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.
