six days


There are blobs of yellow, billows of steam.

The air is cool, the breath seen.

The day is waiting, the workers waking.

A scarecrow sits un-tempted,

The trees stand tall and slender.

As dirt spreads off-beaten tracks,

Cows wander and wait, no owners whip their backs.

Fog creeps across the plains,

As mothers whisper their babies names.

The children run and scream,

Cricket a sport of their dreams.

Mud huts line the fields.

Elders watch and wait for crops to yield.

Life is but a simple scene.

Peace greets a passerby.

The earth sings a lullaby.

With fresh skies and no empty lives.

The ground rejoices and holds rich resources.

Move from city.

Move to country.

Meet the modest.

Seek the honest.

Trace the stars.

Seek God’s heart.

Bless the poor.

Sing with no remorse.

Hold your breath.

India, no place of rest.

Yet rural provides space to overcome each test.

Lose your toes to the cold.

Lose the selfishness in your bones.

Life, seen from an Indian bike.

Preparing for my second global studio (university elective) to India, I happened upon this poem (above) and reflection (below) from my last journey. The poem was written while on a bus through rural India and the reflection from my “first kiss” reaction after touchdown.

“Travelling has increased my awareness.

Awareness of my skin colour, hair, mannerisms, accent, and my speed/style of speaking.

It is daunting. To be seen. To be different. To be “foreign”. 

From the airport we walked out into cold air, bright lights, dark sky, and crowds.

We found our names on a sign and manoeuvred through the horizon of eyes who could not peel their gaze from us.

This is not a stare of the movies; it is quite discomforting.

I feel like prey. This is not the “attention” women desire. 

We leave bones and flesh for the window and wheels.

The roads are chaotic in India. There are no words to explain it.

Lines mean nothing. There are signs to advise locals “Lane driving is sane driving”.

But. Traffic is a game.

Different honks signify different moves on this playing board.

The roaring of traffic and chorus of honks are not rude gestures but common communication.

Cars have a voice. 

I ask a few questions but the driver doesn’t understand what I am asking.

It’s pretty humbling when you try to speak another language because you realise you don’t really know how to express yourself. “


Stay tuned for some upcoming travel posts (and please pray!) xx


“many are the plans in a person’s heart but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails”
> proverbs 19:21
why would I go back
when the memories are both
beautiful
and
t
e
r
r
i
f
y
i
n
g
i still remember the deep chill
when I lay
s h u d d e r i n g
in pain
unsure of my life state
but I also remember
the love murmurs
for people and place
ahh such cultural abundance!
that is india
two years ago was an unexpected adventure
and here we are again
another global studio
last time was a testament to a deep need
for deliverance from darkness
into the light of the grace + knowledge of Christ
for His purposes are good
and
His plans surpass our own
> please pray
for the people + the place
for provision + protection


via @jessieschilling

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