If we sat down to coffee right now at some elusive Starbucks in Mumbai, India, this is how I would answer that question.
My month was all the things.
It was really, really hard.
It was exactly what I thought the World Race would be… every month.
It was great.
It was filled with Sprite and ice cream.
It was filled with miscommunication and frustration.
Spicy food.
Lots and lots and lots of it.
New friendships.
Free time.
Ministry time.
Prayer.
Preaching.
Testifying.
Prayer.
Gospel sharing.
Prayer.
Sweat.
Team bonding.
Team conflict.
Vulnerability.
Tears.
Inside jokes.
And then I might tell you some stories, regardless of whether you wanted to hear them. Don’t worry, I’d show you some pictures to make tales of both woes and celebrations come alive in your mind.
One time, Rahelama was handed a baby and asked to name him. We decided on Josiah.
We went to prayer meetings most nights. There were lots of lengthy worship songs and off-beat clapping. Then one of us would preach, while another one of us would give a brief testimony of the way God saved us. Sometimes we got to share the Gospel with kids who had never heard it before. Sometimes we got to share the Gospel with adults who had never understood it before. Then we would pray for everyone: for healing, for blessing, for spiritual growth…
One time, we got invited to a wedding. They took as many pictures of us as they did of the bride and groom. And they asked us to sing. We sang “Lean on Me.”
Pretend Time made a reappearance this month. When we were scheduled to go somewhere at 10, we could expect it to get pushed back an hour, and then maybe we’ll each lunch around 2 first, and then we might as well just head out once people wake up from their naps around 3:30. But when it’s time to go, it’s time to go NOW. Candice likened it to a SWAT team raid or a fire drill. Like a thief in the night. Every time.
One time, I got my nose pierced. When we walked outside to leave, I decided it looked kind of weird, so I tried to have the guy fix it. He, of course, got off his motorcycle, pulled out his rusty pliers, and started finagling the hook inside my nostril for about 30 seconds before he pulled it out. The pain made me pass out. I was fine. My nose is still nekkid.
We all got sarees, punjabis, bangles, and henna. We felt very beautiful and fancy. Indian women wear these things everyday like it’s no big deal.
We lived in the home of a pastor and his family. They were kind, hospitable, hilarious, and Jesus-loving people who would do anything to make sure we were comfortable and well-provided for.
We rode an auto everywhere we went. Our driver was the pastor’s wife’s brother, Babu. It was loud and bumpy and crowded and ridiculous, but we made it work. These things are small but extremely space efficient. Instead of allotting each seat to a corresponding rear end, Indians opt to fit as many bodies as possible, or as necessary. We think they’re supposed to stay on the left side of the road, but they mostly just drive wherever they can find a spot.
One time, our family took our team to see a waterfall. On the way back, five teenage boys followed us on their motorcycle, teasing and insulting us for being Americans. So Babu stopped the auto, and he and Pastor Philip got out and laid the smack down on these kids. They stopped bothering us after that.
Animals of all kinds roamed the streets. Sometimes you would crash into a group of pigs while riding your bike. Sometimes you had to stop your auto for a few minutes while a herd of water buffaloes passed by. Sometimes monkeys stole your food.
People were starstruck by us. Adults turned their heads and gawked as we drove by, and children ran up and stared when we arrived. Surprisingly enough, though, teenage girls were the worst. They kissed our faces and pinched our cheeks and stroked our henna-bedecked hands and showered us with compliments on our attire (really?) and couldn’t hear a responsive greeting enough times. And they constantly giggled, as if we were the cool, older guys they all had crushes on.
One time, we went to a village to preach the gospel and prayer for people. Someone got healed. It was awesome.
One time, we went to a prayer meeting, and God told Candice to pray for a specific woman wearing a blue saree. She prayed for this woman, who was in tears because her abusive, alcoholic husband hated that she was a church-going Christian. Her husband came out of their house next door and started screaming at her for being at the church. Terrified, she huddled in corner and wept while Candice held her. This woman came to visit us a couple of days later, saying that God told her to have the Americans pray for her and her situation. Her husband had left, and her daughter was supposed to get married in a few days, and she didn’t know how the dowry would be provided. We prayed for her and her family. We don't know what happened afterwards. We do trust God to take care of her.
At this point, we both would probably require a bathroom break and a coffee refill…
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