Masked man

I saw him sitting in the corridor of the Jeevan Sahara Kendra.  He was wearing a handkerchief around his face.  Sitting hunched over on the white chairs along the wall of the hall.

I thought he was a TB patient.  Not that most come that way - but perhaps he had been told to do so in the previous place he was treated?

Later I found he was not suffering from tuberculosis.

He was suffering from fear.

The man had come to be tested for HIV.  When asked about his name he did not give it.  His wearing the handkerchief was to hide his identity.

Giri counselled him about testing.  He wanted to be tested, but balked when it came to giving his name and address.  Giri tried to explain that we would keep this in a separate register and that his name and result would not be linked in any place.

The man refused.

After some time, seeing that we wanted to have his name, the man walked out.

Giri was not able to convince him to finish the counselling and get tested.  He said that he knew all about HIV - and just wanted the blood result.

Where is this man tonight?

Of all the people who have come for counselling, surely this man would need counselling the most.  And yet his fear and desire for a quick anonymous test has kept him from knowing what his real status is.

It may be that he goes to some private lab and does a routine test.  They will take his blood and the Rs. 300 or so they charge - and the next day give him a printout of his result.  End of story from their perspective.  Another client met. A test done.  A result given.

Surely this man has something that is terribly pressing on his mind - for him to come in a masked state and hope for a quick blood sample and then a report.  How tragic that he was not able to trust us enough to take off the mask - to let the real person he is inside show and be helped.

A life well lived

Late last week a saint slipped away.   After 83 years of life here - Uncle SK Alfred was called home.

Uncle Alfred spent the last few weeks in the hospital which he loved so much - not because he was proud of his son's enterprise in seeing the ultra-modern Bethany Hospital rise up.  Uncle Alfred loved that hospital because he loved the people.

Every morning - and I mean every morning - rain or shine - Uncle Alfred would make his way to the hospital.  For years it was 7.30 sharp when he entered and had a time of prayer with some of the staff there. Then he would start his rounds.  Going into every single room.  Talking, praying, encouraging the patients, their care-givers and the staff.

The last few years increasingly saw Uncle Alfred admitted as a patient himself.  4 years ago his heart stopped beating... then started again when he was admitted at the then Lok Hospital.   A series of health set-backs found Uncle Alfred confined to a wheel chair.  Well, confined is not the word.  He was brought in the wheel chair every morning to Bethany Hospital.  Sometimes the people he ministered to in the beds were less sick than he was.  There he was, being wheeled into different rooms - talking and praying with whoever he met.

In the last few months Uncle Alfred suffered a series of strokes and was increasingly hard to understand.  With great effort he would bring out a few words.  Most people could not catch what he was actually saying - but they saw something very clearly.  They saw his love.  They were touched by his prayers.

We loved Uncle Alfred dearly.  And he loved us.  When we first moved to Thane we were almost neighbours and our little ones (at that time) were always welcome in Uncle and Aunties home.  We would talk about his favorite scripture portions, he would ask about what progress the JSK work had taken.  Aunty would sit along with us and with her sharp insight underline something that Uncle said.  We would always end in prayer.

At Jeevan Sahara we were blessed with a memorable series of Friday morning visits where Uncle would share from scripture during the staff devotions.  He went through the full set of 'I ams' that the Lord Jesus told us:  I am the bread of life,  I am the way, I am the resurrection and the life... each one a jewel brought forward with love by a man who not only loved the scripture - he lived it - he ate it and breathed it.

Sadly those visits to our morning prayers at JSK were cut short by a serious bout of illness.

Uncle Alfred's death was entirely expected.  It was a miracle that he had lived so long.

This is what his son - Dr. Stephen Alfred - wrote about his father:

Two things stood out till he died, one his urgency to communicate the gospel and turn every opportunity to tell about his Glorious Lord, and the second was his commitment towards the local church, both very important things that kept him in good stead.

He was proud to have me as a son, but I am more proud to have him as my father, and I often pray if I could live to be even half of what he was I would be satisfied. I have learned so much from him. I remember him having refused promotion twice in the company he worked, just to have more time for the church. He was certainly no fool to give what he could not keep to gain what he could not lose.

It was moving to be at the funeral of this saint.  I found myself in tears at the prayer meeting held at Dr. Stephen's home - but those were not tears of despair - they were tears that acknowledged the reality of something very, very good.  A man who allowed himself to be used by God and now had died - old and full of years - and with no regrets.  A life well lived.

The internment at the Christian Cemetery in Mulund was a tribute to the goodness of God.  So many from so many different walks of life.  There was such a variety of people who are worshipping in different parts of the body of Christ, but whose lives had been touched in some manner by uncle Alfred.

The head of a major local denomination shared how he had been given a solid grounding in God's word while he was a student in Uncle Alfred's Sunday School class.  This man finished his tribute by saying that he was now a pastor of a church.  A young church elder told about how Uncle and Auntie Alfred had taken him into their home when he was rejected by his birth family.  A senior leader narrated about having come fresh to Bombay from his native village in Kerala, Uncle Alfred had encouraged him.  Later, when he was working in the head-office of the same company Uncle Alfred also worked with - he heard others talk about SK Alfred as 'woh bahut seedah admi hai' (he is a very upright man).  And the stories went on.

Dr. Stephen Alfred had this to say about his father:

He died not a rich man, but a man who lacked nothing.  He gave what he had for the Lord's work and the Lord did not hold back anything.

At the end of the funeral, Sam Thomas (one of Uncle Alfred's son-in-laws), stood in the middle of the crowd that surrounded the gash of earth into which the coffin was lowered.  He took a clod of earth and said the traditional words of 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust' while reminding us that we are not in gloom and hopelessness about Uncle Alfred - but rather we await the resurrection eagerly.

I took a handfull of earth and with threw it into the pit - my small salvo of soil adding to the thin layer that was already covering the flowers on the coffin.  In a few minutes the shovels would be out and the mortal remains of Uncle Alfred were covered with the mud - the same stuff that at the dawn of time was fashioned into man and had life breathed into it by God himself.

Any death is a sorrow.  As we left the cemetery, we pass crosses almost drowned in lush monsoonal grass.  We have left the orphaned body of Uncle Alfred in the right place.  Interned underground.  To return to dust and to await the mysterious call to rise again.  We left him with real hope in our hearts.

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Our sorrows will be turned to joy one day.  We are already celebrating through the tears.

Joy

The package came in the afternoon.

From an unknown person in Hyderabad.

It was compact - but heavy.  Delivered to the door by a courier man.  Duct-taped (hint of something American - only Americans apply their silver duct-tape willy-nilly).

We knew it would have to be books.

But what kind?

Some dry directory that we had ordered and forgotten?  Some unsolicited paper-weight (literally) that would do good at the old-paper shop?

Nothing of the sort.

This is what was in the package:


Joy.

Such excellent books.

Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy by Eric Metaxas is a hefty tome (almost 600 pages) which explores the life of a man who stood up against the Third Reich - and whose following of Christ has inspired so many.  You just can't control yourself with a book like this - both Sheba and I have dived in and are working our way through Bonhoeffer's childhood at this time - and rise of the Nazis.

The Monster in the Hollows is the third book of a series-in-progress - fantasy fiction by Andrew Peterson - song-writer extraordinaire - and writer of fiction that kids and their parents can enjoy reading aloud.  We read through the first two volumes - and this has now been written while we were reading the earlier two.  Its the first time I will be reading a book that was written after I read the initial ones...  But we have exercised extreme restraint on cracking this open (despite pleadings from the kids) - the unit tests for Asha and Enoch are in full swing - so we will have to wait for a holiday break to crop up somehow before we get down to finding out what Janner, Tink and Lillee are up to next.

Finally Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.  I have read this elegaic book about an aging pastor and his young wife and son - and consider it and its companion book Home as quite simply the best fiction I have read in the last 5 years at least.  Another copy of a gem like this is always, always welcome.  Our copy has already done a few rounds - so having another will only widen the circle it can roam.

So who has sent us this joy?

Our dear friends Ben and Krystal Davy of Omaha Nebraska.  Ben did a rotation with us at Jeevan Sahara Kendra in the run up to his Masters of Public Health.  His amazing mother has come out regularly to South India to volunteer with a local school in Hyderabad.  And she brought these tomes - and gave them to a local friend to post to us.

What wonderful friends to bless us with the joy of reading!  These happy volumes will remind us of Ben and Krystal for many a day...

Offering

'Excuse me sir, can you help me?'

The woman asked me in English.  I was walking briskly along the sidewalk - having just passed Asha's school and heading through a posh residential area.

The lady was grasping at the branches of a shrub that hung over a wall.  I instantly knew what she wanted.

'I can't get that flower, are you tall enough to reach it?' she asked me.

The actual flower was even smaller than this

I looked and sure enough, a tiny hibiscus bud could be seen.  A bedraggled little thing - a slip of a flower that had yet to unfurl.

'Madame' I told her in Hindi.  'If you take this, then other people cannot see it.'

'But I want to give it to God' she replied.

We both grimaced - mutually embarassed - and I moved on.

As I continued my walk my mind filled with further follow up thoughts.  'Madame, if you want to give to your god - perhaps you can buy a flower instead of plucking it from others.' This and other similar mental dialogues went on in my mind, till I stopped short.

What was I saying?

As if I never did the same.

I remembered the many times when I visit a church where an offering is taken.  What do I do?  I look into the wallet to see what 'can be given.'  Then I take the note out and fold it carefully so others don't see what I am giving.  Piety is usually not what is driving this - it is sheer cheap-fistedness towards God.

God doesn't need my offerings.  He owns everything anyway.

But He delights it when I give cheerfully.  When I realise that everything, literally everything has been given to me in the first place.  This breath of air.  That hot dosa and chutney that Sheba made for me this morning.  The refreshing shower after the walk.  The joy of a new sun rise.  The steady beat of rain during the night. And on and on and on.

And yet, when it comes to giving back, I am so miserly.  Whenever the slightest bit of 'pain' comes - I flinch and usually hold back - of if I do - it is with the sense of duty - or even worse - of 'doing something great' for God.

Hardly.

Oh that my heart will be changed to the lavish giver that God wants me to be.

Ahoy there!

Troubled times demand....

Lego pictures!

Enoch has just built two beautiful sailing ships - the one on the right is a pirate ship.

'You can see by the grim faces of the crew' says Enoch.

'The other one is a ship that searches the seas for pirates!'

Looks like the two ships have met each other!  Prepare to board - all men at action stations!

Precious

A lot can happen in a day.  Or in a night.

On Sunday my good friend Vasu Vittal had a wonderful day.  An excellent message at church.  A good time with the family.  He was charged up for the week and all its challenges.  He cracked open a good book and was reading.

That was the last he remembered.

Vasu suffered a series of seizures that have turned his world upside down.

He was carried unconscious out of his home by a dear pastor friend who Vasu's wife Sheba had called to help after she found him convulsing.  They took him to a near-by hospital where he was put in casualty. Vasu was in tremendous pain and as he came to he called out about the searing pain in his arms.  He was put under heavy sedation.

The doctors then realised that he had dislocated both his shoulders - and x-rays showed a hair-line fracture on the left humerus and a splintering of the ball on the right.  Vasu had also lacerated his tongue during the seizures.

We got a call from Vasu's wife Sheba early on Monday morning - asking if the Bethany Hospital had any ICU beds.  We called up and found out that one was available - but when we called back Sheba said that they had found one in a hospital in Bandra which was closer to their first hospital.  The trip to Thane was considered too far given the injury Vasu had suffered in his arms.

Once Vasu was admitted to the ICU things started to settle.

The cause of all of this?  A brain infection by a stage of a tape-worm. The technical term is cysticercosis.  An MRI done on Vasu's brain showed a round ring which triggered the attack.  In India this disease is often spread faecal-orally through unwashed cabbage.  In other countries through undercooked meat.

I walked around in a shock when I heard what had happened to Vasu.  It just did not seem possible that this was happening to my dear friend.  Many prayers were said in our home for Vasu and Sheba - as well as their daughters Amy and Joanna (who are Asha and Enoch's age).

We then found out that Vasu was stable and in the ICU - but that the needed orthopaedic surgeries could not be done since the medication being used to dear with the cysticercosis was causing cerebral swelling and that would impair the anaesthesia.

The next thing we heard was that he was imobile and wanted to get out of the ICU, but that beds were not available.

Late this morning we got the good news that a bed was available and that he would be shifted to the 'wards.'



































I went to see Vasu.

Its only now that he can talk with the lacerations of his tongue getting better.

It broke my heart to see him strapped up - immobile.  But he was so brave - and Sheba has been doing an amazing job keeping things going over this helter-skelter week that they are living.

The next steps are a discharge being planned for Saturday - and then orthopaedic surgery to screw in the ball of his right humerus.

Its not what anyone would wish.  But that's how quickly things can turn turtle.

Vasu said he has been overwhelmed by the outpouring of prayer and messages of support that he and the family have received.  Its hard to accept help - especially when you feel powerless.  Having dislocated both shoulders and having fractured both arms at once.

Sheba showed me the MRI of the brain.  As small white ring showed up in one of the images.  For some reason it reminded me of a wedding ring left on a dark-room paper.  It looked so out of place - an almost perfect circle in the flowery lettuce-imprint that a cross-section of the brain shows.

How much damage can come from small things.

I shared with Vasu what I had been reading in the morning - and which I felt spoke out to him and his family:

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
And when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned'
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the LORD your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Saviour;
I give Egypt for your ransom,
Cush and Sheba in your stead.
Since you are precious and honoured in my sight,
and because I love you.   (Isaiah 43.1b-4a)

We do go through deep valleys - we do face real dangers - our worlds can turn inside-out and upside-down just like Vasu and Sheba's world did.  But we have One who looks after us.  Who even in the worst of crises is there for us.  

I reflected on the fact that God does not promise to take away our problems - but that He promises His presence in the midst of them - and His protection from evil.  We are precious in His sight - and He loves us.  

I was reminded of what our friend Caleb Baber - a double amputee - had told us of his experience with brushing-with-death multiple times and the often frustrating road to recovery from severe injury.  Caleb said that he had been deeply imprinted with two solid thoughts - that God is sovereign - and that God is good.  Though Caleb knew that he did not understand all that was going on in his life - especially in the initial haze of the injury and fighting for life - he held on to this promise.

As I was praying with Vasu, a couple came in.  Dear friends of Vasu.  Others will be trooping up to the 7th floor to be with this amazing man and pray and comfort him and Sheba.  Hopefully Amy and Joanna will meet their Daddy soon too.  

Your prayers will speed Vasu's recovery and guide the family in the next steps that they are courageously taking.

Crush

I am home.  Panting.  Without my umbrella (make that Sheba's umbrella that I borrowed for the afternoon).

At 2.45 in the afternoon I left the JSK Centre for Bandra. There was a huge crowd on railway platform number 2.  I thought a few trains had been cancelled.  Then I remembered that it was a festival day today - Raksha Bandan - and many people were travelling.  Not the normal 3 PM smudge of people on the railway station (it never is 'empty' except when the trains don't run between 1 and 4 am).  A crowd.  A huge swelling crowd.

I managed to get onto a train to Dadar - and the switched back to Bandra without too much ado.  I visited my friend Vasu at the hospital (more about him in the next post) and then reversed my tracks.  The trains were crowded - but not the normal 'no-room-to-breath-crush' that the denizens of Mumbai have to deal with every crush-hour-morning-and-evening.

Then it happened.

I got off at Thane station, happy to have caught a fast train from Dadar and looking forward to getting home.

I started up the foot-overbridge which was chock-a-block with people.  Normal.  There was a wedge of people moving from below - pushing me and others up.  A wedge of people were coming down from above.

Then things started to get crazy.  The people from above were pushing down.  Laughing.  A few abuses were hurled.  We tried to keep going foward.  And then panic started to creep in.  The fear of being crushed suddenly loomed large.

No.  This can't be happening.  But it was. I was being pushed uncontrollably.  I was shouting stop to the people coming down. They didn't.  I started to tumble back.  I lost my chappal. Was it going to be the end?

Somehow I regained footing.  The people from above were pushing everyone down.  Somehow we managed to get down again.  I was without my chappal.  At the bottom of the stairs again I was sweaty and bruised.  The umbrella was gone.

I was alive.  The unthinkable didn't happen.  Yet.

A few minutes later I went up again.  A single line going up.  I managed to find the chappal.

I thank the Lord for His mercy in keeping me alive.  And all the others in that narrow tunnel.  So slender is the thread on which we live.  Each breath is a gift.