway into their souls, were active and full of life.

I’m almost positive I had a full conversation with one woman from merely making eye contact. She looked down motioning to her mangled limbs. Slowly I followed her eyes. Pathetically my eyebrows narrowed, apologizing for her suffering, consoling her with a timid grin. She took my offering and tucked it away deep within her spirit, looking again at me for something more, anything. I shrugged, having nothing else to give except the mush in my hand. An invisible tear rolled down her leathered cheeks. And I reached out to catch it, tucking it away deep within my soul, to stay with me always. 

But the true test of my character had not yet come. A volunteer suddenly grabbed my arm and handed me oil. Noting my confusion she said, “Today we are giving the women foot massages…”

…

… Anyone who knows me knows that I am absolutely terrified of feet: as in I refuse to touch, look, or even think about feet. Now, I was supposed to massage the dirty, mangled foot of a dying woman?

That’s when it happened. That’s when my paradigm shifted. It wasn’t about me massaging the feet of women to check it off my list, feel good about volunteering, or even to relieve their pain. It was suddenly about following my Lord as He knelt to the ground to wash the feet of the lowest, dirtiest, despicable creatures we call humans.  And as I lifted the feet of those women, massaging the oil into their stiff skin, I was the one whose feet were being washed. It was beautiful moment and I will never forget it.

But let me tell you about one woman in particular. Her name is Bianca, or at least that is what I call her since that is what I heard. She is the sweetest looking woman whose years of rigorous labor had hunched her back and creased her skin but failed to dampen her spirits.  Trying to make small talk I asked her about her husband. He was dead. I tried to see where she grew up, ‘around the corner’ she said. Prying further I asked about her kids. She teasingly smirked and motioned for me to shut up get back to work. And as I lifted her Saree to rub the skin of her upper thigh she giggled like a teenager. Startled, I laughed out loud. Timidly she looked around to see if anyone was watching. This was a place where women relieved themselves while waiting for dinner (it happened while I was feeding one of them), were stripped completely while their wounds were cleaned, and were fully dependent on others for any delicacies. And yet, the years of modesty were still powerfully engrained in her. She could no longer refuse help, because her skin was so rough that the daily oil rubbing was her only relief. But it was as if embarrassment was the last shred of dignity she could hold onto, and so she did, firmly and unashamedly.

So I joined in the giggles, and together we laughed as I rubbed, massaged and cleaned.

At the end of my day we said our goodbyes and I walked out the small rusted gate. As I rounded the corner, entering the surrounding slum area, underneath a well-known bridge, I paused to take it all in. I had been in slums before; I live very close to one. But my paradigm had left me as an outsider. Now, as I stood with those men and women, in the gunk and filth I felt comfortable for the first time. Let’s be real, I am still an outsider, but at least it’s not because I’ve made myself one. If I am distant and removed from the streets, the reality or heart of my city, at least I know it is not from my doing.  

Why I love South Asian Summers

It's officially summer in South Asia.

As most of you can guess, it means it's hot outside. But what is hard to imagine is what that exactly feels like. So I will try my best to explain.

I wake up in the morning drenched, despite a furiously spinning fan. The whole room smells of hot air and a layer of sticky dust has coated every object. I immediately jump into an ice cold shower and cool off to normal body temperature. Then I allow myself a couple minutes of AC as I put on leggings and a long sleeve dress (otherwise known as a Kurta). Those precious minutes of cool are vital or else my will power to get dressed would give out every morning. I wrap my hair as far away from my neck as possible, put on shades, grab an umbrella and brace the heat of the outside world.

It may seem as if I was exaggerating, but unfortunately I'm not. Literally within minutes of being outside I'm drenched once again.  At any given moment my skin is moist, sticky, dirty, overheated and miserable. My head pounds in rhythm with the heat waves launched from the spicy South Asian sun and my eyes water beyond their normal capacity.

The heat heightens the slum stench and the pollution is squashed into an eye level cloud that suffocates even a garden of flowers.

And while I should hate every moment of it, quite the contrary is true. I love it. I love that all are equally susceptible to the heat without thought of caste or beauty. I love the feel of being at the mercy of a fan and being constantly aware of my body and it's reaction. I love the smells of humanity. And yet, at the end of the day, the reason I soak in the summer with joy, is because this is so different from anything I have experienced. This is India. It's exactly what I always dreamed it would be. It's exotic and perfect.

The South Asian Men

My top three favorite things about South Asia men:

1) The T-Shirts: South Asian men recycle shirts from the West with phrases they either can read and find hilarious or have truly no understanding as to their meanings.

Examples: 

"Behind Every Man is  Scared Woman"

I'm sorry what? Who even made that shirt to begin with?

Or

"Beer is proof that God exists" 

Are we talking about God as in Yahweh or God as in Ganesh? I'm pretty sure the Elephant headed child had little to do with the fermentation of wheat. 

My favorite is: 

"I don't even want to be famous" 

OK great, glad we got that settled. 

2) The lack of a superego: 

Walking the streets of South Asia is always a game of Frogger, but not always just with cars. Things, liquids, "other" could fly in your face at any minute - you're never fully in the clear. See men in South Asia have this thought that their every whim, their every inclination is their right to fulfill. Some of their habits include relieving themselves in the middle of the road, spitting out their dip from the side of the car, scratching and bathing in inappropriate places, sleeping on the sidewalk, burping in your face, and picking their nose right before they get in your auto. These tendencies to satisfy their every basic, ape-like desire is exactly why trafficking is rampant in these parts. 

3) The Poses:

Visualize a short, skinny teenage looking man with silver bracelets, gold rings on every finger and a popped collar.  His fake, gold trimmed aviators are twice the size of his face and he is leaning up on the side of a wall with one foot popped and his arms sassily folded across his pregnant-like potbelly. As you walk by he doesn't whistle but rather creates a sucking motion from the back of his teeth, which is so much worse. Everyone once in a while he gives out an "o wow," which he thinks is a full-proof tactic. You turn to give him a scowl but instead you have to chuckle because the wall he's leaning on is a massive poster of a ripped, Caucasian Abercrombie Model in a similar pose; and the juxtaposition is just too much. 

So yes, living here can be infuriating and hazardous, but every once in awhile God's Grace is truly sufficient and it becomes simply comical. 

My little mountain village in the Himalayas

Near the Nepal/ Sikkim border is a small little mountain village called Kalimpong about 1600 meters into the Himalayas. Most know little other than it's home to beautiful orchid gardens.

The town consists of one main road connecting two adjacent peaks. It never snows and remains a cool breeze in the summer. While technically Kalimpong is part of West Bengal, it is closer in proximity and culture to Nepal, However the locals don’t really like associating themselves with either country, calling themselves Gorkhland, meaning hill people.

It was this little paradise mountain escape where I spent my Easter.

We left for the weekend of my dreams on Wednesday, March 26, which also happened to be the Hindu festival of Holi.

(My description of Holi could be a blog post in of itself, so I’ll try to keep it brief. Basically Holi is a festival of colors. The entire country buys colored powder and squirt guns, and pelts each other with “Holi” water. It is a bizarre experience and probably the most unsanitary tradition I have encountered to date.) 

Even though we were flying out to Kalimpong on Holi, I refused to pass up the incredible photo op. So I woke up early morning like a kid on Christmas and walked out to the nearest market. The streets were empty. No cars, no buses, no autos. Literally everything was eerily quiet besides the Chawallas who had switched to selling powder for the day. My friend and I met up in Gariahut and started chatting with a man at a nearby stall. I tried asking him various questions regarding the spiritual implications of Holi, but he of course had no idea what I was talking about and instead demonstrated how to throw the powder by rubbing it all over my face. First came the pink powder, then the green, and the red. By this time some street children decided to join in. Basically it was a great Holi experience and I was pleased to experience a couple hours of it, go home, shower, and the escape the rest.

 

The next day, after flying and driving up the mountain, we awoke in a village of flowers and smiling faces and headed out for our trek up the mountain. We were told the night before that it was a ‘leisurely,’ hour-long stroll to the viewpoint at one of the peaks. However, we underestimated hill tribe people and they way overestimated us. Long story short, we were dying. Two hours later and ten pounds lighter we made it to the top! And it was a spectacular view.

There we met up with a Swedish Christian biker who lived in Kolkata as a missionary before marrying a woman from Kalimpong, moving and starting a paragliding company. At about 1800 meters up the Himalayas I jumped off a cliff and soared above the tiny hill village as the crisp mountain air whooshed against my face. God’s glorious creation was my backdrop and it truly felt like I was casually lounging on heavenly clouds watching the meaningless bustle of everyday life from a world away. The man to my back tapped me on the shoulder as we caught a lift high into the sky, “Would you like to do acrobatics?” he asked. I laughed, “Duh!” Then suddenly he jerked us to the right and we spiraled downward. The falling pit in my stomach reached the tip of my head. The mountains blurred together and my sight started to fade. Suddenly we pulled out and landed softly on a cricket field as village children ran toward us to meet the people who had fallen from the sky.

The day after we awoke to a text message from a coworker who explained that she coincidently grew up in a nearby village and was headed back for an Easter weekend. She asked if we would like to join her family for lunch before we traveled up to a different mountain town called Darjeeling. Spontaneously we accepted and after a morning of fishing, hopped in a trendy public jeep and zipped along the narrow roads blasting fuzzy American top-40-music. We arrived in her small village market 15 minutes ahead of schedule and started the 30-minute trek up the mountain to her home. The roads stopped and the only way up was a windy, slippery, rugged path, which literally lead us to the very top. Huffing and puffing we continued to climb, cracking jokes about how she must have been in such shape growing up and how impressed we were that she actually went to school every day. Then finally, we reached. Her home is perched on a sheer cliff, over looking at least three other villages in the surrounding valleys. But the most interesting part of the day was sitting on pride rock, which protruded above the pine forests that engulfed her village, hearing tales of her childhood. She spent the first half of her life without gas or electricity, and had to climb down the mountain 40 minutes every day in the dangerous monsoon rains. Her family faced the very real danger of leopards that used to prowl the area and disease without proper emergency systems. Her life was far from easy; in fact it was storybook hard. But this wasn’t some girl from a world vision campaign; this was my close friend, a coworker and a peer. She made something of herself, and seeing her upbringing that day made me realize just how blessed I am to work with people like Anju. She is yet another hero in my midst.

Because of our spontaneous detour up the mountain we didn’t arrive back into Kalimpong until 6pm, which is midnight in village terms. Our cab driver suddenly decided he didn’t want to take us anymore, leaving us stranded with no hotel and no other options. We called Anju who promptly mobilized her family, aka everyone in the village, to find a solution. The result was magnificent. The funniest, mullet haired hipster Nepali man showed up with a Jesus van. He and his friend again blasted American Pop the entire way, probably enjoying it more than we were, which is saying a lot. The classic moments came when the car got stuck on an incline because the young driver was dancing at the wheel and the car stalled. We had to get out and run up the hill, laughing hysterically while trying to breathe. The laughing continued as we cracked jokes and we danced our way to Darjeeling under the illuminating moon. Then, without warning, they pulled to the side of the road and announced we were to have a five-minute break and a proper dance party. So at 9pm, on the edge of a back hill Himalayan road, we danced to Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift as the tiny house lamps lining the mountains blended into the radiant starry filled sky.  I couldn’t have imagined a more dream-like scenario. Reluctantly we all piled back into the car and continued on our way. 

Seeing as this post is already embarrassingly long, I shall keep my description of the next two days brief.  The most notable event was my time in the tea gardens. Those of you who have heard of Darjeeling tea will understand a bit of what I am saying. But the reality is I can’t write down just how splendid the tea tasted, smelled, and looked. After tea tasting eleven different brands, flushes, and colors, I started to recognize the quality leaves, which were picked higher up on the leaf and the more bitter leaves closer to the stem. The good tea would blend impeccably with the hot water and slowly slide down your throat with an almost soft and smooth-like quality. The other tea would leave a spoiled aftertaste.

But the true splendor came in the gardens, which covered every inch of every unoccupied space of those mountains. Small bundle of bushes stretched across the rolling hills as far as the eye could see. And tea filled the air. I spent almost a full day walking through those gardens, watching women pick the leaves one-by-one, hunched back and sweating into the very baskets they lugged from bush to bush. At one point, I just collapsed in prayer and journaled; the majesty of it all was too much to bare unaided by the Holy Spirit. I saw God in a new light that day. I prayed I could fear God the way I feared those mountains, which was rooted in love, awe, and trepidation.

Then, of course, the spell was broken as I was jerked back into reality by mild food poisoning after eating at a five star, rather expensive and reputable hotel for dinner. I completed my time in Gorkhaland with a bang as I remembered that I was still in India. 

I am but a Pawn

One of the brothels of the convicted

I know it’s been over a week since the convictions of five notorious traffickers in Kolkata but I’m writing about it because a) I owe you an explanation and b) I’m still amped on them.

I had been prepping for these convictions since December 2012. I read all the reports on every hearing, on every girl, and on every related incident that happened since 2009. (See my blog post about it here). Despite this, we were a week away and I still felt grossly unprepared. I had one media contact and my press release hadn’t even been looked at by the higher ups. Things were moving at a microscopic speed, which is typical for South Asia. Then March 11^th hit, and all of a sudden, I was making contacts, calling journalists, introducing myself, making day dates, and becoming instant friends with anyone who had a byline. Everything just fell into place. My contacts went from one to 20 almost over night. MIRACLE 1.

And if that wasn’t enough to bring me to my knees in adoration to the God of Glory, He went further and brought me extremely interested and sensitive journalists who wanted to do full page spreads.

Then, the day of the sentencing came. All five convicted received ten years of imprisonment and all the victims received compensation. Now for an American mindset it is easy to think... ok great, that’s actually not a lot. But here is context for why this was SUCH a BIG deal:

NEVER before has this court convicted a brothel owner. In one day the judge convicted TWO separate brothel owners. Never before has this court seen victims testify against their accused. In one day all 11 victims (who identified their abusers in person) were awarded a virtual fortune (around $4,000). The judge literally bypassed the State, which never happens, and gave ALL the fines to ALL the girls. What?!!??? In one day all five convicted were given ten years of RIGOROUS imprisonment, which was well past their minimums. … in case you aren’t catching my drift, these sentences were truly and honestly a miracle.) MIRACLE 2.

After the announcement I stopped, allowed a couple tears to roll down my eyes; and then I started running, updating our press release, trying to contact HQ, answering emails, being the distributor of info, while simultaneously pitching my ‘friends’ in the media to tell them about this amazing miracle. I was nonstop for about three days. Well, of course I made numerous mistakes and probably did everything wrong.

Still the next day three top publications in my country not only published the story almost verbatim to how I told it, but they included pictures! Then Yahoo News picked it up and boom, we were sailing.  Then two major local Bengali papers picked it up, which is key because that’s what the average person in my city reads, and pretty soon my city was aware of the fact that notorious and powerful traffickers were paying for their crimes. MIRACLE 3. And hopefully the thought which crossed their minds were, ‘if it happened to them, it could happen to me,” because that is the reason why I do all that I do.

But here is the point of my story. This was an incident in my life which literally only happened because God himself came down and inserted miracles at every step.

So naturally, in my fallen state, I came to work on Monday beaming, prideful, and boastful. While, in contrast, my Director of Legal (the man who argued this case since 2009, the man who is The Man,) walked in with his head hanging low.

He walked up to the podium to give his devotion, and with tears in his eyes he preached to us about humility, about how God is the victor. He explained that he wanted to give up, but God made these convictions possible. And you know what, He truly meant every word.

All of a sudden tears were in my eyes as well. And I suddenly realized why I was the intern and he was my director. I have so much more to learn. I am so far away from getting it. But that is why I choose IJM because I want to surround myself with people like Sap da. Maybe one day God will grant me the wisdom to bow before his throne and acknowledge the fact that His rule and His reign is EVERYTHING and I am but a pawn.

So let us celebrate all that GOD DID! Please see the list below of a couple articles written about the convictions. Praise be to God because I am unworthy of his miracles.

The Times of India (2013.03.17) – Five traffickers get 10 years in jail

“Those engaged in the fight against trafficking have reason to be happy. A Haldia fast-track court, on Saturday, sentenced five persons to 10 years rigorous imprisonment in two separate cases for trafficking-related offences and one instance rape. Judge Somnath Chakrabarti passed the sentences on the five convicts in the afternoon...‘This is a momentous occasion for all those who have contributed to the work of justice here in Kolkata. These convictions augment the already growing desire for criminal accountability. Potential traffickers must know they will be caught and convicted,’ said Biju Mathew, field office director of IJM, lauded the judgment.”

(Also reprinted in Silobreaker.com)

The Telegraph (2013.03.17) – Milestone in trafficker fight

“Their heads hanging low, five men in their late thirties and forties convicted for trafficking were paraded into Haldia Fast-Track Court-II and herded into a grilled enclosure. Biju Mathew, director of International Justice Mission, Calcutta, which helped in the rescue operation and offered legal and mental support to the witnesses, said: ‘Convicting traffickers and brothel owners and sentencing them to 10 years' rigorous imprisonment is rare, especially in the Haldia area. But the real victory is the story behind the convictions. Those involved in the case were competent and well-equipped. The court demonstrated sensitivity to trafficking victims. It is for this reason that justice prevailed in the court today. We hope these cases will set a precedent for all of India.’”

(Also reprinted in YAHOO News India, Rediff. Real Times News, Rupee Rains News, Samachar.com, Silobreaker.com)

The Bengal Post (2013.03.17) - 5 Haldia traffickers get 10 years imprisonment

“Haldia subdivisional court on Saturday pronounced 10 years imprisonment to five accused convicted for trafficking and forcing women into prostitution.”

Christianity Today showcased the conviction of Nakul Bera and others from Kolkata on their website AND it’s featured on their homepage.

The Pykes in India

As some of you may know my family visited me last month. Yes, I mean they flew all around the world to spend a week with me in South Asia! It was the fab five: Bryn, Robbie, Auntie Suzy, Mom and I hitting up the streets of India and Nepal. We spent a weekend in my city and then went to Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, and then flew up to Kathmandu, over Mount Everest J, and back again to my city.

Now I couldn’t possible write down everything we did and you wouldn’t want to hear it; so I’ve highlighted a couple of the best moments for you.

First day in South Asia: 

The first day of the trip started off strong. Bryn and Robbie were awake and perky as I sloshed around the apartment trying to figure out why I was having hallucinations of my Californian sister in my very Asian apartment. I also may have attacked my brother just to make sure he was real. But once I came to my senses we were on our way to the IJM office.

I hadn’t anticipated everyone to be awake, since my first couple days in the country were such a blur that my boss must have had serious doubts about his decision to hire me. Needless to say, I had nothing planned for them. It was an understatedly hectic time for me in the office and I my mind was far from the role of entertainer. So I literally stuck my family in a taxi with barely any money, a precariously working phone, on their first day in India, crossed my fingers and prayed I would see them again. However, God is Good and at the end of my workday I found them just chilling out under a major freeway (where all the cranky old men sit) examining Bryn’s hena tattoo.

My mother and Aunt Suzy were giggling about how they each hadn’t had a warm shower since the trip started and everyone bragged about successfully ordering street cha. #worldtravelers. So naturally I smiled to myself, and silently commissioned my city to unleash the India within itself and to do so in full force. And like always, my city never disappoints.

Now that my vacation had officially begun I again squeezed us all into a taxi and headed to the “holy river” for a spontaneous surprise. We were going to bribe a boat to take us out onto the disease-infested water and breathe in all the toxic fumes from the city! (OK so it’s a tad more pleasant than that.)

So we were rowing out onto the river and my mother had her head on my brother’s shoulder, because (almost) all her babies were together at last… which we all know is a mother’s true joy in life. All was right with the world as we gently rocked back and forth looking at a nearby bridge romantically light up in fluorescent and incompatible colors. And then suddenly, I heard a scream. Actually it was more of a death squeal and my mother leaped into the air, almost diving into the Hooghly (which would have been hilariously dangerous) and landed onto the platform near Bryn’s lap. Robbie immediately tried to help my mom stabilize; my sister grabbed all the electronics in case the boat tipped. Suzy reached out to sooth mom, and I tried to hold back my laughter, because right where my mom was sitting was a medium sized cockroach scurrying across the board.

Amar Barot Bhalo!  (My India is Great!)

Hanging with our Girls: 

The next day was a probably my favorite of the entire trip because my family saw firsthand why I live half way across the world. 

I had arranged for us to sponsor a dinner at one of the aftercare homes. Every other week my local church goes to the home, plays games, sings songs and gives a little message. That week my pastor asked me to host it.

So I turned to my older brother and asked if he wanted to speak words of encouragement into the girl’s lives. He stopped, looked at me and said, “who me?” “Of course, Robbie.” There are only a few things that would have made me happier than for my older brother to speak God’s truth to my girls.

That night we showed up at the home and everyone shifted with anticipation. Would the girls interact with them? Would they be able to communicate? Would my family understand? Would God’s grace and love shine through us?

I opened the door.

“Kristy Auntie!” “Nomeshkar!” Some of the girls were waiting for us.

They reached out to give me a hug.

Then all God’s miracles and blessings flooded into my life, as I was able to point back to the individuals who shaped the very foundation of who I am, and say, “This is my family. They are very excited to meet you!”

From there the nerves were gone.

Twenty girls bombarded them: holding their hands, laughing, playing with their hair, teaching them to properly eat Indian food, twirling, dancing, and loving.

And if I thought I couldn’t be any happier, my brother then got up and walked to the front of the room. He stood in front of the demographic of people I have dedicated my life to love and serve, and shared Jesus with them. He talked about the words Come Follow Me. Rabi’s would choose the best of the best to be their one prodigy, their only anointed. But Jesus walked straight up to the lowest of those. The disciples had flunked out. They were poor. They didn’t work the hardest or have really anything going for them. But Jesus said those same words of, Come Follow Me. He anointed the least of us to make the biggest difference. Tears filled my eyes because we all understand rejection to some degree. But none know it like the girls who live in an aftercare home because their own father and mother valued a couple rupees more than the sanctity and future of their own daughter.  Yet Jesus says to them, Come Follow Me.

It was then my girls turn. They got up, and as a special gift to me, danced in front of my family the routine I helped teach them.

I remember sitting in the back, crossing arms with one of my special friends in the home, looking at the backs of my family sitting in the front row. And I knew I crossed the threshold of no return. I don’t know what my future holds, or in what capacity I will serve. But if this isn’t what a calling from the Lord feels like, then I have a totally wrong picture of God. 

Tourists Extraordinaire:

The rest of the trip was pretty typical: flying to Delhi, seeing the Taj Mahal, driving all night on a bumpy, jerky road to Jaipurr, waking up in the pink city. We rode elephants through thousand year old streets, walked to the most spectacular and ingenuously designed 16^th century palace.  We got lost in a very typically Indian and sketchy back alleyway, bought out almost every vendor we stopped at, and barely slept at all.

After three days we hopped on another plane and landed in Kathmandu.

This is where I want to pause. While Nepal wasn’t exactly what we thought it was, the Pastor we stayed with was so much more. For a family who both laughs and cringes at every Jesus Joke/God Card, this Nepalese Pastor was God’s practical prank on the Pyke family.

“Pastor Bryn!” Pastor Robby would say. “Are you also a diplomat?”

“Ummm no,” Bryn would respond. “Wrong! You are an ambassador for Christ!”

“Pastor Suzy!” Pastor Robby would say. “Does truth set you free?”

“Yes it does,” Suzy would say. “WRONG! The application of truth sets you free!”

“Pastor Robbie!” Pastor Robby would say. “We shall in the back of the car because Jesus came to serve his flock.

O so many good moments with Pastor Robby.

Home Again: 

But alas, our time had come and the trip was at an end. Tears crept in early on several occasions due to our pathetic attempt of holding them for the true end.

We were flying back to my city, spending a couple hours there and then the group was again on a plane to the States.

I had called my office to book a car that would pick us up from the airport. I explained that there were five of us and we would need the car for the whole night… easy enough.

We got out of the airport and the car wasn't there. After a couple minutes a car did roll up but it was small. I mean really small, as in there was no way we could have fit all of us let alone all of our luggage. So I started battling it out with the driver. I told him to get a bigger car to us and fast. He looked confused. "I'm sorry ma'am, you don't like this car?." I smiled and softly explained that it wasn't personal. He looked relieved. 

Finally another car came. It had three seats. But we were loosing time, so I put Bryn and Robbie in one car and told the driver to not ever, for one-second loose sight of my car, which he was probably too terrified to do for fear of the crazy, white lady. Miracle of all miracles, we all made it safely back to my apartment. 

#OII: Good to be back. 

Saying Goodbye: 

A couple hours later I took them back to the airport and we said goodbye. 

The more I look at the photos and the more I reflect on my time traveling India with my family, the more I realize just how incredibly blessed I am. We are more than a support group; we are friends.

I love you Bryn for being such a leader and keeping records and organizing all the logistics. I love you Robbie for being the most compassionate man I have ever met. Your very presence brings harmony and peace to even the tensest situations. I love you mom for your unconditional love. Even when I’m stressed or being a typical daughter, your love is constant and your forgiveness is immediate. I love you Suzy for living your life with such joy, because you make everything more fun! And lastly, I love you Daddy for being gracious enough to support us all on this trip and sacrificing more than I could ever know to provide me the opportunities I've always enjoyed. 

Seeing is Believing

Today I sat with some IJM staff for over an hour and listened to their stories from the field. It was one of those moments where all of a sudden you realize that you’re talking about something way more intense than you were intending. Like when you’re driving on autopilot and suddenly you’ve driven into an intense neighborhood and no one knows how to get back.

Right before close of business I knocked on their door with a simple question about a case we are working on. I needed to know what a certain brothel looked like for a story I am writing. I walked in, knelt near the computer and opened my journal, ready to get up again and move on with my task.

But instead, the staff member looked directly at me and said, “Kristy, the only way you are going to understand is if I show you.” It was a look I hadn’t seen before. Somewhere in his eyes I saw that he had already entered back into that place and he was urging me to follow. Hesitantly I grabbed the chair behind me and pulled up to his desk.

For the next hour I walked their past with them. I saw what they saw. I heard the voices. I smelt the cigarettes and the musty odor of confinement. Nothing else existed. I was back in 2008 and instead of spending my summer before college in Cancun with my family; I was I walking the brothel district of Haldia.

It was terrifying and fascinating at the same time. And then he looked at me again and asked, “do you need me to stop?” I hadn’t even noticed that tears were streaming down my face. They were reproducing themselves at an exponential rate. But like most pain, it was a silent expression. I tried to form the words, “no, please, I want to hear more.” But instead I just shook my head and whipped my eyes.

We continued on. I saw a room with twenty young girls locked inside with a gated door, like chickens in a pen. I was told they lived there, all sharing one twin-sized bed. Men would walk in, choose who they wanted, cross the tiny corridor and wait in the sex room.  And when they were done they would exit the curtain, reenter the bar area, enjoy a quick snack and get back in their trucks, which were fueling up and head on their merry way. But the girls… they never left. Once inside they never again saw the light of day or the stars of the night sky.

And that’s when I recognized her. A girl I knew well. My mind flashed back to the day before. It’s 2013 again and she and I are giggling and hugging. She is my friend now, a person whom I talk with, laugh with, cry with, and play with. She is my sister and I love her like family.

The reality of trafficking becomes a lot more real when it’s a person you know. When it’s someone you love. I love this girl for who she is as a person, for her dreams and for her sense of humor. And while I knew her story intellectually, it was as if I was a mother receiving the dreaded phone call for the first time. My face dropped and my heart sank. It was real. What happened to her was real.

Now I know I have theatrical tendencies. But just ask my much more practical siblings; one day in the aftercare homes will stay with you until you die. But now I say, one moment in those brothels will haunt your heart for eternity.

I will never, for as long as I live, forget that moment. 

Another staff member sitting in the room spoke up for the first time. Quietly, and with tears in his eyes he said, "It's hard. Our job isn't easy. And one day God will call me home but right now, we work."

I think what makes this job so hard is that it’s real. What happens to these girls is real. They actually suffer that much. They actually do get tortured, beaten, raped, mutilated, murdered and humiliated. And yes, they actually do enter into this as early as nine in some places and as late as 14 in the ‘much-more-sophisticated-civilized’ country like America.

But it was this staff member’s last sentence that pierced my soul. He chuckled at my tears, threw his hands up in the air and said, “Seeing is believing Kristy.”

And so I say to you now: I can’t show you those videos. I can’t tell you anything that would even hint at a specific fact or figure. But I can encourage you to believe despite them. We don’t all get to see. But we should act as if we have. Paul understood communal suffering better than any biblical character, second to Jesus. I know that many of you have sensed a growing passion in your heart for the victims of trafficking, and I seek now to water it. Please believe me when I say that the reality is so much more horrific than I could hope to explain. And the battle is bigger.

I have been reading about David in 1 Sameul recently. And one thing I have noticed is that David prepared for battle by practicing. As Christians we like the imagery of armor and ‘suiting up.’ But the greatest warrior in all biblical history used a sling and a stone. He knew how to fight because he had been fighting his whole life.  David defended whatever flock he was given like it was the arch of the covenant. You may not be in South Asia or the White House right now, but you have sheep near you (or you may have literal armies) but the point is, let us always defend because even the greatest King saves this world one person at a time.  

Simple Provisions

I always hear the phrase, “Don’t worry; He will provide.” But no one ever takes the time to explain what that means.

Mostly it feels as if God’s provision is more of a watchful eye than a guiding hand. But every once in a while, when I really need it, He comes down and squeezes really hard! J

It’s never big grandiose displays of power, but rather seemingly insignificant events placed in my life as a source of quiet encouragement and subtle care.

I’ve had lots of these encounters recently, probably because I need the reminders now more than ever. But my favorite are when they come in the form of auto driversJ

…

Some days I wake up and love life. Other times I dread even stepping out my door as I dramatically spiral into a well of self-pity. This was one the latter mornings. It took about 15 minutes to find a free auto. I even scowled at our poor gate guard on the way out. I forgot my notebook at home. And to top it off, I realized I only had a 500 Rupee note.

For those of you who are unaware, the exchange rate is about 50 Rupees to the dollar. This leaves the 500 Rupee note right around $10. The other helpful contextual piece of information is that one auto ride is exactly 7 Rupees. This results in an endless struggle for small change. If you see a one rupee coin, then you’ve struck gold; not because of its monetary value, but its convenient appeal, which is often more compelling. Trying to get cab drivers, rickshaw pullers, chawallas, etc to accept anything but exact change is one of the biggest headaches of living in South Asia.

So you can imagine my panic when I looked into my wallet and saw nothing but 500Rs. Tears started to roll in. I knew it was a matter of minutes before I would roll my eyes at the man shoving me from my seat, shout at the taxi driver who would hit us from behind, or throw my hands up in the air and reluctantly buy tick-tacks at a near by stand.

It was then that God stepped in, patted me on the back and lovingly told me to calm down. This divine gesture came in the form of a massive Prabaker-like smile. My auto driver looked into my wrinkled face and shrugged as if he knew everything. He then proceeded to reach over, grab my 500Rs, and count out change in 10 Rupee notes, handing me 49 bills!

It may not seem like a big deal to you, but that is the point. It was God’s simple provision. He knew my vision was starting to fade into a blurry grey, and so He simply reoriented my sight, restoring my faith in human goodness. I believe our greatest gift is being able to see God’s beauty in the crap of human failure.  And I believe God’s provision is when He defends and protects our right to see it.  

The Land of Spice and Chai

The air was cold and dusty as I stepped off the plane and climbed down rickety stairs onto a deserted runway. I had already been living in the “decaying city” for over three months and yet, the shock was worse because I knew what to expect. People pushed past me and burped in my face. I cringed. Did I really just fly back to this place? At baggage claim a band of smugglers had paid off the workers to release their illegally/legally-imported-goods from Thailand first. So I sat on my cart for an hour before normal luggage finally started making the rounds. A taxi man met me at the door, and smiled at my white skin, thinking he could make a pretty penny; “1,000. Special price for you madam.” I scoffed back and said in his native tongue, “I’m not stupid. I’ve lived here three months. It cost three hundred.” He laughed and brought all this friends over. “This girl speaks [our language],” he shouted. As usual they all gathered to shake my hand. But I was in no mood to converse with strange men. Annoyed I demanded someone to take me home. A gracious old man led me to his car, offering the going rate.

As we left the airport and crossed the bridge, which overlooks vast fields of dirt and trash, I caught a glimpse of the setting sun. It was one of those mystical moments that only exist here in the land of spice and chai. The billions of layers of pollution that separated my eyes from that burning ball of gas, allowed me to look straight into it’s heart. The sun was a perfectly round circle, as if the sky was a coloring book left untouched except for the very right hand corner, which was painted a brilliant brick red, speckled with a hint of saffron.

It was as if God blew up my heart. I thought back to the day before when I was sitting on a gorgeous island beach, receiving the most magnificent massage as hot rain poured down from the heavens.  Or three days before that when my dearest friend and I were balancing on top of elephants as they showered us from their trunks. We casually chilled on the neck of one named Mr. Joke, and sang In the Jungle, as he strolled down the street. I remembered sliding down a rock and off a waterfall after hiking through the Thai jungle. But mostly I returned to those moments of breathing in clean air, of looking at mountains peaks, or seeing my feet at the bottom of a crystal clear ocean. And for a brief moment, I envied those working for justice in a paradise place like Thailand.  

But as I stared into the spicy South Asian sun, burning ever so softly into the slums of my city, I remembered why I was called here. Years ago I prayed for God to send me where no one else wanted to go. I prayed I would be a light in the darkest of places. I didn’t know then, but God would answer my prayers. 

So I took a deep breath and walked back into the forgotten city I call home.

Series Of Sex Trafficking Rescue Operations In Kolkata A Sign Of Strong Momentum

For IJM Kolkata Field Office Director Biju Mathew, it's been impossible not to start the new year with hope, even amidst great darkness: "Here in Kolkata, we have already seen unprecedented action from the government to stop all kinds of rape, from domestic violence to sex trafficking," he says. "As India mourns the death of a rape victim in Delhi, the world is asking 'How will the government respond?'" For Biju, the fact that the Kolkata police have called IJM for help with half a dozen separate sex trafficking cases is a powerful sign of momentum.

Sold For Sex Out Of A Home

On January 8, 2013, IJM received a call from Kolkata police. They believed girls under 18 were being sold for sex – not in a red-light district, but in a residential neighbourhood. Within minutes, IJM staff members were headed to the South Kolkata neighborhood to meet the police. They arrived at what looked like a typical house, and police led the way inside. The woman suspected of running her home as a brothel was quickly placed under arrest, and the others searched for the girls.

Inside the dimly lit bedrooms, IJM and their law enforcement partners found two young women. One of them explained that her husband was sick and she had been desperate to help him. Another girl, a teenager, said she had no father and was destitute. After they gave statements to the police about the brothel, the teenage girl went to a secure aftercare home where she can receive the proper attention and care she needs.

Uncovering More Darkness

Just days later, IJM received another last-minute call from the Kolkata Police. Within half an hour, an IJM staff member was on her way to the police station. Together, the rescue team drove to a private residence, this time a large apartment building. When they arrived, they discovered two men inside the well-kept apartment with two young women.

The story that unfolded was sadly a common one. The teenage girl explained how her father had been sick and was hospitalized. One of the men in the room – the suspected trafficker – had befriended her and even bought medicine for her father. He was kind, and she thought they were falling in love. And then, he raped her. He told the girl that she would have to obey him, or else he would tell her father that she was a "bad girl."

The other woman said she had come to the apartment thinking she was actually answering a legitimate job request. As both young women shared more, it was apparent that the man had developed an intricate story of promise and glamor designed to attract vulnerable young women like these two. The suspected trafficker and the other man were arrested. IJM will support the case against them as it develops.

The Momentum Continues

And just today, January 18, IJM helped police with another rescue operation to free girls who had been trafficked to a private home. Two suspects were arrested and are now in custody. The survivors will spend the night in a safe shelter with social workers and IJM staff who can provide the immediate care they need. Tomorrow, these girls will wake up in freedom.

IJM lawyers will support the cases that develop against the suspects arrested during each operation. As the trafficking survivors settle into long-term aftercare homes, IJM social workers will continue to meet with them to help them process the trauma and build a new life.