My last Sunday at Kalighat we all participated in mass. Even though I'm not Catholic, the novice Sister Mary Radiance asked me to perform the Old Testament reading and responsorial psalm. Not knowing what exactly that involved or what a "responsorial psalm" was, I agreed. Plus, she was a nun, and you just don't say "no" to a sister of the Missionaries of Charity. Turns out it was simply participating in the mass by reading to the audience. I walked up to the altar and looked outward: what an honor and privilege it was to stand on the Kalighat platform in front of the sisters I adore, the volunteers with whom I served, and even some women and men patients from the wards. Me, a li'l ol' farmer's daughter from Oklahoma.
Before I arrived in Calcutta I had expected to spend most of my time alone. That was not the case: I developed incredible friendships with all kinds of people, from doctors to nuns to beggars. For a month I felt like merely an observer at Kalighat and in the city in general; then one day I become a participant, truly caring about these patients, these people. I think of Sima and her "lollipop" penchant. I think of Protima and her generosity in the village. I think of the sisters calling me "Dennis" because "Denise" is too difficult to pronounce. For all the suffering I witnessed in Calcutta, I saw a lot that was funny, too. What do I do with everything I saw and experienced? How now shall I live: does this mean I have to change my profession, give away all my money and join a convent? No, but it does mean that I should be a good steward of the gifts I have been given, and to make good choices within the situations before me.
I think a desire to make good choices and to have a serious relationship with God does require is that I am inconvenienced from time to time. That I am perhaps uncomfortable sometimes; that I get my hands dirty. My friend Tom H. affectionately calls this concept "Shit-disturbing."
My challenge now is how this plays out in upper-middle class Dallas, Texas. I have most everything the world has to offer: all the modern conveniences, money, a loving family, good jobs with upward mobility, skills, and health (not to mention clean water and Western toilets!). There are hundreds of thousands of people like me in America. This is nothing to feel guilty about and much to be grateful for. Yet holding onto these too tightly and valuing them too greatly is unwise. And I had been holding on with a vise-grip, so much so that my value and worth became tied up in my job, and my comfort only in how much money was in the bank. Mother Teresa commented on this kind of false sense of security this way: while visiting New York City, she was asked to comment on her impressions of this, the glittering Big Apple and financial giant of the world. Her response surprised the questioner: she said New York City was the poorest city she'd ever seen. In Calcutta, the people are physically and financially poor. But in New York, people have a more desperate poverty: they are spiritually poor. Because of our relative wealth, we take so much for granted.
During the last two years, you could have described me this way: spiritually poor. To recall the state I was in, I just now went back and re-read my "Why I'm Here" page. I had no idea what I was getting myself into by coming to India; I just had this notion that Jesus is somehow present in the most painful and broken places. I now realize one of those places was inside myself. All I knew going into this was that I wanted to know Jesus by loving those of whom he said, "what you've done for the least of these, you've done it unto me." Boy, did He come through to make himself known: if there is one glaring lesson I learned, it's that He is real, and that He does in fact care. Do I like everything He does? No, but I am starting to trust Him a lot more, and to be peaceful and even satisfied that He sees the forest while I only see the trees. I'm giving Him a little credit. P.S. - He cares about those trees, too.
So for me, I had to get out of my comfort zone by doing something radical in a third-world country halfway around the world. Not everyone needs to take this tactic. Whether it's in Calcutta, Geneva, Washington or Dallas, I can seek to follow God in service and in prayer, to make good choices, to recognize evil. I wonder how this revelation will manifest when I return home. How will I negotiate a lifestyle that is simpler in honor of the poor? How will I spend my money, spend my time, and spend my energy? I fear my lazy tendencies will draw me back toward my previously-scheduled lifestyle, though I know that fully going back can't happen; my journey was simply too extraordinary. My friend Carolyn here in Calcutta says this, simply and profoundly, about adjusting back to life in the US: "I hope I never do fully re-adjust: comfort is nice but not always good." I don't want to get lazy and dismiss the life-changing and incredible gift of perspective I've been given. Do me a favor, friend . . . kick me in the ass if I do.
