I watched a man die.

I watched a man die.

Bed 32 at Kalighat is near the front door, easily reachable by doctors, nurses or other volunteers giving care. Susan had been caring for the young man who currently occupied Bed 32, and she was aided by a tall, thin German volunteer with dreadlocks. The two of them gave extra care and attention to this young man. Since I'm exclusively in the women's ward, I hadn't any interaction over in the men's ward. While in the lobby/commons area of Kalighat, I would look over periodically to see Susan and the German caring for Bed 32. He was suffering from renal failure and his body was starting to shut down. There was not much that anyone could do except to make him comfortable.

It was closing in on Noon, which is when the volunteers must leave as the patients take naps and the sisters eat lunch. At about 11:45am I walked into the commons area near the men's ward where Susan caught my eye; she walked over to gently usher me to the men's ward. "Denise, I have a quick appointment I must keep at Noon. Would you mind sitting with this dear man until I get back? It will only be 30 minutes." Susan was really attached to this young man, and she had done everything she could to help him. "Uh, ok . . . do I do anything special?" I asked Susan. "No, dear, just sit with him, please." So all of the volunteers shuffled out the door, the doors were shut, and all of the sisters except two or three went upstairs for lunch. It became very quiet and I sat down next to this young man in Bed 32.

I noticed his breathing was clipped: he would take in a gasp of air once every ten seconds or so, and it looked as if it took a lot of effort. I held his hand and every once in awhile I stroked his hair. I knew nothing about this man, except that he looked about 26 or 27 years old. Where did he come from? What is his family like? How did he become sick, I wondered.

About fifteen minutes later I was still holding his hand and wondering about his life. It was then that he opened his eyes and looked at me. A tear rolled down his face, whether from simply watering of the eyes or a genuine tear. I smiled and wiped away the tear for him. Then he closed his eyes. The gasping breaths stopped and his chest didn't move anymore. I sat there still holding his hand for what seemed like an eternity, wondering what had just happened. I searched for a pulse, no luck. I put my ear up to his mouth to check for breath, none to be found.

I called for Sister Georgina to come over, as I wasn't sure what was going on. She sat next to me to check the young man. Then she softly said, "Oh, he is gone, my dear." I looked down and his lips were already cold-ish and losing redness. I then stared at her for a moment and said, "But Sister, I wasn't supposed to be here. Susan was taking care of him, he knew her face, not mine . . . she was supposed to be here with him." Sister Georgina smiled and said, "You were chosen to be here, and you gave him love and comfort. He is in Heaven now telling God about you." Sister Georgina patted my back and walked away. I looked back at him and burst into tears.

I was the last person that he saw on this earth. Why me? It wasn't supposed to be me. He knew Susan and benefited from her wonderful care. I was just some schmoe that was grabbed at the last second. I wasn't weeping because I was sad over his death, per se; he had been suffering and death brought relief. It was something else . . . the shock and surrealism of watching life leave his body, but also that I hope I didn't disappoint him in his last minutes. Did he feel loved and supported enough?

The idea is for those who are dying within the fold of the Missionaries of Charity, volunteers and sisters are there to give care, dignity and love to the patients . . . that they won't die alone. The young man in Bed 32 wasn't alone when he died. I was there. And the outright honor of that role was overwhelming.

I continued to sit with him, holding his hand and weeping for another fifteen minutes. Susan then walked in the door to see my red face, "I'm so sorry, Susan," was all I could utter. We hugged and cried until some of the moschis (the full-time Indian workers) came over to cover him.

We lose about 2-3 people a week at Kalighat, sometimes less, sometimes more. This one was obviously different for me. I write this with great difficulty, as I still feel tremendously unworthy of the honor of being beside this man, holding his hand as he left this world. He suffered a great deal, to be sure, and I'm so grateful he was brought to Kalighat and not forgotten. I am not sure if Sister Georgina's comments are theologically sound, but if he is in fact in Heaven and talking to God about me, I hope he puts in a good word, and maybe if nothing else, even a funny "Hey, thanks for the cute blonde."

The Village People

While Protima spends her days on Sudder Street asking people for money and spends her nights sleeping at Sealdah train station, her real home is in "the village." Many people in the poorer, lower class come to Calcutta from the rural villages of West Bengal, Bihar or other states to find jobs and make money . . . in order to go back to village life. Few are successful; most, as far as I can tell, are lucky if they have enough money to travel back to their villages once every eight months. Some are even less fortunate: hard times can require taking on debt . . . paying back that debt can mean bonded labor for children, sweatshops or even selling a woman's body. Others simply beg, some more successfully than others.

Most of the women who live on Sudder Street do fairly well by begging, relatively-speaking. Jora, Sirah and Protima, for example, spend weeks or a few months on Sudder Street, then travel back to their villages to spend several weeks with their families there. Protima's husband Shwadep and youngest son Narayan live in the village, while baby Shopna travels with mom to Sudder Street. Two weeks before Protima's next trek back to her village, she invited Trever and me to come along. Trever is a good friend of Protima's and he's been to her village before. I was the new-bie, and boy was it an eye-opening experience.

First was the hour ride on a local train. This ain't the Orient Express, folks. The local trains are packed to the gills with people; if there is one square inch of space to be had, an Indian will find it and fill it. It used to be that if there simply were no space left, people would climb on top of the train and ride outside; that is against the law now. Vendors manage to squeeze through the crowds to sell fried sugary food or crappy plastic toys.

Second was a 30-minute auto-rickshaw ride. Normally four people can fit into an auto-rickshaw comfortably. We had seven. When there was no road left, we exited the auto-rickshaw and walked another 30 minutes into the village.

The first thing I noticed about the village were the colors. Everything was grayish-brown clay (the ground, the huts, cows, goats), pale-yellow straw (hut roofs, grain), or vibrant green (palm trees, rice paddies). The air was not polluted. It was not noisy. There were no crowds. It was calm, I had room to breathe, I could actually see the stars at night. In a word, it was beautiful.

With that said, small-town America these villages are not. The people in Protima's village are very poor. Villages are populated with mud huts; literally, huts made of mud. Not very sturdy, but easily built with the large quantities of mud around. There is no electricity and no air conditioning. "Stoves" were two to four holes in the ground: one for the cooking pan, and one right below it to stuff with straw and other materials for fire. The same pond is used for cleaning clothes, washing dishes, and bathing. Protima's mud hut had two very small rooms, one no bigger than my bathroom at home. Our beds were to be mats and blankets on the ground, protected by mosquito nets. But it all works.

Almost everyone is a farmer, whose livelihood and existence is dependent upon nature. In India, nature can be benevolent or cruel. From the looks of the lush green acres of rice paddy fields, this might be a good crop. Shwadep used to drive a cycle-rickshaw, but he has been suffering from tuberculosis, and can no longer operate the rickshaw. The family's only income is from Protima's begging in Calcutta.

There was really nothing to do there but talk. I used up the nine Bengali phrases I know pretty quickly; consequently, I just smiled and nodded a lot. The village children were thrilled with the two tall white visitors, and wanted us either to play with them or let them sit in our laps. We took naps during the heat of the day, and then played with the children again. I circled up the kids to teach them some Texas swing dance moves: some of them picked it up quickly!

Protima was a wonderful and generous hostess, always asking if we were enjoying ourselves and were comfortable. Though they had little, they shared all they had with us. She ensured a steady supply of chai tea, water and food. Lots of food. We ate five times a day: rice, curry, rice, chicken, rice, fried vegetables, and other food I couldn't identify. Oh, and rice. Talk about bloated. I didn't want to be rude to Protima by not eating enough: her family was sharing the food they did have with us. At some points during the meals (which we ate with our hands), I would whisper to Trever, "Did I eat enough? Is this OK?" as I showed him my tin plate. Sometimes he'd tell me I was fine; other times he'd tell me to take a deep breath and keep going. And so I "got my eat on."

At night we joined all the village people at the center of the village to pick up food and rice from the general supply: there were candles and torches lighting up the evening, some Hindi music playing from a radio, and food offerings made to one of the patron Hindi gods. Later that night we got ready for bed, and I had the pleasure of sleeping outside on the porch area with Protima's mother-in-law, called Priyo-ma. Or maybe I just drew the short straw. Asho, a seven-year old neighbor girl, decided to sleep with Priyo-ma and me. I woke several times either to a small elbow in my face or Priyo-ma coughing. The darkness and crickets finally lulled me to sleep for the rest of the evening.

On Sunday, our last day in the village, Trever and Narayan walked off to the community water pump near the pond for a cool bath. Apparently that was the signal for the women to bathe me too. Protima and a neighbor directed some Bengali instructions at me, which naturally I didn't understand, but from their hand gestures I gathered I was to go into the hut. There Protima met me with one of her saris, and she instructed me to disrobe down to my underwear. Then she spun the long bolt of worn cloth around me, tucking here and there and finally flinging the end of the cloth over my shoulder. I was officially wearing a sari. She walked me over to another pond, where two women with buckets of water met me. I sat on a wooden plank, not knowing what was about to happen. What happened next was a bucket of cold water pouring over my head. Wasn't expecting that. The women then washed my arms and hair for me with soap. It was a nice gesture given to honored guests, though a heads-up from my Bengali-speaking travel partner Trever who has been here several times would have been nice.

Protima has three other children under the age of thirteen: Dinobondhu (oldest son), Sujetta and Poatho. Undoubtedly I spelled each of these names wrong (but you, dear reader, don't know the difference, so we'll go with these, ok?). Trever and his friend Dylan are paying for their boarding school, which is about 45 minutes away from the village. On our way out, we stopped by the school to see the kids. Protima, Shwadep and Narayan came along; it was quite the family gathering. The kids absolutely adore Trever: they were jumping up and down and onto him constantly. At least one of the kids was hugging him or sitting in his lap or holding his hand at any given moment. Sujetta picked out a special present for her bondhu ("friend" in Bengali; masculine), and was elated to give him a kiss on the cheek. These were indeed Trever's adopted little brothers and sisters. At one point I purposefully stood a ways away and just watched as they all really loved on one another; laughing, giggling, smiling, enjoying being together. This wasn't gratitude for Trever's benevolence: this was genuine affection and love. He had long since ceased to be some sort of foreign provider and had become a close friend and family member.

Protima gave me a present as well, a shiny black beaded necklace with a cross pendant. Apparently I had made a comment weeks ago that I really liked the necklace baby Shopna wore, which was a simple string of black beads. This one was much more shiny, with the cross "for Jesus." She had spent money on this thoughtful gift for me instead of for, say buying shoes for one of her children or food for her family. Granted, the necklace probably only cost 30 rupees (about 75 cents), but for someone who begs that's a significant money allocation decision. I was stunned at the gesture . . . this necklace will no doubt become one of my prized possessions.

We left the school to catch a rickshaw to the train station. The transportation available was a bicycle pulling a flat board on top of a wagon, so we all hopped on and rode away. As the breeze blew I reminisced over the weekend. I was touched by Protima's generosity though she has nothing, and by her family's love for Trever.

I had been in the middle of nowhere West Bengal; I don't even know the name of the village. But it was there I learned that sometimes the people who give the most are the least able to give.

Mo. T. and the MC's

Since I'm here in the birthplace of the Missionaries of Charity, a radical order of human beings, mostly women, who think, "hey, all these dying, poor and suffering people who have been utterly forgotten . . . why don't we, y'know, help them?" . . . it might be a good idea to hear what the MC's have to say, to explore further what they are about. So I witness how they live their lives, how they respond to situations . . . and I learn about Mother Teresa.

On a train ride from Darjeeling, Mother Teresa had long, vivid visions from God to start a new order in the church. This was over fifty years ago; now there are hundreds of MC homes all over the world, with thousands of MC sisters, brothers, fathers and "laypeople" who take vows to honor and serve God by serving the poorest of the poor.

The MC sisters are no-nonsense. They do not get dolled up, they do not have email or television, they wear only the MC sari every day, they read, they serve, they pray. They are gracious and grateful. Though they are still human: I wonder to what extent they bicker or gossip; to what extent do they have close relationships or friendships? Sister Arul Prakash told me that I was her only friend outside India . . . and she's lived in MC homes in several countries.

When I first arrived I marveled at how "cut off" from society they were, how much they were missing out on. Then I think about all the things "society" offers, so much of it crap and frankly not worth nearly as much as we think. To wit: my friend Denise is known at work to say in meetings, when there is arguing and disagreement: "We're not saving babies here, folks. Let's move on." I now understand that the simplicity of the lives of the MC's is actually quite liberating. And the character and humility that come from that simplicity is the real deal.

Mother Teresa made several trips to the United States in her lifetime, once in 1994 as the keynote speaker at the National Prayer Breakfast in Washington, DC. The Prayer Breakfast is an extraordinary gathering of the most powerful and influential leaders in the world: heads of state, judges, leaders of Fortune 500 companies, parliamentarians and congressmen, presidents of non-profits and others who have attained high positions in governments. At the head table sits the President of the United States, the First Lady, and the Vice President and his wife. They all come here to a large hotel ballroom to eat together in honor of Jesus. Religion is immaterial: there are Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Sikhs, various regional or tribal faiths, or those with no structured faith. They keynote speaker talks (not preaches) about Jesus. And this year, it was Mother Teresa who spoke.

She began by saying, "We are reminded that Jesus came to bring the good news to the poor. He had told us what is that good news when He said 'My peace I Ieave with you, my peace I give unto you.' He came not to give the peace of the world which is only that we don't bother each other. He came to give the peace of heart which comes from loving." My friend Bill H. was at the breakfast and described the scene this way: "In a room filled with people who have all the power that the world can give, Mother Teresa, a tiny Albanian nun who had made her home among the poorest of the poor in Calcutta, was by far the most powerful person in the room. By far. Her moral authority outweighed any authority granted by political office or professional accomplishment. Her life lived of faithfully loving the poor for over fifty years, the first half in utter obscurity, gave her a gravitas that cannot be conferred by this world."

Mother Teresa was not perfect; she has her detractors. The equipment used and the medical treatments given at Kalighat and other MC homes in Calcutta are not the most modern, the most effective or even most beneficial. Yet the most advanced and shiniest technology cannot begin to replace the authentic love, respect and sacrifice the MC sisters make day-by-day, moment-by-moment. Mother Teresa had no idea that one day her vision would become a world-wide force, one of which hundreds of thousands of volunteers of all faiths or no faith would want to be a part. She would say she was "simply obeying Jesus, loving her 'husband'." She and the other sisters, fathers and brothers of Missionaries of Charity live out the words of Matthew 25: "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did for me."

I have a picture of Mother Teresa sitting next to me as I type, for inspiration. Her authenticity and humility inspire me. Thanks, Mo. T.

Incredible Bengali Hospitality

Bengalis are known for their hospitality, I read somewhere. I arrived in Calcutta knowing no one; only through friends did I connect with the Word Made Flesh folks. I came also with two phone numbers in my pocket: for Dr. S.K. De and for Supriyo Mallick. On the Palace on Wheels, I met a delightful and very smiley doctor from Cleveland: he was born and raised in Calcutta. He told me to contact his good friend from his school days, Dr. De, and also his nephew Supriyo. "They will look out for you," he said.

So I called them. Both were expecting my call and wondered why I hadn't called as soon as I'd arrived . . . was I OK? Very sweet, if overly-concerned. I met Dr. De at his office off of Shakespeare Sarani Street; I was immediately greeted by his secretary Basanti, who offered me tea. After our lovely discussion, Basanti invited me to have dinner with her family to enjoy a home-cooked Bengali meal.

Basanti lives in a nice neighborhood called Lake Gardens, in a five-story rowhouse with her brother, his family, her sister, a cousin, a couple of kids I'm not sure to whom they're related, and two renters. I removed my shoes upon entering and they proceeded to treat me like a queen-on-display. At various points everyone in the house came down to inspect me, to ask how I was enjoying Calcutta, and to offer me tea. They had lots of questions and loved to talk and laugh. Sajal (Basanti's brother) and his son Swarnab wanted to know my views on any number of topics, and asked me to explain baseball. I showed off the few phrases of Bengali that I knew, and though I'm certain I butchered the words, they were absolutely thrilled.

Dinner was ready at around 10pm (they eat late), and though I was bloated from the tea that almost every person offered and I was too polite to turn down, I managed to make it to the dinner table. There was only one place setting. "You are our honored guest; we will eat later." So I sat at one end of the table while the family sat at the other, and they watched me eat. Was that uncomfortable: I had to really watch that I didn't spill anything, that I ate everything offered, and that for the love of God I didn't use my left hand (it's the "unclean" hand). The meal was wonderful, except for the weird fish side-dish that I smushed around to make it look like I ate most of it. Then Basanti's sister brought out the famous Bengali sweets; we all sat around talking and laughing and eating dessert. After dinner, Basanti's family presented me with gifts (!) and Swarnab walked me to my cab. They couldn't have been more kind. I thanked them profusely and they shushed me, as if they were insulted I was thanking them. "This is what is right, we take care of you," they said: they thanked me for coming to their home.

Dr. De and his wife Deepa took me for Sunday brunch at the Calcutta Club (their country club). We walked through the bar area, and I noticed someone eating peanuts. When we arrived at our table I asked the waiter for peanuts. The waiter and Dr. De traded words for what seemed like 15 minutes, and then Dr. De told me, "he is bringing your peanuts." Not sure why that was a big deal. After lunch they drove me back to their home in the suburb of Salt Lake, which is beautiful. I was offered tea, and sweets, and a comfortable pillow. How was I feeling? Did I enjoy the meal? How was I finding Calcutta these days? Is there anything you need? Then they brought me gifts: a beautiful Indian wall hanging, and, much to Deepa's delight and amusement, a large bag of peanuts. I'm still not sure why the Great Peanut Controversy was a big deal at the club; but Deepa thought it was funny so, hey, I'm happy to be the foreign white girl taking one for the team. When they drove me home, they too shushed me for thanking them: "It is our way in Bengal: you are our guest."

Supriyo is much closer to my age, so he had his driver take us to some of the more trendy areas of town to site-see. He showed me Park Street, some of the nicer suburbs, the office where he works. While driving in the Shakespeare Sarani area I saw something so shocking I couldn't believe it: a Baskin Robbins neon sign. "Pull over!" I shouted. And so I introduced Supriyo to American ice cream. The ice cream was just dreamy, but the chocolate syrup and whipped cream were unusually different than is offered in the US. "This is just a small token of my thanks to you for being such a terrific host, taking me sight-seeing and eating wonderful Indian food," I said. "You do not need to say thanks, as that is the rule of friendship," he replied.

About a week ago I had yet another sinus infection, and this one was pretty bad. I called Dr. De (handy that he's an ENT doctor) and asked him to simply recommend medicine. He replied, "Oh no, you will come to my office! You will now you will be my patient!" So he stayed late that afternoon just to see me. He gave me medicine that he had there in the clinic and offered me tea. I got out my checkbook and asked him what I owed him for the visit, and you'd think I had just insulted his mother. "No, no, you will not pay: you are our guest."

Dr. De, Basanti and Supriyo showed me not only another side of Calcutta, away from the squalor and suffering, but also extraordinary hospitality. They were gentle and generous, with great senses of humor. I was overwhelmed by their attention, their generosity and their concern for my wellbeing . . . and I was a stranger to them. I will miss them. Yet it's an astonishingly small world: turns out that Dr. De and Deepa have one child, who studied and currently lives in . . . wait for it . . . Dallas, Texas. Of all the places on earth . . . an incredible coincidence. So, when I get back home, I'll have a new friend that I had to fly to Delhi to board the Palace on Wheels train tour to meet a doctor in Calcutta who has an only child who chose Texas out of every place in the world, to meet.

Reflection: Why is there Suffering, God?

Suffering, prostitution, poverty, drugs . . . evil in the world seems so insurmountable. We accept it, take a deep breath and keep moving. One reaction is to ignore evil. Another reaction is to simply blame God. "It's not my fault," we say. "How could a loving God allow so much suffering?" This question I've heard a million times, and I myself have asked this question, certainly here in Calcutta. After much thought, I believe the question is misplaced. God loves us so much that He gives us free will to speak, act and think. Surely no one resents an independent mind and choices. God does not force our love as a dictator would force obedience: free will allows for an authentic response of love to God's love. Free will allows us choices: that means we can can choose well, and we can also choose badly (whether we know it or not).

I asked Josh if he ever gets angry with God after one of his daily walks down Sonagachie Street (one of the red-light districts in Calcutta), seeing the prostitutes with few or no options, some of whom were sold into the sex trade against their will. Josh had a tough childhood with a remarkably dysfunctional family life . . . we're talking a field day for Oprah. As such Josh easily has a case for being angry for a situation he didn't choose, and for a situation many of these women didn't choose. "No," he says, "I'm angry at the sin nature of the world and of people." He's mad at the things people do to others and the choices people make, whether they want to admit these choices are in fact evil or not. So just as he can see God shaking his head sometimes, he can see Satan smiling.

We think about God, but how often do we consider Satan, a very real and powerful force bent on our distraction and destruction? I don't want to think about a Satan figure; I don't even want to believe that he is real. Kevin Spacey's character in the movie "The Usual Suspects" tells a police investigator, "Satan's greatest trick was to convince the world he doesn't exist." While I can readily and palpably see God here in Calcutta, in equal measures I see the waste Satan has laid. Not believing Satan exists just because I don't want to believe I could ever be used by him, or because I don't like to think about it, is just kidding myself. There is evidence of people's sin nature and bad choices all over the place in Calcutta (and in America, for that matter). So I wonder to God, "Why are things the way they are with sin and suffering . . . how did we get here?"

In Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, the author writes a curious dialogue about power and freedom. The agnostic brother Ivan writes a poem called "The Grand Inquisitor" set at the height of the Spanish Inquisition. The Inquisitor, a cardinal, recognizes Jesus in a crowd and throws him into prison. There, the two visit, and the Inquisitor accuses Jesus of forfeiting to Satan the three greatest powers at his disposal: "miracle, mystery and authority." He should have followed Satan's advice and performed the miracles on demand in order to increase his fame among the people. "Instead of taking possession of men's freedom, you increased it, and burdened the spiritual kingdom of mankind with its sufferings forever. You desired man's free love, that he should follow you freely, enticed and taken captive by you."

Philip Yancey, author of The Jesus I Never Knew, thinks a lot on Dostoevsky's book and writes at length in response:

"I believe God insists on 'the miracle of restraint' because no pyrotechnic displays of omnipotence will achieve the response he desires. Although power can force obedience, only love can summon a response of love, which is the one thing God wants from us and the reason he created us. For God, preserving the free will of a notoriously flawed species seemed worth the cost. God made himself weak (in the form of Jesus) for one purpose: to let human beings choose freely for themselves what to do with him. I never sense (in the Bible) Jesus twisting a person's arm, rather, he states the consequences of a choice, then threw the decision back to the other party. Jesus' resistance against Satan's temptations preserved for me the very freedom I exercise when I face my own temptations. Jesus knows first-hand what I'm going through, because he too was tempted, and he too suffered. I pray for the same trust and patience that Jesus showed."

Gary Haugen is the president of International Justice Mission in Washington, DC, and previously worked in the UN genocide investigation in Rwanda, and in the US Justice Department civil rights division. This guy has been to the most remote parts of the world and has witnessed poverty and horror beyond our imagination. I recently read his book Good News About Injustice, and he offers some interesting insights along the same lines as Yancey:

"I believe the reason these offenses occur is because people choose to indulge their selfish and brutal urges to dominate the defenseless. For most of us these latent urges are kept in check by various social and cultural restraints, but we should be under no illusions about what exists at the human core. Perfectly ordinary human beings are capable of atrocities. In Rwanda, to say nothing of Eastern Europe during the Holocaust, the killing was not performed by specially trained pathological killers but by ordinary people: farmers, clerks, school principals, mothers, doctors and mayors."

Haugen goes on to say this about our role as people relating to God as we see bad things like poverty and suffering:

"Viewing a world of injustice from a seat in the grandstand, we may be tempted to shake our fist at God, demanding to know why he's not harder at work blowing those mysterious winds to save someone. Over time I have come to see questions about suffering in the world not so much as questions of God's character but as questions about the obedience and faith of God's people. Gradually it has occurred to me that the problem may not be that God is so far off, the problem may be that God's people are far off. Through whose hands does God reach out to meet the needs of those who are poor and suffering injustice? Ours. We are God's hands of mercy and love. Through supernatural intervention God could meet all of these needs, yet he has given these tasks to his people. He gives us the great honor and privilege of being his instruments. How pathetic it would be if God said, 'Seek justice, defend the orphan and plead for the widow - and good luck to you out there!' But sometimes we act as if that's precisely the way he works, suspecting that he calls us to a grand, utterly impossible work in the world and then doesn't bother to show up. But this is not true. Jesus promised that when he left the Holy Spirit would come and we would receive power - witnesses to his love, his mercy and his justice (Acts 1:8)"

So, how could we as people build these societal systems and willingly (or unwittingly) allow evil to prevail through corruption, addiction, selfishness, greed and violence? Can we be Good Samaritans? Where are we when others suffer? Where am I?

In Calcutta and all over the world, the Missionaries of Charity are exercising their free will and choosing to live a life serving God by serving the suffering poor. Mother Teresa said it well, after being asked how she is able to serve the poor. "I don't understand the question," she said, "I'm simply loving my husband." I've never heard someone refer to God this way, in the context of a deeply committed love relationship. She responds to God, she walks with Him. Practically speaking, this intimacy came from loving and serving the poor and the sick.

Mother Teresa showed up and chose to be an instrument for good. Gandhi showed up. Countless black and white men and women in the Civil Rights era showed up. Groups like International Justice Mission, Friends of the Children, Doctors Without Borders, Salvation Army, Word Made Flesh . . . they showed up. Countless others in your community and mine who will achieve no fame or award . . . they showed up, too. These people knew/know what it means when Haugen says it's a "great honor" to serve the poor, the sick, the forgotten, the oppressed. In all of my reading and hearing stories of these individuals, it is clear this kind of service is not easy: yes, they saw innocent people die, some from injustice or murder or from just getting sick. Yes, they questioned God and cried out to Him often, not knowing why these people "drew the short stick." Yet these individuals understood they could be part of God's plan to help His people, and they found in the sometimes pain and struggle of service great fulfillment and even joy.

I realize that the free will we have is a frightening gift. I see we as people have choices and on a daily basis make bad choices, whether relatively harmless to downright evil; whether as a result of being fooled, of an honest mistake or of a calculated choice. Sometimes I feel I suffer from too much freedom. God, why can't you just overwhelm me? It's that pesky free will, isn't it? For as much as I enjoy and even demand it, it sure can stink sometimes. I still pray for God's miraculous intervention in situations, and sometimes I'm disappointed. But sometimes his response is far greater than I expected. I recognize I've only explored one aspect of an enormous topic of "why people suffer," and man, is it a hard topic. These notions alone are not enough to comfort a dying person at Kalighat. Yet this angle is an important one that calls me to action for what I am able to do and can be responsible for. Now that I've been studying and thinking on our human condition of free will and choice and how it relates to why people suffer, I believe my next subject of study is God's compassion: that He cares deeply about those who are suffering and does in fact respond. Sometimes we don't see it on this side of Heaven.

If God wants to use me to be his "instrument" like I think He does, how then shall I live today? What choices will I make? I can see God shaking His head at the bad choices I've made in the past, choices to let "road rage" take over, to be nasty to the telemarketer who calls me during dinner, to gossiping about or making fun of a co-worker . . . or worse choices like getting behind the wheel though I've had too much to drink, pretending the poor beggar at the traffic light doesn't exist, or lying to a friend to save my own skin.

I recognize I must be in prayer every single day to stay close to God and as a result, to choose well. I wonder how this time in India will affect how I spend my time, how I manage my money, and what activities I choose to participate in. So that is my lesson, and my homework when I arrive back home to Texas.

"Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?"

- James 2:15-16

The Seedier Side of Poverty

"There's more?" you might be saying to yourself. Oh yes, my friend. Poverty is also subject to other sinister forces in Calcutta, as if hunger and disease aren't enough. The Mafia operates out of every slum, some brothels and many individual beggars. Fear and intimidation rob these people of hope. And sometimes of operation of limbs: it is true that some beggars were crippled, blinded or freakishly altered in some way in childhood on purpose. Twisted arms or poked-out eyes lend to greater sympathy and thus more profitable begging. Men and women promise poor villagers that they'll find good jobs in the city for their daughters, only the jobs they have in mind mean forced prostitution. Or, a husband might have to go into debt (or die in debt), and their wives are forced to pay off debts through selling their bodies.

Josh and the Word Made Flesh team invited a few of the women on Sonagachie Street to go see a movie with them, to relax and just be entertained. One of the women was able to go. At the last minute, the "man in charge" said she couldn't go, that she had to work. Josh talked to the man (WMF has actually developed good relationships with the pimps and madams, for lack of better terms), asking how much money he would be losing by letting her go. The man gave a number, and Josh offered him three times that much just to let her go to the movie. He refused; no reason given. I guess having the power over another human being was just too much to give up for two hours.

A list of sinister activities like violent body alteration and prostitution just wouldn't be complete without drugs. A man passes me on the street, usually very casually with his hands behind his back, and upon passing me he quietly says "hashhhhh." Paul and Trever are offered hash and other drugs much more often, and more boldly. Trever has taken to yelling loudly, "No, I don't want to buy hashish from you!" And the men scurry away quickly. Unfortunately, some foreign tourists on Sudder Street think, "Hey, cheap hash . . . all right!" If the demand is there, the supply will continue to flow, I suppose, and drug-dealing will continue to be a viable option. And in desperation, selling drugs can be a profitable way to feed one's family.

Can't They Just Get A Job?

There is so much suffering here, whether physical or emotional, and so many seemingly intractable systems that perpetuate suffering, or at least don't prevent it. I could point to inadequate health care, corruption, religious caste systems, etc. But it seems to me that a significant cause of this suffering is the lack of value for human life (certainly this lack of value is not limited to just India). In a city of 16 million people, what's one less life? Or ten, or a hundred? And for those who have been deemed less valuable, they simply do what it takes to get through the day. For example, a whole slum is built on top of a public trash dump: the Dhapa Dump provides income, as meager as it is, to its inhabitants. Men, women and children pick through the piles and separate out plastic bottles, foodstuffs, etc. You can't imagine the smells in these Ghettos of the Damned. Yet the people who dwell there go about their days: to us, it is astonishing to see such an existence. To them, it's life. Besides, what other options are there? In America we might draw from our pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps mentality and tell them to get a job. They can flip burgers at McDonalds, we might say. First of all, there are no McDonald's here, and Hindus don't eat meat anyway. Second of all, the poor of India don't wear boots: they wear sandals. Yes, yes, these are smart-ass responses, but they do address the serious, deeper problems for the poor in Calcutta, or most anywhere for that matter. I'll explain.

Working At McDonald's. Unemployment is high because jobs (much less good jobs) are scarce and the population is massive. Jobs require skills, and the only skill at many a poor and homeless person's disposal is the use of their bodies for manual labor. The overwhelming majority of the street people I know cannot read. So, a man can become a rickshaw driver if he's lucky, which during the monsoon season or in the unrelenting heat of summer is a living hell for only rupees a ride. Children could earn their keep, as their little hands are more nimble handling needle and thread in a clothing sweatshop or molding the ends of cigarettes in a factory. No lunch breaks here: kids will work a 12-hour shift in stifling heat and little light, not to mention exposure to hazardous fumes or other less than healthy conditions. I will remember this the next time I find myself about to gripe about my cube or office location at work.

Children can contribute income from begging, and they are effective beggars. They are more street-wise than they should be at their age: they know what techniques work better than others, and lying is no problem. These children do not go to school. Some MC Sisters tried to help a man who begs outside the Mother House by putting his son through school. Shortly thereafter, the father pulled his son out and put him back to begging on the streets, not because he was a mean father but because that source of income was desperately needed by the family.

Most Hindus Don't Eat Meat. In addition to a severe lack of skills, many poor and homeless are ill, whether physically or mentally so. In the book Rich Christians In The Age of Hunger, author Ron Sider concludes, "Poverty means illiteracy, inadequate health care, disease and even brain damage." For example, my friend Protima spends a few weeks begging on Sudder Street, then returns to her village until they need money again. Her husband is suffering from tuberculosis and is too sick to drive his cycle rickshaw. Protima cannot read and has no job skills, so her only option is to beg.

Unfortunately, poverty does often beget disease. Lacking both food and adequate health care, the Third World has high infant mortality rates (hell, Washington, DC has a high infant mortality rate due to lack of food and health care for the poor, too). This is one important cause of population explosions in underdeveloped nations: because many children die in infancy, a large family guarantees support for poor parents as they age. When a poor family runs out of food, the children suffer most. "An inactive child is not as serious a problem as an inactive wage earner," Sider states sadly. Regarding lack of food, death is usually a result of a disease a child's underfed body could not resist. Regarding lack of adequate health care, one need look no farther than the maladies I see daily at Kalighat. For example: less dramatic but perhaps more tragic, millions of people in India die each year from diarrhea. One of Protima's babies died from its body just wearing out from chronic diarrhea. Watching that happen surely nearly crushed Protima. And yet, a person has to move on, continuing the day.

The Poor Don't Wear Boots. Not having boots means that few poor people have educations: the illiteracy rate is high. Education can be a huge leg up by developing childrens' minds and preparing them for jobs . . . better jobs. The Missionaries of Charity started The Gandhi School to educate poor children. My friends Clare and Paul teach English and math to 6-8 year olds each afternoon. My friend Trever is putting three of Protima's children through boarding school. Grassroots, personal involvement efforts are working. Formal education is not a magic bullet, however, if it is not coupled with one-on-one encouragement and fostering a child's desire to want more. Sometimes that "more" is just not going to be there. Sometimes those little girls being educated will be married off at age 14 as is culturally acceptable, and will not have a choice but to take care of all the chores and to have babies. For older girls and women, like the prostitutes on Sonagachie Street with whom the Word Made Flesh team have befriended . . . in the very rare case when a woman is able to leave the brothel, what can she do? There is a severe stigma with their history as prostitutes. Non-profits and NGO's are working slowly in outreach to local factories and businesses to develop programs for prostitutes and poor children. Progress is slow, and for every victory there are dozens of failures. But there is that victory.

The thing is, poverty and its relatively hunger, disease, illiteracy, homelessness and unemployment are not unique to India. Frederic Thomas writes, "Calcutta is a cliché of squalor and despair." It's just that in Calcutta, it's all over the place and in your face. Indians are not uncaring. Bengalis in fact are very kind and delightful people (Calcutta is in the state of West Bengal). So calling Indians out specifically is perhaps unfair. Poverty and suffering happen in every country: in the United States 13% of our population lives below the poverty line. Yet they seem to be sequestered into the "poor areas" where they aren't readily seen. Calcutta has the added benefits of pollution and inadequate infrastructure of public utilities and services, which compound the problems.

Sights and Sounds of the City

Calcutta is image overload. Upon stepping onto the street I am immediately bombarded with images. Worn rickshaws in various states of disrepair (and the drivers themselves in various states of disrepair). Women in brightly colored saris. Bollywood movie posters. Chai tea stands with old tin pots and little single-use clay cups. Portraits of Hindu gods Kali, Krishna, Shiva or Ganesh, with garlands of bright yellow and orange marigolds strung over the portraits. Children giggling and playing with their made-from-things-they-found toys. Haggard street dogs snoozing on the street. Men bathing near a community water pump on the sidewalk. Hawkers selling everything from plastic squeaky toys to jute bags to cheap shirts for 100 rupees (about $2; one noteworthy t-shirt remarked "1999: What A Year!"). Men clearing their sinus passages and spitting. Indian flags. The ubiquitous grungy, dreadlocked skinny white guy traveler with a giant backpack and smoking a cigarette. Garbage in big piles on the street waiting to be picked up by who-knows-whom or to be rifled through by ragpickers. Rickety public buses with conductors shouting out the destination for those would-be passengers who sometimes have to take a running jump onto the bus. Food vendors selling baskets of fruit and vegetables, next to large black tin kettles oiled up to cook fresh chapati or other breads.

Calcutta certainly has nice, even beautiful areas. As I am among the poor and the volunteers, though, I rarely pass through these areas. One can see some trees and perhaps better kept, cleaner streets. Out in the suburbs the houses are quite charming and the neighborhood is quieter. In the city it is congested, dirty, polluted and loud. And the beggars . . . they are everywhere. The women hold their babies and beg for milk. The children beg for chocolate, or for some rupees. The men reach out their hands or forcefully follow me calling, "Sister, Sister, rupees." The women are even more forceful and have the most pitiful, desperate looks on their faces.

The onslaught of poverty is unrelenting. I walk three blocks from my hotel to Free School Street, and I am offered a ride to Mother House by no less than four rickshaw wallahs (the drivers, the "human horses" who manually pull the rickshaws: some are wearing sandals, some are barefoot). Immediately across the street from my hotel on the street live about four to five partial families and their extended relations and friends (many relatives are back in the village waiting for these people to return with seriously needed money for food and supplies). The children run around in torn, ill-fitting clothes, and they're often smiling and entertaining themselves, waiting for a volunteer to stop by and play, which we do several times a day. There is one old woman who has made her sari from a burlap sack. People are younger, sometimes a lot younger, than they look, as living on the streets with exposure to the elements and worrying about where the next meal or medicine will come from takes a toll on a body. The heat is sweltering, the humidity is ghastly, and I understand that during monsoon season, the two-month long rains flood the streets dredging up unimaginable sludge in which people must walk . . . and the poor must live.

This is Sudder Street, Free School Street, AJC Bose Street. These are the daily beaten paths of Missionaries of Charity volunteers, comparatively rich Europeans, Americans, Australians and South Americans who are constantly approached by beggars for spare rupees, empty water bottles or a shopping trip for food. If you are a poor beggar and can get to one of these places where access to foreign volunteer visitors is abundant, then you can probably do quite well . . . this area is the motherlode. But I think about the overwhelming majority of Calcutta's destitute, that they cannot make it to these locations. They live in slums, they live at the train station, the dumps, the outskirts. The poorest of the poor are the ones you don't see every day. Some of them have six to eight mouths to feed; some of them have only one as they have no family. Some of them are literally rotting away in a pile of garbage or in a back alley. By the grace of God, we'll see the sick ones arrive at Kalighat for treatment.

Yes, I play Cricket

Take a walk through the Maidan, which is Calcutta's version of Central Park (except with very few trees, not much grass and some litter here and there), and you'll witness at least fifteen different matches of cricket being played. When Calcutta shuts down due to a transportation strike (which has happened twice since I've been here), boys take to the streets with their friends and start up a makeshift game of cricket. Native Calcuttan Sourav Ganguly is the Indian national cricket team captain. To say India is absolutely crazy for cricket is an understatement. To wit: India and Pakistan are playing their first one-day and test-match series against each other in 14 years, and for the first one-day match, practically the entire country closed up shop so all good Indians could watch or listen to the match. The outcome of the series might well affect the current peace talks between the two countries.

"It's like baseball, right?" I ask my volunteer friend Paul from Australia. He looked at me for a moment, probably thinking of what he would say to this poor, deprived American who managed to go through life without ever having watched cricket. That day was a transportation strike day, so we walked out onto Sudder Street and watched one of the groups of kids playing street cricket. He explained the rules, and except for a few details, it seemed pretty straightforward. I shared my new-found knowledge with another volunteer friend Melanie (a Canadian), and she said, "Why don't we organize a game?" Thus, the Great Volunteer Cricket Match was born.

Paul, with help from fellow Australian Father Stephen, led the rag-tag band of eight volunteers out to an empty spot on the Maidan one Thursday morning. Melanie had scored a cricket bat and ball at the market for 300 rupees (about six dollars); Carolyn and I provided our backpacks to be used as stumps (or wickets), and we were good to go.

The rules: Cricket is normally played with two teams of eleven. The middle of the field is called the pitch. A pitch is a hard, flat strip of dry ground (kind of like the area between a pitcher and catcher in baseball). Two batsmen are at the pitch at a time, each at different ends, with one facing the delivery of the ball from the bowler (the pitcher, in baseball). The bowler runs up to the pitch where he bowls the ball overarm. One bowler bowls six balls (six times), which is considered an "over." A one-day match consists of 50 overs for each team (50 overs x 6 balls per over = 300 balls per team). Teams score by getting runs: running from one side of the pitch to the other and passing the crease (the "finish line" so to speak, right in front of the stump) equals one run, batting the ball hard enough on the ground to roll over the outfield boundary edge equals four runs, and batting the ball in the air over the outfield boundary edge equals six runs. The batsman can run as many times as he likes, but the batsman can get out if his stumps are hit with the ball by a fielder before the batsman reaches the crease. The bowling team will score a point for each out they get against the batting team. In the first one-day match, India beat Pakistan by five runs, 349-7 (349 runs and 7 outs) vs. 344-8 (344 runs and 8 outs). The first team bats through their 50 overs, then it is the next team's turn to bat through their 50 overs, after which the match is over.

We the volunteers, however, played a modified version of the official way because the group was mostly Americans and we sucked. Paul and Father Stephen, on the other hand, were giddy as schoolboys reliving their days as young boys playing backyard cricket with their mates in Australia. Carolyn and I both played softball for years, so we picked it up fairly quickly and delivered decent performances. Give me a plank of wood and I will get a piece of anything you pitch at me. For my last ball at bat, I smacked it high and long . . . it was destined for a six-pointer, and quite a beauty. Unfortunately my impressive hit was unfairly thwarted by an amazing diving catch from Father Stephen, who clearly had prayed immediately beforehand for God to give him superhuman catching abilities. Being the self-respecting American athlete I was, I began trash-talking the priest. "You'll get yours, Father Steve!" I shouted. Remind me to look in the Catholic handbook to see if I'm going to Hell for taunting a priest.

The sun was beginning to beat down and we were all hungry, so we wrapped up our match and headed back to Sudder Street for lunch and a play-by-play breakdown. I proudly announced to the lunch table that Paul had told me I was "a natural bowler." Carolyn replied that Paul had told her that she too was a natural bowler. We then proceeded to argue over who was better and then decided to just be mad at Paul, because, well, he's a man. The next morning I felt every one of my 33 years in each aching, sore muscle. Cricket is a terrific game, and I too glued myself to the television to watch India and Pakistan play thereon out.

Reflection: Sister Olinda's Kidneys

Sister Olinda has lousy kidneys. As such she goes to the hospital twice a week for a four-hour dialysis session. When Sister Olinda went to the hospital last Friday for her regular dialysis session, there were complications. I had no idea how she was doing or when she'd be back . . . and the hospital was very strict about visitors (read: I was not allowed to visit). I was getting increasingly agitated and concerned about my dear friend. Each day I came into Kalighat, I asked Sister Georgina if Olinda was back: each day the answer was no. Not knowing is always is the worst part. One morning Sister Georgina found me and said, "the one you love, Sister Olinda, is upstairs . . . you can go see her." I was elated, so I ran up the stairs and gently opened the doors to the chapel. In the chapel there was a simple altar, a crucifix, a statue of Mary, and Sister Olinda, sitting on a little kiddie-looking stool all by herself, looking up at Jesus. I took off my sandals and walked in quietly. She turned her head to look at me, and I found myself kneeling beside her. Tears streamed down my face. She had been gone six days. I told her I was so worried, and that I was so happy to see her . . . I could barely choke the words out. And she just smiled and looked at me. "You've been gone and I missed you!" I said. She put her hand on my shoulder and told me that she was fine now. "Were you scared?" I asked. She smiled again and said, "Oh no, no . . . if it is time, I am ready." Ugh . . . there is one rock solid person.

I had been so eager to see Sister Olinda. In her I found gentleness, a sweet spirit, a warm smile and equanimity. And yet the whole was exponentially greater than the sum of those parts. All of the above are nice things, and you and I have all seen them in someone from time to time, but in Sister Olinda it was different. These gifts weren't delivered in a response to our being taught to be nice to each other and to share our toys in the sandbox. They weren't presented as a result of reading books and trying to be a better person. Her gifts are just there, emanating from a source of pure love from The Great Love of her life.

It was as if she had been dead and was now alive. And then it hit me: she was Jesus to me. When Sister Olinda spoke it was Jesus speaking, when she smiled it was Jesus smiling, when she laughed it was Jesus laughing. She was living the Catholic prayer, "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace." In her company was a safe place to rest, an embrace of trust and peace. I felt at home, at home with Jesus. And that's what I was longing for, why I came to India, and why I had such an unexpected, inarticulate reaction to her being back. Of course I was happy to see HER and missed HER, but in truth I was happy to see JESUS and missed HIM.

Henri Nouwen's book Return of the Prodigal Son discusses the biblical parable of the Prodigal Son: Nouwen identifies with the son when he asks his father for his inheritance early and leaves home, for a life that he later finds is utterly unfulfilling and devoid of love. Clearly not coincidentally, I read an excerpt from Nouwen's book later that same afternoon: "Yet over and over again I have left home. I have fled the hands of blessing and run off to faraway places searching for love. This is the great tragedy of my life. Somehow I have become deaf to the voice that calls me 'you are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.' I have left the only place where I can hear that voice, and have gone off desperately hoping that I would find somewhere else what I could no longer find at home. At first this sounds unbelievable. Why should I leave the place where all I need to hear can be heard? The more I think about this question, the more I realize that the true voice of love is a very soft and gentle voice speaking to me in the most hidden places of my being. It is not a boisterous voice, forcing itself on me and demanding attention. It is the voice of a nearly blind father (from the Prodigal Son story) who has cried much and died many deaths. It is a voice that can only be heard by those who allow themselves to be touched."

I have allowed my heart to be touched for the first time in a long time. Jesus's voice was a very soft and gentle voice, expressed through Sister Olinda. It was not boisterous and forceful, demanding my attention, like the voice of my job, the voice of my television or the voice of my insecurities. Or especially the voice of my own ego telling me how intelligent or how capable I am, and that I don't need God or His help. I thought Jesus's voice should have been boisterous and forceful, because I thought that's what I needed, indeed what I deserved, for my thick skull, for my lack of faith. I had naively and foolishly left for ultimately unfulfilling destinations in my life, thinking I'd surely find my worth and fulfillment in my jobs, in my relationships or in my abilities. As the end of the parable goes, "He (the son) was lost and now he is found." So instead of a scolding, demand of penance or an "I told you so," God simply welcomed me home into his restful, loving embrace . . . at this moment given to me through a tiny Indian woman in a white and blue sari, with lousy kidneys.

At Kalighat: Sima and Lincoln

You may recall I have previously written about a few of my favorite patients at Kalighat. The latest development with Sima is surprising.

The open wounds on Sima's legs, which previously were putrefied, green and full of maggots, are now, while still open, showing nothing but new pink tissue. Cleaning Sima's wounds is still very painful for her, and we require a third person to sit near her head to hold her hand, sing to her and give her water. Sometimes we have to put an adult diaper on her before wound care, as I learned the hard way that her digestion and excretion systems work quite well. Two days in a row during the treatments she poo-ed right on the bed, and we had to stop so I could clean her up. A few days ago after Susan finished up with our 1.5 hours of wound care on her, I gave Sima a lollipop. The following day I did the same thing. Now, during wound care each day, she'll grab my arm, smile a huge, charming smile and say, "Lollipop? Lollipop?"

Thursdays are the volunteers' day off, so Friday morning I arrived at Kalighat and asked Sister Pei Ling if anything interesting had happened the day before. "Oh yes," she replied, "with your Sima." Apparently Sima has family. Her son had come into Kalighat looking for a woman that fit Sima's description. He had been looking for her all over Calcutta; she had been missing, I guess, for almost two months. It turns out that Sima is an economist for the Indian Government, and has a PhD. I am not sure if she has had ongoing mental health issues, but apparently one day she lost it, left work and didn't return. Her family had neither seen nor heard from her. No one knows what happened next, but in observing her leg wounds and bed sores, it's clear she hadn't moved much for a period of time: likely she found a spot to sit at Howrah train station and didn't leave it for several weeks. That's where she developed such serious bedsores on her rear, and that's how some cuts or bites could have turned into infected, gaping wounds. Howrah is where volunteers found her in this shocking condition and brought her to Kalighat.

I sat beside Sima, and she looked at me. Not expecting a response I said to her, "Do you know economics?" I said this more out loud to myself in her direction, as I was still amazed by the story of her son. Sima replied, "I am doctor." Startled, I paused for a second and then asked, "Do you work for government?" Sima's reply bowled me over: "Of the people, by the people, for the people." My jaw dropped. She was educated. She could understand a little English. She knew the Gettysburg Address. I looked around to see if anyone else had heard her. Sima then grabbed my arm, smiled a huge, charming smile and said, "Lollipop? Lollipop?"

Sima's son is currently arranging to take her to a private hospital, one that won't immediately amputate her legs (Sister Pei Ling says she's seen worse, and Susan agrees amputation is no longer necessary due to all the new growth). It is obvious Sima has mental problems and needs treatment for that, too. I'm just so grateful to find out she's not destitute, she hasn't been forgotten. She is the very rare exception rather than the rule at Kalighat. So until her son comes through, I enjoy hearing Sima tell me each morning, "I am doctor."

"Unclean! Unclean!"

In Biblical times, when a person infected with leprosy traveled anywhere he might encounter people, he was required to shout "Unclean! Unclean!" to warn others not to come near for fear of contamination. Leprosy is most common in warm, wet areas in the tropics and subtropics: the World Health Organization estimates that of the10-12 million patients with the disease, fully half are in Africa and India. Leprosy in all ages has been considered one of the more despicable diseases, and victims have been despised throughout history and kept in separate places, like leper colonies. Here was another group of people, Mother Teresa thought, who were not just forgotten about by society but actively shunned and spurned. People with this disease do not cease to become people, and are too God's creations. So began the Leprosy Centre Titagarh in 1975, about 45 minutes outside Calcutta near the train tracks.

Leprosy is a chronic infectious disease that attacks the skin, peripheral nerves and mucous membranes (eyes, respiratory tract). To contract leprosy, one needs to be low nourished or have weak immunity systems; healthy people usually don't contract leprosy when exposed. The disease damages nerves and causes numbness: as an Indian leper walks barefoot, case in point, he or she may not feel the ground, and can easily develop cuts or ulcers. Unaware of such injury, wounds become infected, go untreated, and extremities (toes) can be lost as a result. The sad part is that leprosy is an easily treatable disease; it simply goes untreated.

Most every "resident" at Titagarh is missing fingers and toes. I know because I saw them. Susan, Rita, Clare and I visited Titagarh one morning, and it was not what I expected. It wasn't a Ghetto of the Damned; it wasn't filled with moaning people in sorrow and pain. There was no suffering to be seen: these people were happy. Titagarh was a hive of activity: men and women busily worked at their thread wheels or looms weaving the saris and towels used by Missionaries of Charity homes across the world. Children were in the classroom learning "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" in four languages. The gardens were filled with leafy green vegetables and brightly colored flowers. Residents smiled at us and wanted us to take their picture. When I took a photo with my digital camera, I was able to show the person the picture immediately, which absolutely delighted them to see themselves. One man was giving a wall a fresh coat of bright blue paint. I passed a woman to whom I gave the traditional Indian greeting (my hands in prayer), and she responded by placing her bandaged, fingerless hands together in prayer as well. The schoolteacher explained to us what the children were learning that day, and had them perform for us their ABC's and to sing us songs: when they were done, the teacher applauded the children. I noticed he was missing most of his fingers. This educated, dignified man in a suit and tie was a resident! This place was an oasis.

Titagarh is virtually self-sufficient. Eight MC Brothers (men can be part of the Missionaries of Charity, as brothers or fathers) are in charge of Titagarh, with various helpers and volunteers along side. Titagarh contains a dispensary for medical treatment, hospital facilities, private family dwellings, acres of vegetable gardens, rice and wheat "mill," a shoe cobbler, a prosthetic workshop and classrooms for children. There are 600 residents, all of whom have been treated for leprosy, and almost all of whom have deformities of some sorts. As there is still a serious stigma in India of having leprosy, these people would be unable to get jobs on the outside. Titagarh allows them to belong, to have purpose. Titagarh is a place that restores dignity. Since its opening over 65,000 people have been treated for leprosy. Those are 65,000 people that received some level of respect, grace and love . . . they were not in fact "unclean." To date, a leper colony is the prettiest, happiest place I've seen in all of Calcutta.

Odd Things

• Looking out from my favorite rooftop perch at Kalighat, I surveyed the street below. I noticed a yellow cab pulling up outside and two men getting out. Nothing unusual here . . . except that when they opened the trunk, four goats jumped out. I wonder if they were required to pay?
• Taxi meters come in two varieties: older ones and newer ones. The fare registered for older ones require the rider to roughly triple that number to arrive at the correct fare. For the newer ones, the rider should add an extra 40% to the number. In fact, the Calcutta municipal taxi authorities have created special fare conversion charts that all cab drivers carry to help passengers easily do the math, depending on the kind of meter. Who needs an accurate meter with this efficient system?
• Because Calcuttans, for the most part, all wear sandals or flip flops, our feet are subjected to the dirt and grime of the streets. Therefore, we volunteers develop a "perma-scudge" on the bottoms of our feet from all the walking we do all day. No matter how often we wash or how diligently we scrub, this black layer does not fully come off. My friends Paul and Courtney win the awards for Most Impressive Perma-Scudge for men and women, respectively. Congratulations to them both.

Nunnin' Is Tough Business

As I've mentioned before, the most beautiful women in the world are in fact the sisters of the Missionaries of Charity. It's a different beauty, one more rare than anything you'd find in In Style magazine: it is a combination of a loving heart, clean living, simple lifestyle and gracious, peaceful spirit devoted to God. In the chapel of the Mother House, there is a sign that itemizes what a Missionary of Charity is:

• A carrier of God's love, especially to the poorest of the poor, setting all on fire with love for Him and for one another,
• A healing touch of God that cures all diseases,
• A soothing smile of God that warms all hearts,
• God's own language of love that all hearts understand.

Right on, sisters.

Four sisters at Kalighat are particularly near and dear to my heart. Sister Georgina is the "head sister" at Kalighat; she's in charge. She can almost always be found at the desk near the front of Kalighat, taking care of MC business regarding the sisters, expenses or patients, and always with a huge smile and some encouraging words. Sister Pei Ling is from Singapore, and she's in charge of all the patients. At no more than 5-foot-2, Sister Pei Ling's compact and efficient body scoots from one project to another, whether it's finding medical supplies, making a patient take her medicine, or consulting with Susan or other volunteers trained in the medical profession on care for a particular patient. She has a high, loud voice, and is one tough cookie. Sister Arul Prakash smiles more than anyone I've ever known. She's originally from an area near Chennai in Southern India, and loves to show me the handful of "snaps" she has of her family, and even of her before she joined the MC's. Sister Arul Prakash handles the finances for Kalighat, and if you get her talking, she loves to tell you stories. She likes me in particular, because my name is close to that of her grand-nephew, Denny, and when he came to visit Kalighat, we had a grand old time playing together. Sister Olinda is another native Indian, hailing from a small village near Darjeeling in the North. Sister Olinda, funny enough, lived in Dallas for 4 years working out of the MC house there, so we've bonded over that. Apparently my name is rather challenging to pronounce for Indians, so it comes out as "Dennis." I love hearing the sisters calling me Dennis; it never fails to make me grin.

After the daily volunteer tea breaks I walk upstairs to the roof, where Sister Olinda picks out the sweet green peas for me from the kitchen, and sometimes we fold laundry outside. We talk, and I can understand only about every other word she says (her English is good, but with a thick accent). But that really doesn't matter, because her smile and her eyes are so expressive, delivering peace and comfort to whomever engages her in conversation. She's a little bit of a thing at 5-foot-2 and has a worn-out tattoo in the middle of her forehead, an indication of her tribe from her village. You never can tell how old any of the sisters are (some look about fifteen); she looks like she's about 40, but in truth she's 50. The highlight of my day is spending time with Sister Olinda, even if I can't understand everything she says.

Reflection: Seeing the bigger picture

I do the same kinds of things every day at Kalighat: help serve meals and chai tea, massage the women, assist Susan with wound care, help with laundry, or just sit with the women. This day I walked back toward the back of the women's ward to say hello to the aforementioned Bed 29 woman. Today she was different: she wasn't chanting or chatting unintelligibly or rocking or laughing. She was on her side rolled up into a ball, weeping. Instead of ignoring her, which I considered doing and sometimes do with some of the women, I walked over and touched her on the shoulder. She continued wailing. I sat her upright; she was still clutching her knees to her tiny little chest. I rubbed her back a little; she continued her cries. I couldn't ask her what was wrong because we spoke different languages. Her eyes were filled with big, heavy tears. Was she scared? Did she feel alone? Was she in pain? But I couldn't ask, I couldn't know, I couldn't fix her. Here's the interesting thing: I didn't want to try and fix her. And that's my nature: got a problem, let's fix it. At that moment I just wanted . . . to be sad with her. So I wrapped my arms around her, cradled her head on my shoulder and just hugged her. As I stroked her hair and her back, I began to cry too. Not for the injustice of poverty, not for the loneliness of abandonment, not for the ugliness of the streets, not for the pain of disease. I cried because I was just sad, simply walking through the raw emotion along side this little bit of a poor woman. Her heart was hurting, and I was just plain sad.

Maybe Jesus is like this. His heart is hurting because our hearts are hurting. He's sad because Bed 29 is sad, or because I am sad. "You don't see the big picture, Denise," I can hear Him say. "You don't see what's on the other side of this issue, and you can't imagine how much I love you. Sit with me and let me just hold you."

In Henri Nouwen's book The Return of the Prodigal Son, the author describes his reaction to the Rembrandt painting of the same name. The painting depicting the biblical story of The Prodigal Son captures him, it transfixes him. He sees that "the tender embrace of father and son expressed everything (he) desired at that moment. Now I desired only to rest safely in a place where I could feel a sense of belonging, a place where I could feel at home." Nouwen goes on to say that "coming home meant, for me, walking step by step toward the One who awaits me with open arms and wants to hold me in an eternal embrace . . . had I, myself, really ever dared to step into the center, kneel down and let myself be held by a forgiving God?"

I have never really dared to step into that center. I'm in control, you see, and I can work things out. If it is to be, it is up to me, as the saying goes. I want to "keep some control over my journey, to remain able to predict at least part of the outcome . . . that relinquishing the security of observer with control" for the vulnerability and unknown of a broken, powerless prodigal son seems close to impossible for me.

But things are quite clearly not in my control. Calcutta throws that in my face every day, every hour, as if to mock the image I fancy of myself. And when I see that I want to be that "son" who dares to let God hold him and love him, I don't know how.

I feel as if sometimes I just need a good smack across the face or a swift kick in the ass. "Wake up!" Jesus should say. That's what I deserve for being so stubborn, such a rotten lazy person sometimes. Why doesn't God just compel me to believe? Why doesn't he just overwhelm me and force me to listen and follow? Look at those words: smack, kick, compel, force. The description of the father in the Prodigal Son story uses very different words: open arms, moved with pity, rest, home.

I'm still trying to understand this idea: the embrace of a loving Father who is sad with me, who wants to give me rest at "home." By this exchange today the concept begins to have meaning for me.

FYI, Bed 29 eventually calmed down. She smiled, whispered something unintelligible in my ear, and moments later began rocking back and forth chatting away.

My Plumbing Is Fine

Some of you have asked about my health, what with my being in a cesspool of sickness and pollution. The volunteers all take precautions with rubber gloves, facemasks, vitamins, protein, malaria pills, etc. The pollution gets to us sometimes, and sinus infections are the norm. They usually go away in a few days. The most frequent malady is, as one might expect with rich, spicy, good Indian food, diarrhea. Knock on wood, I've only experienced it twice.

Last week's was on a local train with four more stops to go. It hit me all of a sudden, and man did I have to go right now. But with a ways still to go on the moving, jarring, bumpy train, I had to really concentrate. I had a vice-grip on Trever's arm and forbade him to speak to me for fear he'd make me laugh causing disaster to strike. The train arrived at the station, Trev helped me off the train and I slowly walked toward the exit with my head down. It was nighttime, so it was dark outside. "Hmmm . . . nobody would see me if I just hopped down on the train tracks five feet below," I thought. No joke, I actually considered this. My eyes began to blur; my face turned white. "Please, God, oh PLEASE don't let me blow!" And as if it were the Pearly Gates, there was a sign indicating a women's bathroom. And, Hallelujah, I just happened to have a square of toilet paper in my bag. No Western toilet; just an Indian "toilet," which is a hole in the ground for squatting. No problem-o here. Five more seconds and I wouldn't have made it.

After that, I was a new woman: I had been saved by Divine Providence of an Indian Toilet. Trever was now allowed to talk to me. So other than that, I remain healthy and my plumbing is fine.

The Roof at Kalighat

I love the roof of Kalighat. Indian roofs tend to be flat and open, with several levels where one can hang laundry, grow plants or just look into the distance. There is a little perch with an overhang overlooking the street below, where I can eat my lunch and drink my chai tea. From my perch there is a direct view of a large crucifix hanging on one of the turrets of the Kalighat building: next to the crucifix hangs a large sign next to Jesus that simply says, "I Thirst." I sometimes spend an hour on the roof attending to the laundry drying in the wind on the lines. It's sunny and breezy on the roof, and although one can hear the traffic and crowds of the street below, it's still serene, a delightfully restful hiding place.

Another Day at Kalighat

In Bengali, Nirmal Hriday (nur-MALL hur-DIE) is translated "Home for the Dying and Destitute." It was the first Missionaries of Charity home, and is considered "Mother Teresa's first love." There are many other homes here in Calcutta (and all over the world): Daya Dan, for handicapped boys, Shanti Dan, for women with mental problems and their children; Shishu Bhavan, for handicapped children and toddlers . . . just to name a few. I have spent time working at each of these homes, but I always find myself drawn back to Nirmal Hriday.

Nirmal Hriday is known among MC's and volunteers by its shortened moniker "Kalighat," because the home is next door to the Kali Temple and the Kalighat subway stop. The name Kolkata (Bengali for "Calcutta") is said to be named for the terrifying goddess Kali. Kali is regarded as one of the principal deities of Bengal. She is an incarnation of the Hindu goddess Parvati, who is the consort of Shiva, one of the Big Three Deities. Kali is regarded as the destroyer or liberator and is often depicted in a fearful form: she has jet-black skin, a long red tongue dripping with blood, and a necklace of human heads. Clearly the kind of gal you want to take to parties. The Kali Temple attracts thousands of devotees daily to give puja, or sacrifice. The puja can be flowers, incense or (soon to be not) live goats. And believe you me, those goats look nervous.

There are about 80 "patients" at Kalighat, roughly half men, half women. Most of them are older, and those who aren't sure look older. For instance, we have Markie in the books as age 30. Upon further investigation, we've discovered she's 14. It's incredible what hard living on the streets can do to the way one looks, much less the way one feels. Most of the patients are found on the street or brought in by a team of volunteers who "work station," which means they go to the Howrah or Sealdah train stations every morning and walk back and forth looking for those who need medical assistance. Often times the volunteers will do wound care on the spot; for those who need serious attention, the volunteers bring them to Kalighat. You wouldn't believe things for which these men and women need "serious attention." So hold on.

Some days, Kalighat is like a scene from Dante's Inferno. Because of neglect and inaccessibility to health care, mosquito or rat bites turn into skin ulcers that turn into open wounds that get infected that eventually just rot away giant areas of the leg or arm or face. Often the wounds have maggots. Often the patients have scabies and lice. And many of the patients have tuberculosis and distended stomachs. Some of the patients are skin and bones. Some of them have families; most don't. Some have mental illness. None of them have homes.

What's The Story?
Every volunteer has a story or eight from Kalighat of putrefied flesh, filth, human feces, body parts where they're not supposed to be. But this belies the true state of the men and women patients. While their eyes suggest great suffering and abandonment, they also sparkle with beauty. The women's ward is filled with the most beautiful, sweetest women who love on all of us volunteers. Shima has crazy gray hair and is quite strong. Every day Susan and I spend one-and-a-half hours of wound care on her: she has seven large, seriously infected, deep open wounds on each leg. I now know what tendons look like. She suffers during wound care: Susan cuts away dead tissue and flesh with a scalpel and hydrogen peroxide. But every once in awhile during the procedure Shima will sing us songs. After we bandage Shima up, we feed her a big lunch and chai tea. She smiles, kisses me on the cheek and sometimes massages my arm. She has the most peaceful smile.

Nilima recently had a stroke and cannot move her right arm or leg. She is one of the women that clearly have eaten well before arriving at Kalighat: moving her around is a challenge because she's pretty big. One of the volunteers is a physical therapist and she works with Nilima every day to stretch out her limbs. In the mornings I come by Nilima's bed to say hello and hold her hand. She is excited to show me how she can lift her right leg or move the fingers on her right hand. This is tremendous progress. Yesterday while doing wound care on Shima, I saw Nilima across the room stand up with the aid of a walker. She caught my eye and grinned from ear to ear with delight. Nilima has the funniest old-woman cackling laugh, and it is infectious.

Sabita is a quiet one. I'm not sure exactly what her story is, but she's been at Kalighat awhile. Like Nilima, she cannot move the right side of her body. She has an enormous abdominal cyst that makes her appear eight months pregnant. She loves to receive massage. Since I have no directly applicable skills for medical care, the one thing I definitely can do is give good massages. Sabita often looks pensive but she never complains (and rarely speaks, for that matter). She observes the other women and quietly keeps to herself. When I enter the women's ward each morning, she's the first woman I wave to from across the room. After I massage her, she sometimes squeezes my hand and kisses me on the cheek.

Bed 29 has her name in the books officially as "Unknown." She talks constantly in words unintelligible to the MC sisters, wraps her bed sheet over her head and rocks back and forth chanting. She loves the volunteers, and insists they park themselves right across from her so she can massage them, instead of receiving a massage herself. All the while she chats away and giggles. She is a crack-up and never fails to make me smile.

Portha arrived at Kalighat just last week, and is about 20 years old, I believe. Portha was found on the street after having been repeatedly raped by several men. The physical damage was severe, in addition to the other health problems she has . . . not to mention the emotional damage. We do not know much more about her except that she lives in a tough area, has no family nearby and no money. She has no clear drug addictions, but knows where to find hard drugs if needed, which is not exactly a difficult undertaking in Calcutta. After a few days of rest and healing, we're seeing Portha's personality surface. She really responds to all the love and affection given by the volunteers; she smiles nearly all the time. The other day the woman in the back corner of the ward all looked a little bored, so I danced for them. I recalled a little traditional Indian dance I'd seen during my Palace on Wheels tour, and threw in a little swing dancing besides. It was not pretty. But it did amuse all the women greatly, as laughs and claps filled the air. Portha stood up and twirled her arms in the air to show me the proper dancing technique. She and I danced together a bit, and knowing I'd been clearly bested on the dance floor, I let her take a bow. Now every day she wants to dance with me or with any of the volunteers. She's safe here, and even finds joy.

Move Over, Kofi Annan

Volunteers for MOC are from no place in particular, but hail from everywhere. Germans, Argentinians, Japanese, Irish, Americans, French, Canadians, Chileans and Australians make up a veritable United Nations of volunteers. As I mentioned in my last dispatch, volunteers lead a relatively simple life and as such can make good friendships pretty quickly.

My posse consists of about 8-10 people with whom I consistently work alongside and spend a significant amount of time. Susan is an Australian, the mother of three grown children, and the wife of an adoring husband. Due to complications during a routine surgery many years ago, Susan died. "No bright lights or anything," she explains. Her second chance is calling her to utilize her nursing skills to serve the poor who have the least access to proper health care, much less loving health care. Susan has become my surrogate mother, and is one of the most dear, kind-hearted souls you'd ever meet. Susan is a constant source of encouragement and gentleness, and watching her in action treating those in the homes is a sight to see. She's efficient, unflappable and above all sweet-spirited.

Clare is the brave 18-year old very proper English girl who is spending 9 months traveling the world, including a 4-month tour of duty in Calcutta. She is well beyond her years, displaying astonishing grace and life capabilities that I sure as hell didn't have at 18. Clare volunteers at Shishu Bhavan working with the babies, and in the afternoon teaches English and math to children at the Gandhi School (MC school for poor children). She is one of the people I spend the most time with: I'm teaching her how to speak in a Texas accent. She's got the word "jackass" down pat.

Melanie is a proud Canadian. Do not mistake her for an American, as she will quickly correct you. Mel works with me at Kalighat, and she is the gold standard of volunteers. She is the most hard-working, dedicated, caring and efficient volunteer I know. When I first arrived I watched Melanie, observing what to do and not to do. Mel is often the group instigator for fun activities like playing games or gathering on the roof at the Paragon Hotel for drinks or conversation. When back in Ontario, she works for the regional historical society and acts in a battlefield re-enactment for tourists, with authentic military costumes and everything. I think she recently was promoted to general.

Paul is the newest arrival to Calcutta. He is an Australian, and like all Australians here, he is easy-going and has a delightful sense of humor. Paul arrived without his bags (airline lost them), so he spent three days wearing either the outfit he wore on the plane, or the ill-fitting and very amusing pants he bought on the street. He is a big fan of "The Simpsons." And for some reason he attracts dirt quickly. Paul is an all-around terrific guy and kindly suffers through my impression of an Australian accent.

Carmel, Mags and Rita are the three Irishwomen who are only too happy to lift a pint after a hard day's work. Carmel works mostly at the Howrah Train Station, gathering up the very sick and severely wounded to take to Kalighat or other MC homes. She has an eye for who is in most need of care, who is alone with no family, who has been just plain left behind. Carmel is just "good people": she's 22 and has a great Irish wit. She's very bright and genuinely searches for truth about God by visiting ashrams, going to mass, talking with people. One thing I like about Carmel is how angry she gets with injustice of the poor. Her anger is justified and good . . . and sometimes even amusing, in that she'll be ranting about some Indian man who groped a woman, and then wrap up her comments with simply saying, "That fecker." Irish swap out the "u" from that word, which makes it even funnier for non-Irish to hear.

Mags is a real spitfire and has been in Calcutta on and off for about 10 years. She is the wizened resident who often conducts MC orientations. Make no mistake, she's an Irish Catholic and a sarcastic one at that. Everyone in the volunteer circles knows Mags; her personality is just too big to ignore or forget. She and I enjoy good banter back and forth from time to time, which always produces the biggest smile bursting from her face. Mags has a deep heart for the children of poverty, and sometimes really struggles why bad things happen to the littlest and most innocent of people. So under the tough exterior she has a heart of gold.

Rita spends her time volunteering with handicapped orphans, particularly a darling boy named Robby who is a 3-year old blind boy. Rita just turned 51 and we celebrated her birthday with much fanfare: a surprise party complete with balloons and cake at her favorite Sudder Street restaurant. We even got her a little birthday hat.

Lawrence hails from somewhere outside of London, and is a real free spirit. In addition to being hilarious, Lawrence has the gift of making every person around him feel special. When he's speaking with you, he gives you his full attention. He's as quirky as he is kind: outside his hotel he recently saved a baby rat from the jaws of a street dog. As one naturally does when one saves a baby rat from the jaws of a street dog, Lawrence put the rat in a little box, kept it in his room, and named it "Ratty." Lawrence also plays the guitar, and is a talented guitarist at that.

Fatima is a 21-year old nurse from Buenos Aires, Argentina. First thing you notice about Fatima is that she's drop-dead gorgeous. Then you quickly learn how good-natured and fun-loving she is. Her English is excellent, and when not nursing she is the lead singer of a Pink Floyd cover band. Her boyfriend Pedro joined her in Calcutta recently, and he is just as sweet as she is.

Carolyn is from good old Dallas, Texas. She is officially working with Word Made Flesh as a four-month "servant team" member. I knew Carolyn beforehand: her wonderful sister Charlotte is married to my good friend JJ. Having a friend from home has been such a blessing: the familiarity, the reality-check, the friend-in-need.

The three most frequently asked questions when meeting a volunteer in Calcutta are: 1) Where are you from, 2) How long are you here for, 3) Why did you come. Once you get past those three questions, you're practically family. These people are so dear to me, and I would take a bullet for any one of them any day. We volunteer together, site-see together, eat together and solve the world's problems together. Yes, it's better than the United Nations.

MC Orientation + Mass

Welcome to Fantasy Island

The welcome/orientation for Missionaries of Charity was mostly a list of do's and don'ts, which is appreciated. Some of them are common sense (Be sensitive to and aware of your health; wear gloves as appropriate) and some of them are known only to the street-wise (If a woman beggar asks you to buy her powdered milk for her baby, be sure and empty the powder into another container. Otherwise, she'll go around the corner with the original canister/packaging and sell it to someone else for money).

After orientation, I was invited to attend Mass. I've attended Catholic Mass before, and mostly I experienced it to be quite sterile, mostly rote ritual. All participants remove their shoes upon entering the chapel, which is actually just a plain room with many written quotes from Mother Teresa, and of course pictures of her and of the Pope. Four priests were readying themselves for the service and the sisters began filing in. I noticed two things right away: a large painting of Jesus on the cross with the words "I Thirst" written below, and a large marble block of sorts nearly in the middle of the room, with flowers, lighted candles and a big rosary atop it. The next moments were a daze for me: I inspected the marble block closer to discover this was not just a marble block; it was the casket of Mother Teresa herself. The headstone, on which one might expect fanciful words describing her character and an eloquent litany of her many accomplishments, simply said "Mother Teresa, MC, 1910-1997. 'Love one another as I have loved you.' St. John 15:2." Then I heard singing: it was the sisters. I turned around and there they were, all of them in the familiar Missionary of Charity white saris with blue stripes; saris I'd seen in pictures but never in person. The sisters were so small! And together, gathered in community to praise God, they were . . . beautiful. "Lose yourself in me and you will find yourself, and you will live, yes you will live in my love" went the song, the words floating lingering among the participants. It hit me all in one overwhelming moment: these saris spoke simplicity, serenity, humility. The sisters sang with no accompanying instruments, and clearly none of the sisters had had any formal vocal training. And yet their soft, simple voices rose to communicate with their Lord. These women, their clean white/blue saris, the fragrance of the flowers, the casket, the big painting of Jesus dying and "I Thirst" . . . my face felt hot and my eyes welled up with tears. I was moved, and those tears were tears of a connection. For the first time in a long time I felt at home with Jesus, and my tears conveyed how happy I was to be there, to feel as if resting in a warm embrace.

To Mother's House We Go

The story goes like this: Mother Teresa was of the Order of Loreto, teaching school in Calcutta. She received an unmistakable series of visions from God telling her to begin a new order, based in India, to serve the poorest of the poor. She detailed these visions in letters to the bishop, who revealed those letters to the public only after her death. The visions were so specific, that they even included what colors the order's saris should be. She had to confront the Church's resistance to forming new religious communities, and to receive permission from the Archbishop of Calcutta to serve the poor openly on the streets. She had to figure out how to live and work on the streets, without the safety and comfort of the convent. And she was to be on her own.

Upon reading some of these letters, the "visions" are better described as conversations between a personal God and his daughter. Such a direction was pretty revolutionary: not dissimilar to God's visiting a young unmarried girl named Mary, to whom God communicated He was choosing to carry, deliver and raise the Messiah.

Mother Teresa was not alone for long. Within a year, she found more help than she anticipated. Many seemed to have been waiting for her example to open their own floodgates of charity and compassion. Young women came to volunteer their services and later became the core of her Missionaries of Charity. Others offered food, clothing, use of buildings, medical supplies and money. As support and assistance mushroomed, more and more services became possible to huge numbers of suffering people. And there you have it: the birth of the Missionaries of Charity, an official order as of 1950.

The "headquarters" of sorts is called The Mother House. This is where the directing sister (Mother Teresa) and many of the sisters live. This is where the sisters celebrate Mass and manage their Calcutta operations. It is also the launching pad and gathering place for all volunteers working in the many MOC homes all over the city and the outskirts. Here's where the story begins for me, a humble volunteer in a strange country.