counting the log's rings.

a girl from florida, moving from alabama to california to india. because He first loved us.

[emilyechevarria]

It’s summer in India.  And it’s hot.  Wherever I am, you can bet there will be discarded lychee shells or mango peels nearby.  These fruits are the graces of the season, the sugars of sunshine, a sweet counterpart to its other by-product, the sun’s other personality - the stinging, permeating rays that suck energy and sweat from Delhi’s denizens.

And since the heat has burst, several questions have been asked around me.  Sure, we can love the poor, but can we trust them?  What if people take advantage of my willingness to give?  Of my time, my resources, myself?  These were the questions of a confused pastor who, after blessing a woman with a sewing machine, found that she had taken it and run.  How can we keep this from happening?

I met Chandi and Simla, two young women with young daughters, all of them begging.  We met in Connaught Place, a central shopping area of Delhi, and they said they would like chapati.  So we walked and talked, as they lead me to who I thought would be a chapati wallah, selling freshly made flat bread on the street.  They told me about coming from Rajasthan, about her current 4-months-along pregnancy, and about the various foods they most enjoy.  And they told me all these things with a joy uncommonly seen among those who beg.  Eyes alight, curiosity piqued, as their daughters playful bare feet ambled along the hot stone path.  

We walked and walked, 3/4ths of the way around the expansive circular layout of Connaught Place.  “This must be a great chapati wallah if they’re willing to walk so far!” I thought.  And finally, we found it.  The flour and oil shop.  They didn’t want chapati - they wanted flour to make chapati for their families.  And I’ll admit it, I had my suspicions.  

They must have a deal with this shopkeeper, I thought.  I’ll buy them atta, and they’ll sell it back.  It’s a common enough arrangement.  They’re going to try to play me.

The American in me had gotten suspicious.  Tired of being seen as a dollar sign, I considered pulling away.  

But what if they really need this?  Who am I to decide what they deserve or not.  Remember what Dr. Grigg said, “People will take advantage of your love and generosity.  But God calls us to love and give anyways.”  

So they got their atta.  The shopkeeper asked for five rupees change, small change that I didn’t have.  But Chandi exclaimed, “I have it!” and pulled the small shining coins from her change purse.  

Did you get that?  She gave the change.  And she didn’t have to; the shopkeeper would have found the change.  But out of her poverty, she gave what she had.  And partnered in it with me.  Together, we purchased the atta which, for the record, she did not sell back.  

Even if she had, what would it have changed?  Can we control the actions of others?  We are free to love and give in the wisdom and generosity of our Guide, the one who loves all equally, and gives without measure.  Our actions do not change the character, the kindness, the endless ocean of mercy and grace that is our God.  And so we, as followers, and free and strengthened to live tapped into that Source.  

Blessings upon your eyes and hearts and days, you beautiful ones.

Photos: 1) Mango life. 2) Lychee life.  3) The shining beauties who so captured me with their joy and purity of heart in Connaught Place that day.  4) India MATULers, Dr. Grigg, and wonderful participants in this month’s community economics consultation!  5) Let it be known: Singapore’s Changi Airport is the actual best.  We wandered around for an hour doing fun free activities, such as this selfie booth with illustrated bamboo!  6) Sometimes, you have to leave the country to stay in the country.  And places like the Philippines exist.  7)  This guy. 

[emilyechevarria]

Shazadi sits quietly on the floor, intensely focused.  With a nursing baby on her lap, a rambunctious two-year-old jumping on her back, and six other children scattered around the shelter grounds, her attention persists in quiet determination that defies her surroundings.  She does not waver.  With a piece of chalk gripped between her fingers, she precisely copies her name again and again on the slate before her.

शाजादी  शाजादी  शाजादी

She is one of 8 ladies participating in literacy classes in the shade of Jama Masjid.  They are mothers and wives, homeless survivors in a city that is cruel to even the sheltered.  They have names, beautiful Muslim names, that they are now learning to write for the first time.  Under the patient instruction of sweet Sana, they practice.  And it’s slow practice; the class meets twice a week and they’re starting with the basics. It may be a while before they reach what others might consider “significant progress.”  But let me tell you, the ability to fashion those three syllables that represent your existence, the ones that you’ve been known by, identified by, that have settled deep into your chest as synonymous with your identity - that is significant.  

If you’re reading this, you have that ability, and probably take it for granted.  I’ll admit it, I do.  But seeing these ladies excitedly write their names on their hands, the hands of their friends and children snaps you back to the deep power of a name.  And I think of the One who has their names written on His hands, loving and caring for each one of these women more than they can imagine.

It is my hope that after years of abuse and abandonment at the hands of husbands, families, the police, and the world around them, these women would come to know deeper levels of their value and identity in the One who can speak value and identity.  I pray that something new would be awakened in them as they learn alphabets and numbers, a new spirit of curiosity and discovery engaged by the One who transforms hearts and minds.  

This is exciting, this is flourishing movement in a world that often feels so stuck in the same rote patterns.  And I am thankful for those colorful breaks from the ripping current that splash throughout days with Him.

Grace, peace, and joy multiplied unto you all!  

Photos: 1) Sana teaching the ladies during literacy class.  2)  After the first class, these ladies showed off their names!  3)  Holi happened.  I guess you could say it was fun. : )  4) The kids from our internship and Val playing Red Light, Green Light at India Gate!  5) Sometimes, it’s the nicest thing in the world to get snail mail from the most wonderful of people. : )  6) Hussain and Sameer, keeping it fresh.

[emilyechevarria]

Three and a half weeks in America for Christmas break swept over me and burst at the seams with visiting people and places, spending lots of quality time with family, and eating foods that now apparently bring me to tears. Avocados, well- baked cake, lasagna, and steak make me cry now. (I’ve gotten really weird.) It was a sweet time of rest and respite; one that gave me space to breathe, literally and figuratively. Come the year’s beginning, my father and I hopped a plane to India together! Unspeakably beautiful time with my dad that I will cherish forever. If there were any doubts about how much my family supports me (for the record, there weren’t), they have been washed away. Dreaming and scheming with my father over breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Over oothapam and dosa. Over mutton kebabs and tandoori roti. Over cereal, dahi, and double espressos. I am the child of a dreamer, a visionary who sees and enables dreams into reality. This is my DNA, the fruit of both nature and nurture.

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While in Tampa, I met up with a friend from high school who, whenever we meet, inspires me to love actively, think deeply, and to walk courageously while walking differently. As a theology student, she sees the often very real divide between scholarly theological thought and real-world practice. Over a cup of coffee, something she said struck a chord that is still resonating a month later.

"You can keep your soft-handed theology," she declared. "I’d rather my hands be calloused and covered in dirt."

…

Meanwhile, plaques at Akshardham read:

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"May these columns, imbued with spiritual love, bless you…"

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Love Does. It is not a static thing, captured within ornately sculpted columns or temples. At a staggering cost of 200 crore ruppees (2 billion rupees or 33.3 million dollars, an astronomical cost anywhere, but especially on this side of the world), Akshardham stands in the Delhi mist (ahem, SMOG) appearing silent and ancient. However, it was built in 2005, and is currently the world’s largest Hindu temple. Walking through it, I felt the emptiness, the fraudulence of it’s claims. The swami it was dedicated to was supposed to have been a great teacher of love. But I didn’t see any evidence of what he DID. He received adoration, offerings, acclaim. He spoke, gave orders, and practiced extreme asceticism. He spoke of a theoretical, philosophical love that, from where I stand, is too flimsy to stand on it’s own. Plaques ask visitors to receive the “spiritual love” these columns and statues radiate. But they are stone. Cold, hard stone.

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My God, my Guru loved in real time. He loved creatively, He loved wisely. He loved in culturally contextual ways and in ways that shook the core of people’s cultural assumptions. Whether rubbing spit-laden mud in a blind man’s eyes or engaging in respectful conversation with a Samaritan woman at the well, the Master’s love was always active, never passive. If Jesus is the Guru, the teacher, and I am the student, then I want to learn by following His example. Oh, for the grace to follow such a teacher.

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So you can keep your soft-handed theology; give me calloused hands covered in dirt.

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Photos: 1) family photo on Tampa Bay on Christmas Day. 2) Exploring Mughal ruins with my dad - he came to visit me in India!! 3) Elephants on the Periyar River, Kerala. 4) Tea plantation in Munnar, Kerala. 5) Showing dad the ropes on respiratory protection from pollution during an auto ride.

[emilyechevarria]

"Whoa, your attitude has changed 100% since last month."

Words that came from the friend who knows me better than anyone else; words that my ears welcomed.

After a couple months of feeling frustrated, exhausted, and jaded, baked in by the heat, the Lord has poured out grace for this season.  He has heard my prayers and those of loved ones across oceans begging for a time cleansed of tension and frustration.  He has relaxed my mind, eased my heart, and coaxed open my clenched fists.  I love it here again.  

And just in time to love and enjoy Diwali!  Diwali, the festival of lights, which we reclaim in the Name of the One True Light.  Valerie and I played on her host family's rooftop, setting off fire-crackers, squealing in simultaneous delight and terror.  There's the pencil bomb, the thick glittery sparkler, the firework that opens as a fountain of cascading sparks, and the spinning pinwheel of fire.  Oh, and the aloo bomb, which must contain about half a stick of dynamite, judging by its (literally) wall-shaking sonic boom.

...

Autumnal airs are tumbling in, so it's mandatory to ignore the pollution and get outside.  Eating fresh steamed momos (dumplings) with two dear Indian friends under string lights at a market, I had the opportunity to bridge some communication gaps that I know cause hurt to those I love around me.  "You tell me what offends you about our culture, and then I'll share with you about yours.  Thik hai?"  DEAL.

THE most enlightening, beautiful, honest conversation.  The most arresting connection we made dealt with openness to friendship and boundaries.   She was saying that Indians are initially guarded when meeting new people, but once you're in, you're IN.  Nothing is off limits; you're an open book.  Americans, however, are different.  We're initially soft and open, warmly welcoming you in.  Once you reach a certain point, though, you hit a wall where we begin guarding the vulnerable stuff, the real stuff.  So here's the difficulty: seeing Americans' immediate openness and warmth, Indians perceive that they are in, and so invite the Americans into their world.  Which is great!  Until Americans feel the undesired demands or pressures of a person they think of as only an acquaintance or distant friend, and pull back.  One has welcomed the other in, the other has shut them out.  Misunderstanding happens, pain happens, and no one talks about it, because no one knows how to talk about it.  Coming from different paradigms, there's so much we don't know how to discuss.

While simplified generalizations on cultural attitudes, I have seen them play out time and time again.  It's been tricky, thinking that I'm communicating openly and honestly with people I care for, only to find that they were wounded in the process.  The culture gap can feel too wide; is it worth being here if I accidentally yet consistently inflict pain on those I love?  While I don't know how to make everything right, I can try.  This is a chance to love people in wisdom based on what I know about communication, asking for the cushion of His grace.  Because my wisdom will fail.  I'll get into ambiguous situations, murky on my role in the matter.  I'll make assumptions that both parties mean the same thing, when that is just not the case.  In spite of my good intentions, I'll mess up.  And I pray that in those moments, the Holy Spirit would be there to comfort and minister in the gaping gaps.

...

Photos: 1) October was wedding season!  Val and I got fancy for two weddings - one for a girl from our church and one for a friend through a local NGO.  2) Slum church wedding in Khichripur. 3,4) DIWALI!  fireworks for days.  5) a fish saleswoman at a market in Kolkata. 6) drinking chai from tiny earthen cups in Kolkata!  These Kolkata staples were originally meant for Dalits ("untouchables") to use and smash so they wouldn't pollute re-usable vessels and subsequently chai-drinkers of higher caste.  Now, everyone uses them!  What was symbolic of division now points towards unity. 7) Kolkata.  I fell in love with that city.  8) After 3 years apart, sweet Sophia and I reunited!  And then we played ukulele in a taxi in Kolkata.  Obviously.  9) Chai with the lovely Miriam, and this guy.  I just don't know what's going on there.

[emilyechevarria]

The last of my mehendi dyed nails from Eid peeled off this week, and October began.   August was for traveling, September was for getting in gear.  Now, new internships are in full swing, small groups are forming, papers are flowing, and the heat’s still kicking.  Mangos are out, apples are in.  Pages turn, unnervingly quickly.

…

In the parking lot of Our Lady of Sorrow Catholic Church, wrapped in jackets and scarves before coming to India, a dear friend asked me, “What are you most afraid of about this?”  After a short pause, it hit me, the borderline pathetic truth:  “Of being tired.”

Here I am, 9 months later, exhausted.  Babies have been conceived and born since my feet were last on American soil, and like recent mothers, I have given life.  Expended nutrients, energy, time; tears of pain and tears of joy. 

A classmate and friend posted a link to an article from Psychology Today online.  The piece sought to explain why boys are more apt to see improvement in any skill or venture as fruit from effort, while girls seem to perceive skill or ability as an innate trait you’re born with or without in varying degrees.  It’s not that boys are inherently anything that girls aren’t; the author posits that it all comes down to socialization of children at their varying speeds of development.  It’s a fascinating piece that you can read here.  But while reading, a moment of self-reflection burst: this Master’s program is probably the first thing I’ve done that wasn’t easy for me that I’ve stuck with.  Most things in life that I’ve stuck with have come naturally, and if they didn’t I moved on.  Undergrad was tricky at times, but with a couple all-nighters and lots of coffee, I pulled through.  This is different.  And more than any other time in my twenty-four-and-a-half years of life, I’m understanding the difficult beauty of Romans 5:3-5:

“…but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering producing endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”

Now, please don’t misunderstand me: I am grateful for this time.  I am grateful to live in a place so unlike my own culture, and learn and serve among my brothers and sisters on the subcontinent.  As for the word “suffering” as it appears in that verse… I’m not suffering.  The people in the tent community down the street are suffering.  The HIV patients I meet each week at my internship are suffering.   I have running water, plumbing, health, and a roof.  I’m not suffering.   I am simply challenged by what’s before me, and am learning about pressing in a pressing through.  This “hope that does not put us to shame” is no flimsy cotton-candy feeling of a “maybe one day” wish.  It is sure.  It has been bestowed.  We have it.  Hope.  And Hope is He.

It’s true when they say that the Lord desires people who are willing to pour out their lives as an offering before Him.  He will sow many beautiful things from it.  Pray that the Lord would grant me ever more endurance and joy.  And pray for the Kingdom, that it would come.  You know what, seek the Kingdom.  And seek it first.

Grace and Peace to all you lovely hearts.

Photos: (All from August travels to Rajasthan and Nepal (!) which were incredibly refreshing, reviving, and life-giving.  Needed them.)  1) little man in Jaisalmer who made our breakfasts of parathas.  He looked at this photo, and told me, "clean it up a bit and it'll look nice."  2) Haveli babe.  3)  I rode a camel in the Thar Desert.  It's name was Raja.  4)  Becoming a desert creature.  (I was still cleaning sand from my ears for the next 4 days.)  5)  Val and Miriam on the lake of floating palaces in Udaipur.  6) The holy city of Pushkar.  7)  Tibetan masks in Kathmandu.  8)  Boudha Stupa and the shadowy mountains that tuck the city in.  9)  Two days of Himalayan trekking.  Absolute glory.

[emilyechevarria]

This was month six (bleeding into month 7) of living on the subcontinent, and as of a few days ago, i'm halfway to having earned my Master's degree!  As time goes by, it seems to speed up.  This month brought me to a rural village, London and Paris, and to Dr. Thom and Linda Wolf's home, where we spent nearly two weeks working on end-of-the-semester assignments.  Our two MATUL gurus, Shannon and Alessa, said their tear-soaked goodbyes and headed back to North America with a new Indian family cheering them on in their next steps.  

Indian village life.  Valerie and I got to taste and see it in action in the state of Uttar Pradesh.  Our landlady's family lives in a village called Dhanpura.  Their house overlooks a small stream, and acres and acres of sugar cane, grain, and mustard fields.  Their three cows rest under a shady grove of neem trees, and food is prepared over the open fire chula in the courtyard.  Delhi is a city of village immigrants, so visiting the motherland provided a peek into why things are the way they are in Delhi.  The loose sense of time, the different gender roles, some of the roots of Hindu spirituality - they all clicked while being in that context. 

In the village, we were asked three questions: how do you like the village, are you married, and how many brothers and sisters do you have.  You could sense the aunties holding their breath, waiting for us to mention a brother in the family ranks.  When it was my turn to respond, I proudly stated, "I have one younger sister."  The ladies' responses varied.  The most concerned of the bunch tried to comfort me, stating that "maybe I'll get a brother one day" (???), and the least concerned responded, "oh, no problem".  But what she was saying was that having no brothers IS seen as a problem.

As we got back to our neighborhood after four days in the village, we drove past a crowd of people at a storefront and drums going.  Val and I first thought they were part of a wedding or funeral procession, but our landlord’s daughters told us this is a time of worship and celebration when a child is born.  Excuse me, when a MALE child is born.  When a boy is born, celebration.  When a girl is born, crying and condolences.  

The preference for males over females is clear, and is problematic.  Females are often seen as a liability, and they can cost the family a lot of money through the practice of dowry.  While more and more people are receiving education and learning that many traditional practices are harmful and unjust towards women, India is still a long ways off from recognizing men AND women as made in the image of the One True God.

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My friend and Hindi teacher, Zareena, invited me to her family's home to partake in the Muslim celebration of Eid.  It was an honor to go to their home and to join in the Eid feast, consisting of mountains of chicken biryani, raita, chutney, and delicious creamy sweet vermicelli soup.  Sitting outside on the cot with my teacher and her two cousins, next to Raja the goat and parades of tiny children in shiny clothes, going from adult to adult for "Eidi" gift money, Tabassum brought it up.

"You need a Muslim name.  Hmm, what should it be?"

The three girls consulted in a huddle, whispering in hurried Hindi.  They emerged with an announcement.

"Your name, it is Zoya Khan Shaikh.  'Zoya' means 'stars', and you are our sister, so you have our family names.  Khan and Shaik."

You better believe I was a teary-eyed mess.  

"Mera dil," I told them.  My heart.  

"Is it outside your body?" they asked.  Yes.  Yes it was.

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These are amazing young women.  Coming from a slum in Delhi, they are pursuing dreams and believing they are capable of more than they are told.  The first in her family to graduate college, and the first in her family to graduate high school, they have overcome.  It is my prayer that the Lord would continue to clear paths for them, continue to inspire their dreams, and to continue showing them the love in His eyes for them.  

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The month of August will bring rest, travel, adventure, and preparation for the fall semester.  My Delhi family jokes about the unrealistic plans we make for our month-long break.  If we did everything we desired to, August would be spent: traveling to Nepal, Sri Lanka, Vietnam, China, Turkey, and North Africa, perfecting Hindi, learning to cook Indian food, reading for fun, cleaning, building new and deeper relationships in our neighborhood, writing, teaching seminars, and sleeping.  We may not be able to make all of that happen, but we will do everything within our power to soak up this month.  

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Thank you for your continued prayers and petitions.  The Lord is near, and is faithful to provide for me in every way.  Please keep 'em coming, He is pouring out from the heavens, and it's brilliantly unreal.

Grace, Peace, and Love to you all.

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Photos: 1)  dream fields in Dhanpura. 2) playing in an industrial agricultural water pump (AKA, "village swimming pool") with some lovely ladies.  3) going on a ghumna, or a stroll, with fans in hand.  4) the village aunties were curious - they had never had foreigners visit the village before!  5) Valerie being radiant in the fields of Dhanpura. 6) romping around Paris tourist-style with my sweet sister. 7) family reflection photo in London.

[emilyechevarria]

Month five has been so many things.  Each week is different, each week is dynamic.  It has been a month of trying new things, exhaustion and refreshment, full-submersion in the deep end of practical learning, and lots of laughter.

My community economics internship with Shikhar Microfinance is fantastic.  Once a week, I work in the office, and then once a week, I spent the better part of the day perched side-saddle on a motorbike, riding from slum to slum to leper colony to gather women’s stories of their business ventures.  These women have taken micro-loans as capital for entrepreneurial ventures in their communities, ranging from general stores to clothing boutiques, industrial machine brush-making to momo (dumpling) carts.  They all have different stories, different family situations, different skills to offer and to reap from.  My fellow intern and I ask these women a variety questions to understand the impact of these micro-loans on their lives.  Amazing stories, amazing women.   

Language learning continues on.  Several days a week, I go to my friend Zareena’s house for very relational Hindi class.  Every once and a while, the hilarity and chaos of Indian family life enters into our class.  There was one class this month in particular where a group of little girls from the Nizam Nagar basti sat around, milling, giggling.  “They’re driving me crazy!” Zareena cried out. 

One of the girls, quite precociously, turned her attention to me as the spokesperson of the group.  “We have some questions for you,” she stated authoritatively.  I laughed and told her to bring them on.  A girl to my right burst out, unable to contain her question within her little body any longer. “Why are the toilets from your country so weird??” (“toilets from your country” meaning ones you sit on, as opposed to Indian style “squatty potties”.)  Let it be known, she meant every ounce of that question. 

Then the Spokesperson spoke. 

“How many stars are in the sky?” 

“Well, no one knows.  Only Allah knows.”

“No, I know!  It’s the number of hairs on a bear!” 

You heard it here first, folks.  The number of stars in the sky is the same number of hairs on a bear’s body. 

… 

Beginning of June, team Delhi went to Thailand!  Thailand was a beautiful time of community, with students from Bangkok, Manila, Delhi, and Kolkata coming together.  We spent time in Bangkok and Koh Chang, eating and laughing our way through the tropical rain.  In the words of Jake, who lives in Manila, “This whole trip was filled with potentially terrible ideas, but that’s what made it so much fun!”  And we didn’t even sign any waivers.  Riding 4-ton elephants, zipping around wet mountain passes on bikes on the left side of the road, going tubing on our low-season-bored Dutch hotel owner’s boat, etc. (Sorry, Dr. Grigg, APU, Mom and Dad.) I stuffed my face with Thai-style spicy papaya salad, every coconut curry available, sticky rice, pat grah pao, tom yum soup, and these incredible deep fried crepes stuffed with mango.  Street food in Bangkok is some kind of treasure to behold.  Oh, and MANGOSTEEN.  Yummm.  

In my time away, God provided such deep refreshment.  Upon arriving back in Delhi, I can see just how much better I feel than when I left.  In two weeks of rest, He restored a lot that had been crushed by the relentless heat and chaos of this city that I truly love.  Coming back from Thailand, I see this country anew.  It’s now-familiar patterns are comforting, I feel a lightness in my spirit.  Time to dig in my heels and hit the rest of the semester hard from this place of refreshment and energy.  (Renewed sense of Purpose is the best.)

Photos: 1) Four entrepreneurs I had the privilege of interviewing.  2) Blurry and happy on an elephant on Koh Chang!  3) Elephant trekking.  4)  Valerie and me on a breathtaking overlook on Koh Chang.  5)  Tramping through Thai jungles, chasing waterfalls with these fun folks.  6)  THAI FOOD.  7)  Demon support at Wat Arun in Bangkok.  8)  Wat Arun from the Chao Praya river.  9) Cohorts and sites unite!  Small sampling of the glorious reunions that happened. 

[emilyechevarria]

Breaking news: Scabies.  I’ve got ‘em.  It’s a shameful diagnosis, but I’m taking it in stride.  For those of you who don’t know what scabies are, I understand them to be like skin lice.  Most people seem to get them from children, though you can pick them up anywhere.  Maybe it was giving a street kid a piggy-back ride that did me in, or maybe it’s from skin contact in the sardine-can of a metro.  There’s no way to know for sure.  They’re tiny little bugs, invisible to the human eye, that bury into the skin.  Their residence on my person has resulted in itchy, swollen bites on my arms, ankles, and back.  I thought they were enormous mosquito bites, until a doctor friend took a peek and filled me in on what they really were.  So I’ve started on meds to get rid of the pests, and am in the process of boiling all my clothes.  Everyone else on team Delhi has seemed to have health issues except for me.  Half of us have gotten colonoscopies at this point.  And I’m over here, chillin’ with minimal digestive issues, no serious health concerns.  Clearly, I was due. 

  A couple weeks ago, the six Dilli wallahs took to South India to meet up with other MATULigans for a Community and Biblical Economics conference.  34-hour train ride to Chennai, 34-hour ride back to Delhi.  Chai wallahs scoot & shuffle through the aisles with their distinctive “chaaaaaicoffeeCHAIIIII” call they do so well.  It was time of relaxation, watching movies, playing cards and solving riddles.  And as amazing as wallahs are, selling everything under the scorching Indian sun, I overdid it.  Dosas, coconut candies, mango jelly peeling things, ice cream… though I was able to resist buying anything from the “garam dudh” (hot milk) wallah. (gross.)

  In Chennai, on the last day of our MATUL Community Economics conference, we visited two churches, both of entirely Indian leadership and funding, who have facilitated massive transformation in the lives of the communities.  The contrast with the slums of Delhi was astounding.  These slums oozed hope.  The air scented with industrious aroma, streets a-buzz with people working and relating.  Something was different here.

Hospitality abounded.  At one point, we were at a slum on the banks of a river.  I suppose this river was once composed of water, though now it’s inky thick composition obscures any clarity of its past.  Young boys skipping rocks against the liquid’s clumpy surface, chickens scratching garbage piles.  As we wound through the narrow pathways, small children and grown adults alike smiled and greeted us, calling “Wanakkam!”  The contrast between people’s receptivity of strangers in this slum and the distrust towards strangers in Delhi slums could not be more stark. 

There was an older gentleman who invited Valerie and myself into his home.  We met his daughter and grandson, and discovered they were very involved with the local church in the community.  They splurged to treat us to “cold drinks”, and told us about the three family members whose photos adorned the wall.  They had all passed away, including one little boy, immortalized in an 8”x10” frame.  His name was Harris, and he passed away in February at the too-young age of 2.  His grandfather teared up, repeating, “He was such a good boy.  A good, good boy”.  Valerie and I sat there, teary eyed ourselves, when she asked if we could pray for them.  They are a good family of tender hearts, dedicated to the service of the Lord in their community.  May He bless and comfort them.

  Upon arrival to Delhi, I discovered I had secured an internship!  It’s with a microfinance organization called Shikhar Development Foundation, whose mission statement is “empowering communities by providing financial services and livelihood opportunities.”  I’m thrilled to be working with them.  My assignment for the term of the internship is going to visit clients to collect their stories.  The stories of how small loans and a little bit of training allowed them to improve their family’s standard of living, and impact the community for good.  I get to collect and record stories in the slums of Delhi for my internship.  This is my dream.  I spoke with the CEO, and admitted to him that I don’t really know anything about economics.  He responded, “I’m not an economist either.  My background is in history.  But I love people.  I love talking with people, listening to what they have to say.  I love going to the slums, sitting down with people, and hearing about their lives.”  He doesn’t view microfinance as it’s own end.  It is a venue for relationship, for conversation, for community.  Microfinance is merely the vehicle to accomplish a community’s economic, social, and political empowerment.  It is the medium for transmission of values and knowledge.  Microfinance cannot be its own goal.  It’s about the people.  And about the One Who loves His people.

This past month was a crazy one, and the one to come most likely will be as well.  But I am happy, and in the Heart of the Almighty.  All is well.  All is well.  

Photos: 1) Heidi and I take "I'm caught in an auto in a rainstorm" selfies. 2) We took over a compartment on the Tamil Nadu Express to Chennai. 3) Rooftop view in Chennai, complete with palm trees. 4) When clean water comes to your community in a tanker truck, you fill UP.  5) Sweet babes in a Chennai community.

[emilyechevarria]

Full, exciting, trying, and joyous.  This is life these days.

I moved into an apartment with two other MATULers in East Delhi.  Our walls are pepto-pink and electric green, and are home to little gecko buddies, affectionately called Rohit, Leonard, and Dave.  Pigeons keep trying to nest in our washroom.  Daily, one of us has to sweep out their twigs.  The landlords are the kindest Buddhist family you ever did meet, who inform us about the community and include us in celebratory festivities.  The mother even occasionally brings us up portions of her daily cooking ventures to share.  And oh boy, do we gladly partake. 

The first semester abroad is finished as of today, and I’m looking forward to a week of rest before a new semester begins.

  Culture shock has arrived, and I am currently riding out the throes of this process.

Traits in myself that I can easily smooth over in the context of a culture I am intimately familiar with simply boil over the pot.  I can’t hide my mess.

I myself am not a good person.  Life in India has made that very clear.

I get angry and behave childishly.  I am selfish and desirous of all things.  In America, I consider myself a pretty low-maintenance individual.  Whoops, my mistake.  In a wider global context, I require a good deal more maintenance than I had previously thought.  I require decent living arrangements (that feel cozy and pretty), clean water (and lots of coffee, preferably “good” coffee), food (of vast variety so I don’t get sick and tired of the same tastes), clothes (that look good, are comfortable, and enough variety so I don’t feel self conscious about my lack), technology and entertainment, reliable (and ideally pleasant) transportation, air conditioning (God, yes.), so on and so forth.  American low-maintenance here is some sort of high maintenance. 

I say all this not to be self-deprecating.  Typically I find self-deprecation insincere and indicative of a distorted sense of self.  No, I say this to be honest and open.  Realizing your own cultural limitations and the vastness of your own brokenness (again and again) can shake you up a bit.  It is a healthy dose of perspective, and for that, I am thankful. 

    At the beginning of March, a group of seven of us foreigners gathered into a room, wrapped ourselves in blankets, and braced ourselves as we watched "Twelve Years a Slave".  ...Phewww.  Those of you who have seen it know what I'm talking about.  I thought my heart would free itself from my ribcage, burst out of my body, and bleed on the floor.  That seemed like the only response to the pain I felt. 

 Wiping tears from my eyes, I looked around the room, and confessed,  "...And that's the history of my part of America, folks."  A second or two of silence passed before my friend Shannon spoke up. "In my part of the country, we forced Chinese workers to build railroads and buried them in collapsed tunnels."  Another three seconds passed, and then Matthias spoke up.  All he said: "I'm German." 

We have messy histories.

Heavy histories, painful histories of privilege and oppression.  

Dirty histories that we spring out of.

But as I considered all of this, I looked around at us, at where we are, and at the fiery drive the Lord has put on our hearts for compassion, for mercy, and for justice.  Somehow, out of messy collective histories, He is raising up people who desire to see His Kingdom come in every corner of the earth.  Truly, He trades ashes for the oil of gladness.  Truly, He is making all things new.  

  We are here for such a time as this.  A time to learn, a time to act, a time to love.  The general premise of "Twelve Years a Slave" is very much a reality in India today.  Young women are daily deceived into believing there's a promising job awaiting them in the big city, only to find themselves at the mercy (or lack thereof) of a trafficker.  No documents, no social connections, no semblance of hope for escape.  They are sold into brothels, told they must service ridiculous numbers of customers a day to pay back their debt for travel expenses incurred, yet they never see any of the money.  

We are here for such a time as this.

  Thank you for your prayers before the Lord.  They are heard, and they are precious.

Grace, peace, love, and joy to you all!

Photos: 1) Sunset over the city and the clothesline. 2) I went to the Taj!  3) Buddies on the Agra adventure.  Caitlin, me, and Trisha. 4)  Agra's got camels.  5) Heidi and Val looking out over the neighborhood from our balcony.

[emilyechevarria]

Two months in, and I’m still feeling good! The weather is moving towards the forever-long summer that dwells here 9 months out of the year. I’m both happy to shed the coat, and terrified of the heat that ominously marching near.

February was good to me. I had more opportunities to spend time with the everyday people who make Delhi tick. Two of my friends brought me to a picnic put on by an NGO they work with. The NGO brought 20 kids from a slum school to a beautiful historic fort and park here in Delhi, and fed the kids their first tastes of pizza. Dancing, playing, and being silly with those girls and boys was energizing, nourishing. I also got to photograph some construction workers and their children near my home. I have no idea if they had any family portraits before, but they do now. That photography session was one of my favorite moments since being here. Women in saris pushed the brick stacks off their heads and ran, barefoot, through a construction site. All to see these amateur family photos. The sweetest.

I’d like to share a scene with you.

I climb down the stairs and walk out the front steps of my house, as I hear thumping feet running on the packed earth, and a tiny voice yell, “Emily!” I look over and see Rohan, a little boy who lives in the house next door on the ground floor. His eyes are bright, his inhibitions are none. He promptly gets scolded for not referring to me as “Emily Didi”, the respectful way to refer to a woman around my age. But honestly, I couldn’t care less about being referred to as “Didi” or not in that moment, because he knew my name and he ran to see me. Forget the formalities, give me the lovin’.

As I said, Rohan and his family live next door. What I didn’t say is that Rohan’s family is 17 people large, living in a 100 square foot house. Yes, seventeen people, 100 square feet. The grandparents, their kids, their kids’ kids, aunts, uncles, the whole shabang. All under one roof. How is that possible, you may ask? Well, it isn’t. So every night, several family members sleep elsewhere: on the doorstep, in the small park across the street, wherever they can find space. The park has been transformed into a family laundry field, clean sheets, pants, kurtas as flags strung across the dirt-filled space. A trash-burning space to keep warm, a sometimes bathing-space, a shine to a Hindu holy tree - that park does it all. As my host mother says, “These people are poor. Very, very poor.” And yet, as I walked by and saw one of the girls making roti (Indian bread) on the flat pan, she immediately asked if I’d like to come in and eat. They don’t have the money or the space for that kind of hospitality, but they do have the hearts.

I say all of this not to exploit your emotions with some pathos-packed appeal, but simply to tell you about my neighbors. I don’t know all of their names yet, but I am trying. Their lives are likely vastly different from yours, but they are more similar to you than you’d imagine.

Phew! All that being said, the nutshell of my life is this: the semester is in full swing, it’s warming up, and I’m blessed. Oh, and God is so ridiculously good. So near, and so good. Praise Him.

Love you all! Grace, peace, joy, and love. (Pouring, filling, brimming, and overflowing.)

Photos (from top to bottom) - 1) & 2) first taste of pizza in the park! 3) Marti and Granti, two of the construction ladies in my neighborhood. 4) the lovely Granti. 5) tiny angel baby. 6) parrot off my host-family's balcony.  Delhi may be the most polluted city on the globe - yes, literally - but we've got birds. : )  7) sunlight and unsure neighbors.

[emilyechevarria]

Here I am at the “one-month-in-India” mark!  One month, four Hindi verb tenses, two overnight train rides, countless auto rickshaw negotiations, and one Hindu wedding later.  And I’m feeling good!

 Time is doing that funny thing where it seems lightning fast and molasses slow at the self-same time.  So much has happened, but I also still feel as though I just arrived.  I’m still entralled by the colors of the subzi (veggie) wallahs’ carts, their bounties of purple eggplant, green zucchini, red-orange carrots, deep red pomegranates.  I am still in love with Indian food, though I’ve discovered I’m not much for goat… or goat liver… I still get confused about which way to look first when I’m crossing the (often very busy) road, dodging autorickshaws and motorbikes blindly.  At the same time, I can now confidently bargain with an auto driver and am beginning to understand fair pricing in terms of rupees.  I can count to 100 in Hindi, and can greet Indian Hindus, Muslims, and Christians properly.  The small victories bring great joy, and every day carries with it abundant supplies of laughs. 

This weekend, I went to Jodhpur with some friends.  Our group consisted of 2 Americans, 3 Germans, 1 Canadian, and 1 Kiwi.  Jodhpur is called “the Blue City”, and for good reason.  In Rajasthan, “the Land of the Kings”, its old city area glows a blue hue, building walls painted with indigo.  In the center of the city on a mountain stands Mehrangarh Fort, built in the 15th century as the Maharaja’s palace.  From the grand rocky palace radiate billowy blue layers of homes, guesthouses, businesses, lives.  One night, while sitting atop our guest house rooftop and playing a game of cards, I overheard some of the other guests conversing.  One Australian woman who had been in India for a month was comforting a shellshocked newly arrived tourist who I could see immediately regretted the decision to visit India.  The Australian kept using painfully colonial words to describe the Indian people.  She spoke about Indian culture on a very surface level, making blanket statements about the culture, and I was surprised at how much that frustrated and even upset me after being here only a month- the same amount of time as her.  Because while all the words she used were not altogether wrong, they missed the spirit of what life is here.  The people are not simply “charming” or “quaint”: they’re real.  They face real struggles with real pain and real joy.  They have real families with beautiful quirks and painful dysfunctions.  Most people work hard to make ends meet.  “They” are complex, dynamic, not easily reduced.

After all of these thoughts raced across my mind and heart, I paused, breathed, and it hit me: I’m bonding with the culture.  After one month, I’ve started to see and appreciate this nation, and a bond has formed.  I have the privilege of sharing life with an Indian family, hearing about their triumphs, their pains, their dreams and goals.  And this perspective is leading to a deeper and more substantial love for India.

Though I am doing school work here, one of my main focuses at the moment is asking God to reveal His heart for this city and this nation for me.  How does He feel when He looks at the subcontinent?  What brings Him joy, what pains His tender heart?  How can I pray for His Kingdom to come tangibly to Delhi?  What can my hands, heart, mouth do for the Kingdom and the people of India that He so loves?  Because, you see, He has been here, working, loving, revealing, for ages before.  Since long before my home nation was even a thought, before the name “India” was placed on this land, before the mapped boundary lines were drawn.  The Ancient of Days, He has been here before the most ancient memory recorded.  And I get to be a part of His unfolding in this most recent historical blip of an era.  What a privilege.  

Grace, Peace, Joy, and Love to you all from India!  

Photos: 1) Jodhpur, "the Blue City". 2) Palace façade of Mehrangarh Fort. 3) Lattice over the city. 4) Shannon on our guesthouse rooftop, overlooking the fort.

[emilyechevarria]

It has been quite some time since I last posted, and a lot has happened between these two posts.  I finished my first semester of grad school.  I drove cross-country from Los Angeles to Tampa with my dear friend Carley.  We saw the Grand Canyon, drove through (a LOT of) snow for the first time ever, got 10 dollars for free at a “gaming room” (read: casino) in Arkansas, had the best dance party of my life in Nashville with the brightest souls you ever did meet, and said goodbye to my people in Birmingham.  I spent 3 full and lovely weeks with my family in Florida.  And I moved to India.  

I moved in with a family of three in Delhi.  The mother Jaqueline, daughter Hannah (age 17), and son James (age 20) have quickly made me feel at home.  They all speak excellent English, but speak Hindi around the house and want to help me learn the language as much as possible.  I sleep in a bed in the hallway, next to kitchen, with a shower curtain hung in front to give me some privacy.  Jaqueline cooks me spicy, flavor-packed Indian breakfasts and dinners everyday, and seems to constantly be handing me cups of hot chai.  If you know me, you know that I don’t mind that one bit. 

Ideally, we were supposed to live in a slum, and this is not a slum.  It’s quite a nice one-bedroom apartment with a rooftop terrace (AMAZING.  my absolute FAVORITE) and a balcony.  It’s not exactly like any apartment I’ve lived in before, though.  For example, part of the wall in the kitchen is metal mesh and I can hear pigeons cooing on the other side of it.  So that is different.  And my host mom told me a story of monkeys breaking in and stealing all the food in their refrigerator.  That’s also different.  I love it here.

India is beautiful, hectic, heartbreaking, and hopeful.  The sounds here are clashing and melodic, chaotic and soothing.  They are constant and are quickly becoming a lullaby the city hums to me at night.  It is an endless jumble of car horns, birds chirping, the wallahs (vendors) shouting their calls as they push their carts through the street.  Last night was the Punjabi festival of Lohri, where families light bonfires in the street.  Groups of musicians play songs around the fire with horns and drums, while others throw popcorn and peanuts into the fire.  It has something to do with the winter harvest, though I’m not entirely clear on the details.  Today, there are two other festivals.  I’ve been here for 5 days, and already there have been 3 festivals!  Oh India.  Have I mentioned that I love it here? : )

I can’t believe I’m finally here.  I can’t believe I’m already here.  I just can’t believe that I get to be here.  Thank you all for your prayers, your encouragement, your well-wishes, and your kind words.  I cherish them in my heart and lift them up to the Lord.

God is so good.  Allow yourself to dream in the power of the Holy Spirit, and then see what He does.  I dare you.  It gets wild and it gets goooood.

Grace, Peace, Love, and Boundless Joy to you all.

Photos (from top to bottom):

1.  hailed my first auto!  total victory.  2.  enjoying some rooftop terrace sunlight.  3.  Dr. Thom Wolf and Sean stir the pot for the mass feeding at the Gurdwara.  4.  Lajpat Nagar Central Market.  5.  Team Delhi at Gurdwara Bangla Sahib.  6.  festival of Lohri from the balcony.  7.  Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god.

[emilyechevarria]

crunchhhh.

Officially week 11 here, and the semester has decidedly shifted into hyper-speed!  So many projects due, and so much material to keep reading, digesting, reflecting upon.  I start to get caught up and have just enough time to smile a smugly proud smile before I'm back under the heap of un-checked boxes.  Not to mention that in the midst of the frenzy, it is time to buy plane tickets, apply for visas, get vaccinations.  Classes in India start two months from Wednesday. (!!!) There's no way that's real, except that it is.  There are four of us going to Delhi: Valerie, Heidi, Sean, and myself.  They are all so wonderful, I honestly feel privileged to get to do this adventure with them.  Clearly they will make frequent appearances on this blog.  It's gonna be a wild ride, folks!

I realize that I haven't written much about what I'm even learning here.  The material we're learning expands into many areas, including church planting, personal and community spiritual growth, international and community development, anthropology of poor communities, etc.  MATUL involves and demands participation in every realm of life.  It extends from the sphere of academia and boldly marches into my social life, while linking my spiritual life along as well.  And even how it does that is consistent with what we're learning!  Spirituality and ministry are not limited to a sphere.  Jesus demands all of us.  All of our life, passions, pains, gifts.  He is holistic, caring for every part of us.  The response, then, is to use every part out of loving care for Him, am I right?  (Yeah, I am.) : )

If you think about it, please pray for me.  There is so much to do and to learn and to have under control, and I often feel discouraged about not having it all together.  Your petitions before the Lord are greatly appreciated.  : )

"And I am sure of this, that He who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ." (Philippians 1:6)

(and may it all be for the glory and praise of His name. amen.)

Grace, peace, and fullness of joy to you all.  Love.

[emilyechevarria]

Tostadas and Teaching

Hello, ladies and gents!  It's week 5 of classes here, and school is in full swing.  All of us in the program are finally settling into comfortable friendship with each other, which is quite nice and necessary.  Walls of polite shyness are crumbling, and the classroom dynamic has suddenly become electric.  

I officially have an internship for the Building Faith Communities course, hallelu!  I'm working with a local Hispanic church, La Iglesia de Dios Pentecostal at Normandie and 59th.  It is a primarily Salvadorian congregation, with lots of Guatemalan and Honduran members and only a few Mexican congregants.  The pastor and his family live down the street from me, and they have welcomed me so warmly into their home.  I have been attending Thursday night Bible study at their house, and this week the pastor told me that I would teach.  In Spanish.  What.  

So this week, I taught.  Or I tried to.  Everyone was so gracious and patient with my Spanish.  I said basically everything I could on each topic, and then let the pastor fill in the rest.  Afterwards, people said very kind and very untrue things to me like, "You could pronounce some of those words better than I can!" and "You speak better Spanish than my son!"  Thanks guys, you're sweet.  I appreciate it, and don't believe it for a second.  We ate tostadas and drank fresh passion fruit juice from the tree in the backyard and visited until night had settled in and it was time to go home.  

So yeah, life is good, God is good.  I've only had about a dozen freak-outs about what i'm walking into, and He has walked me through each one, reminding me of why I'm doing this.  His yoke is easy and His burden is light.  Yes, His yoke is easy and His burden is light.  The Lord has continued to bring me into the JOY of the season, and reminding me of the excitement of what He has for me.  The Father truly does give good gifts and have good things for His kids.  

In other exciting news, my lovely friend Sandra is flying to LA from Birmingham this coming Tuesday!  It will be so good to have a friendly face from home here in California with me for a week.  I can't wait.

Grace and Peace and Love to y'all.  

Love you guys so big.  

[emilyechevarria]

tangled stories.

I'm sitting in new favorite study cove, a small coffee shop run by the oldest Korean Catholic church in the nation.  At least Mr. Matthew, an 88-year-old Korean man I met here, tells me it's the oldest.  The coffee's good, the Korean volunteers pronounce "syrup" as "she-roop", and there's a lovely little garden area that acts as an oasis in the giant hunk of concrete that is Los Angeles.  So basically, it's the best.  

This past week was the first week of class.  If i had forgotten that MATUL was a master's program, last week reminded me really quickly.  The sheer volume of reading is enough to overwhelm, and we are expected to swiftly and boldly enter into a church body/neighborhood, and engage in leadership and the building of relationships.  Please know that all of this makes me very uncomfortable.  I'm good with meeting people and am happy to participate in community, but I don't know the first thing about leading, especially not within a church context.  Oooh eee.  All towards growth, I suppose.

Also, this past week has been one of the most active weeks of my internal life, at least within recent memory.  I felt challenged, spurred on towards growth, encouraged to pursue knowledge of the Holy One and holiness, reminded that it is sweet to trust in Jesus, to take Him at His word.  I had gotten comfortable in Birmingham- I knew that.  But I didn't realize just how much I had been coasting spiritually, closing in on complacency.  This is good.  Waking up is good. 

As all of us from the program have told our stories of how we've arrived here and at this time, my articulations consistently fall short.  They fail to account for all of the movements and reasons, etc.  My theory is that post-modern society is increasingly pluralistic in every realm.  As a result, each of us experiences reality in several narratives, not just one.  My perception of time and events is increasingly fractured.  How I arrived here in LA is no a simple, concise tale.  It is a history of woven relationships in several spheres, dashed and fulfilled dreams, accomplished obligations, and times of choosing to trust.  I'm made up of 15 different narratives, a walking storybook, trying to make sense of how all of this fits into the Grand Narrative.  

Well, until next time, folks!  Love y'all. 

Grace, Peace, and Blessings upon you all.

[emilyechevarria]

1512 1/2

Last night, I slept in my new Los Angeles lodging for the first time.  There are three of us living in this one-bedroom apartment: Cailah, Valerie, and me.  Our room consists of a closet, a dresser, and three mattresses in a row from wall-to-wall.  Mine is an air mattress, and probably the most comfortable air mattress I've ever slept on.  We are quite obviously the new neighbors on this street.  Three white girls tend to stick out in a primarily black and hispanic neighborhood, which has made it quite easy for the neighbors to recognize us and welcome us warmly.  

As we moved in, our neighbors to the right moved out.  They are a young married couple who are students in APU's MATUL program as well, and they were kind enough to pass on so many essentials that we had yet to purchase.  They gave us groceries (so many groceries!), spices, mixing bowls, cleaning products, shelf organizers, a dish drying rack, a clothing drying rack, silverware, cups, plates, and so many more necessities and luxuries we were lacking.  If we didn't feel welcomed and at home when we first stepped in the building, we certainly did after that outpouring of generosity!  We organized the bounty of goods as Spanish music from our next-door neighbors floated through the open windows into our kitchen.  Valerie made a pot of coffee, and we partook in our first meal in the new apartment: donuts from the best place in town, gifted to us from our departing neighbors.  

After driving to California in an absolutely legendary roadtrip with one of my best friends, MaryGrace, the fear and doubt started to kick in.  I missed my people in Alabama and Florida, and didn't know anyone in Los Angeles.  My car was still packed for a good week after arriving in California, and I'd be lying if I said that the urge to jump in my car and drive back East didn't strike every day.  But the Father has been so sweet to comfort me and encourage me as I have fallen before Him in desperation.  

Last Sunday, I dropped MaryGrace off at LAX, and set off to Big Sur.  I stopped by a Barnes and Noble to pick up a new book for the trip, and decided on Donald Miller's Through Painted Deserts: Light, God, And Beauty On The Open Road.  Seemed appropriate for what I was in the midst of, right?  Before even making it to the first chapter, I was left breathless and wide-eyed by the timeliness of Miller's words.  

We get one story, you and I, and one story alone.  God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and the resolution.  It would be a crime not to venture out, wouldn't it?

It might be time for you to go.  It might be time to change, to shine out.

I want to repeat one word for you:

Leave.

Roll the word around on your tongue for a bit.  It is a beautiful word, isn't it?  So strong and forceful, the way you have always wanted to be.  And you will not be alone.  You have never been alone.  Don't worry.  Everything will still be here when you get back.  It is you who will have changed.

It is time for me to get ready for the day.  We are going to explore the neighborhood today, find the local market, and hopefully, ride the Metro for hours, for exploration's sake.

Love you all.  

May the grace, peace, and love of Christ abide richly in all your days.