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.