FIRST PERSON: The whisper of God

By Gene Yaussy

BANGLADESH — She sits next to me with virtually all her earthly possessions on her frail body. Her weak voice tells of a husband’s death, a son’s desertion, and a daughter’s distance. She has come to speak with the people who gave her hope.

She shares the atrocities of her life with calm resolve and acceptance. She has virtually no food and no means of providing for herself. The community she lives in offers her no help because she has denied their religion and believed in Jesus to save her from the death of her sin. This faith has brought her the security of a future with her Lord. Beyond her faith she has nothing. She is reduced to a few articles of clothing and a shelter for a home. She is more than 80 years old and knows that she will soon die. She could renounce her faith and be welcomed back into society, be reunited with her son, and receive proper care in the final years of her life.

She cannot read and has no Bible to go to for encouragement. She has only the simple faith that was taught to her many years ago by faithful servants of God. I imagine that as she sits in her home over the next months, as her food diminishes, her body weakens, and her life slips away that her Lord will whisper something in her ears that I will never hear because I have never trusted Him like this. She has something far more valuable than the money for food, clothing, anything. She has the whisper of God.

Tonight she will return to her village home. She will go there joyful that she has had one last opportunity to see her spiritual parents. The next time they are together will be in the glories of heaven. Now she will return to the shelter she calls home and wait. She will wait until the food is gone. She will wait because that is all she can do. She knows God’s promise of salvation and now without words she will testify to the community around her that her faith is more important to her than life itself.

Can you see her? Can you imagine the shelter where she is sleeping? Can you imagine the hunger pains and the sickness she will endure over the remaining months or years of her life? Now, can you imagine the comfort that our Lord is giving her? Every time someone derides her faith and scoffs at her condition God is there speaking to her with words that cannot be uttered. He is holding her with arms that cannot be seen. He is covering her better than any clothing and protecting her better than any home.

Her faith is strong because it is the only thing she has. Her testimony is strong because she values it more than life itself. Her legacy of faith will speak to generations. She will die with nothing except that which is everything. Tonight I will go to sleep to the sounds of my iPod but she may be listening to the chorus of the saints.

There are millions of people here in Bangladesh who have never had the opportunity to hear about this wonderful faith. Although IMB representatives Tom and Gloria Thurman served here for 35 years and saw this woman come to faith there are still more that need to hear. They would rather their names not mentioned here, but were it not for them I would not be here. It is my desire that through this story that you are moved to greater involvement in the lives of the peoples of Bangladesh. Today, please say a prayer for this woman, for the Thurmans, for me, and for the place God would have you serve in reaching the peoples of Bangladesh with the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Can you hear God’s whisper?

—30—

Gene Yaussy is an IMB representative in Bangladesh.

My two birthdays

By Goldie Frances*

I have two birthdays. My favorite way to celebrate my physical birthday is with my family, and I was blessed to do just that a little early while in the states this July. On my actual birthday, I was flying back to South Asia. Later that day, I rode several hours across the country, quietly wishing all the while that my birthday would be topped off by a visit with my closest neighbors, precious Muslims friends. I didn’t plan to tell them it was my birthday; I just wanted to reconnect and catch up with them. I never really prayed specifically for that to happen, but praise God that He hears even our wishes!

I hadn’t even turned the key in the door when “Jazz” appeared. Right away, she and her older brother were sitting in my apartment chatting. When they realized I had not eaten, they brought dinner to me on a tray. Then Jazz just happened to ask when my birthday was. I hesitated before confessing, “It’s today.” They sprang into action and soon all four children and their mother there with birthday cake singing Happy Birthday!

They couldn’t find candles on such short notice, but they told me to close my eyes and make a wish anyway. “But my wish already has come true,” I said. “My wish was to spend the evening with you.” They insisted that make another, so I closed my eyes and prayed for the salvation of this dear Muslim family.

Everyone left, and I had begun to clean up smeared icing and spilled water – laying books out to dry – when the doorbell rang. Jazz, 16, had lost her ring. We searched but could not find it. Then she noticed a book on the table. “Is this a book about Jesus Christ?” “Yes.” “Can I borrow it?” “Yes.” “He’s one of our prophets you know.” “Yes.” Incredible! God had heard the wish I prayed only an hour earlier and already was at work!

—30—

*Name changed.

FIRST PERSON: For those who are giving, you are changing lives

By Allen Yearsley*

Because of our God’s tender mercy, the Dawn from heaven will visit us to shine on those who live in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace. (Luke 1:78-79)

Stories like the ones I’m about to tell you will help you understand the importance of prayer and giving. These are stories about brothers from South Asia, brothers who live in places where it is difficult to share about Jesus, but where Jesus has changed their lives.

I visited the village of my friend and language helper, Prem.* His family is one of 300, who are living in shadow, on the north side of a mountain, which is steep enough to block the sun for much of the day. Some, like my friend’s father, work on a cinchona tree plantation, the bark of which was once used as anti-malarial medicine.

Until this generation, the village was lost in spiritual shadow. Bhutan is a place of great spiritual darkness, and its reputation kept many away.

Then, in the 1970s two foreign workers visited the village, changing the shadow into light. The few families that welcomed Christ into their lives have stood faithful in adversity, but not without harvest.

Today, the village has undergone great transformation, even establishing a church and the majority boasts of new life in Christ. Would you pray they too would enter new villages with the Good News?

Another brother I work with was formerly a monk. His home is in Bhutan, a place of deep shadow, and closed off to us. Among his brothers, his parents chose him to study at a Buddhist monastery.

He once underwent solitary meditation for three years, after which he remained unsettled with spiritual questions. He received Christian literature from a foreign worker.

Later, he considered the message and concluded Christ alone could save. Now, he shares his story of peace in Christ at Buddhist places. He even shares with Westerners who come to Bhutan on spiritual searches.

Please pray for the growth of these believers and remember the “foreigners,” those entering new places.

Every dark place is in need of that first person coming to them.

Thank you for your giving.

*Name changed.

Allen Yearsley is an IMB representative serving among South Asian peoples.

Monsoon Summer: Justice is a fight

By Kate Taylor

In my travels through India, I have talked to women from many different backgrounds, professions and social positions. Each has a unique life story, hopes and dreams of her own and possibilities within her reach.

In slum communities and rural villages, girl babies are often murdered simply because they are born female. These silent millions will never have lives or stories to tell.

In another part of the country, young girls have little hope of growing to womanhood without getting trapped in prostitution or trafficked far from home.

In Mumbai, one 15-year-old I met is studying English in her high school. She has dreams of becoming an astronaut.

Throughout the country, some women face barriers in their professions or home lives. Not because of their abilities, but because of their gender.

Still other women I met are working on PhDs at a top university. They have exciting prospects and look forward to long and illustrious careers.

Ultimately, these disparities come down to the brokenness of the world we live in. Life is not fair. And, equality sometimes feels more like a daydream than a reality.

While some women are held hostage, prisoners in their own lives or in their own minds, others find freedom without limits. I am earning my college degree and spending my summer traveling through Asia while others will never get to go to first grade or travel more than a few miles from their birthplace.

In this world, discrimination and inequality will always exist in one form or another. Whether we hate people because of the color of their skin, fear them because of a disability or look down on them because of their gender, justice is always a fight.

Praise God that in Christ we do not have to fight for equality. In Christ, we are given everlasting hope and a bright future.

As my travels in South Asia come to an end, I am struck, yet again, with a reminder that all people need Christ. Here in India, people need Christ. Back home, people need Christ. Everywhere we go, we should live lives that depict Christ.

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples.

Monsoon Summer: Really Look

By Kate Taylor

Tiny feet walk the streets with no shoes to protect their tender soles from broken glass and hazards unknown. Tiny legs support a body too tiny for a boy of his age. A tiny torso holds a tiny heart, still beating in spite of the struggles he has encountered. Tiny arms reach out and a tiny voice leaps forth, asking for money to buy food. Tiny eyes look straight into my soul, breaking my heart and asking me how I will respond.

On our journey, Miriam and I have encountered desperate poverty. One of the most challenging things is forcing myself to see it, to look at a starving child or a filth-covered homeless man and really see their need. I feel as though my heart has broken fifty times over and it may never quite fit together the same way again.

The most difficult thing is deciding how to respond to these hungry and hurting people. In this country, it can be difficult to separate the genuinely needy from those who are forced to beg on the streets under someone else’s control. Many of the beggars probably do not get to keep the money they are given, but are instead obliged to hand it over to another.

The best option, of course, is to offer food or water instead of cash and coin, but I do not always have edible options in my purse. It breaks my heart to turn someone away empty-handed, but I also do not want to have any part in supporting those who control them and hurt them.

It is a fine line to walk along the street between love and justice and I do not know where the answer lies. What if a beggar I have turned away was an angel in disguise? What if the money I have chosen to give has gone straight into the hands of a child abuser or paid for someone’s drug habit?

Ultimately, I think it comes down to the fact that I need a closer walk with Christ. I need to study his voice more carefully and learn to respond with discernment to the gentle prodding of the Holy Spirit.

But even if every penny I have to give is given into the hands of people who really need it and will use it for good, it is not enough. There is a great need here for long-term workers who will come and show love to the poor and the unwanted, who will be willing to invest their lives in a way that I cannot during a short three-week trip. Lord, send them out!

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.  To read more of Kate and Miriam Snodell’s three-week journey around India, check out http://www.go2southasia.org/blogs/

Monsoon Summer: The Art of the Bobble

By Miriam Snodell

So, it may be a well known fact that Indian people bobble their heads. But does anybody really know why, how, or how to interpret? I know I didn’t. But now that I have spent a significant amount of weeks observing and occasionally trying The Bobble, I feel that I am properly equipped to educate my fellow non-Indians on the art.

The classic head bobble
I am completely at a loss as to the “how” on this. I believe Indians develop a completely different set of muscles, because (when performed correctly), it appears that the head moves independently of the neck. You may think it’s impossible, but that’s only until you see it in action. My American version of it has developed into a cross between a pathetic bobble and a head shake. Kate used to move her shoulders when attempting this, but has rectified her error since she learned that this looks a bit like she’s having a seizure. This bobble usually means yes, and usually has words accompanying it (though, not always). This answer-bobble probably has some sort of emotion attached to it, such as “Yes, I did enjoy hanging out with you, and I’m glad you’re my friend.” Be prepared to interpret a wordless bobble that could contain several paragraphs of emotionally loaded information. You will be judged a little bit for not having immediate understanding, just be ready for it.

The almost indiscernible side weave
This one is often the answer to a simple and emotionless question- such as price negotiations or driving directions. It’s a bit like a sideways head twitch, except, imagine it less spastic than I know you are. It’s very casual, performed almost like a teenage boy shaking too-long hair out of his face. At first glance, one may think it is a nonverbal “no,” but this is only because the Indian doing it has a completely indifferent or doubtful look on their face. Don’t let this throw you off. Also, be prepared to look for this bob without any other clues- such as affirming words. The bob is sometimes difficult to perceive because of the minuteness of the head swipe. And if you somehow repeat your question or ask for a confirming reply, prepare to be looked at like a crazy person.

The head bob that means “no.”
It can look exactly like either of the two “yes” bobbles. Facial expressions and words can be the same or different than the “yes” bobbles. Try to look for context clues.

Happy interpreting!

Miriam Snodell is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

Monsoon Summer: Not Too Spicy?

by Miriam Snodell

Indian food is often deceptively spicy.

“How spicy is this?” I ask suspiciously, prodding an item on the menu with my forefinger.

“Oh, not too spicy madam,” replies my Indian server, bobbling his head affirmingly.

“Just a little bit of spice?” I confirm, before allowing him to walk away with my order.

He jerks his head casually to the side in that ambiguous bobble before heading back to the kitchens.

It is only a few minutes before he returns with my food, beautifully cooked and exotically aromatic. I inspect my right hand for its cleanliness, before deciding my best utensil is ready to get food to my mouth.

The first bite is pleasant. Hot chicken covered with unknown spices melts away in my mouth. A hint of spiciness lingers in my mouth after the swallow, serving to remind me of what country I’m in. But it’s not unpleasantly spicy, so I lift my coke in a wordless toast to my honest waiter.

The second swallow delivers a bit more lingering heat. Hm. It seems that the spiciness compounds a bit, bite by bite.

The sixth bite has tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, which I heroically attempt to smother. Nonchalantly, I take a swig from my coke, hoping to quench the fire without anybody noticing my weakness.

Bite number eleven has me openly crying. People at nearby tables interrupt their dining experience to peer curiously at the foreigner with tears running down her face, gulping coke as if her life depended on it.

As the essentially useless soft drink disappears from the bottle, I wonder frantically if there’s some sort of spicy ingredient present in the liquid designed to inhibit the cooling receptors in the mouth.

Minutes later, a befuddled waiter delivers a sweet lassi to my table, which I try not to snatch prematurely from his hands.

“Chicken not very spicy, madam,” he says, eying the dried tears on my cheeks, as I slurp the cooling yogurt drink thankfully.

I shake my head wonderingly. Not very spicy? I have just accepted that there are some cultural experiences I cannot experience fully.

Miriam Snodell is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples.

Monsoon Summer: Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

by Kate Taylor

Within the mega-cities of the second most populous nation in the world, there are many smaller communities where the doors to small homes stay open for most of the day and people know their neighbors. Miriam and I visited one of these low-income neighborhoods in Mumbai and spent time meeting people and taking photos. We stepped into their lives for a few hours and were blessed by the experience. It is not hard to love the people of India when you take the time to get to know them and you realize that, despite language barriers and cultural differences, we are all just people with hopes and dreams and a longing for God.

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

Monsoon Summer: An Item of Many Uses

by Miriam Snodell

Dupatta [doo-pah-tuh]: noun: A lightweight scarf worn by many Indian women to symbolize its translated meaning, virtue.

A Dupatta can be…
…worn for its intended use.
…a flimsy and relatively ineffective umbrella.
…a hand towel, for when the public bathroom has run out (or never had any in the first place).
…flung over one shoulder and treated as a superhero cape.
…pulled over the face entirely, in order to preserve your secret identity.
…a lousy jump rope.
…a teeny-tiny blanket.
…a cover for sneaking food into the movie theatre.
…flowy fairy wings.
…a babushka bonnet.
…a makeshift sling for a broken arm (though I have not tested this theory… yet).
…the catalyst for a three-legged race.
…helpful when Rapunzel’s hair is not quite as long as she needed it to be.
…eaten, when no other options remain.

A girl chases another in a game, trying not to lose her pink dupatta.

Miriam Snodell is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.

Monsoon Summer: Train Ride

 

By Kate Taylor

Chugchugchugchug. Chugchugchugchug. The repetitive sound of the wheels on the tracks drowns out everything except my own thoughts that rattle about in my head like a runaway rail-car.

Chugchugchugchug.

My right hand grasps a metal bar just inside the door and extends, allowing most of my body to hang out the door of the city train.

Chugchugchugchug.

The wind tosses my blonde hair around my face and tugs at the corners of my kurta, an Indian shirt that reaches to my mid-thigh. Chugchugchugchug. I watch the city landscape roll past and consider all the things I have already experienced in my time here in India.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have seen cows wandering the city streets.

I have tasted juicy mangoes of many shapes and colors.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have witnessed a baby girl snatched from the jaws of death. Her birth parents loved her enough to give her life by giving her away. They knew their family could not support another child, especially a girl child in a culture where boys are so preferred. Her adoptive parents saved her life from the tragedy of female infanticide. Because of the love of her two sets of parents and the love of Christ, stronger than death, she is a beautiful child with a bright future.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have heard the incessant honking of hundreds of cars, trucks, motorcycles and other two-, three- and four-wheeled vehicles too eager to wait their turn in traffic.

I have smelled incense burning from many altars to many Hindu gods.

Chugchugchugchug.

I have seen a woman without hope, hurting and broken. Despised because of her profession, this woman, who engages in prostitution to feed her children and support her daily needs, knows nothing of Christ who died for her.

I have wondered who will come, who besides Christ will give his life to save this woman?

Chugchugchugchug.

If He called, would I be willing?

“Here I am, Lord. Send me.”

Kate Taylor is a student at Union University, serving among South Asian peoples with her summer.