Justice? August 8, 2011

The day began with a prayer.  I asked that God would give me (Joel) an opportunity or conversation with somebody that day.  Simple.  Many of us have prayed the same thing.  After dropping Tanicia off at school, I took my usual auto rickshaw ride home.  Before I had arrived at my stop I witnessed something disturbing.  A woman’s scream pierced through the already clamorous car horns and shouting.  I looked to see a small mob gathered and one man getting beaten.

My stop had come, and I jumped from the 3-wheeled bike/taxi and ran for the scene.  As I drew near, a righteous anger arose within me.  I didn’t know what had happened, or what I, a foreigner who only knew a bit of the language and culture, could do.  Still, I had to go.

Once I had made it to my destination, the beating had ceased, and I found a young man (maybe 18 years old) tied with a large blue rope to a tree.  His captor, a large, bare-chested man, still held one end of the rope in his grip.  All the while, a few in the crowd were probing the boy with questions.  I didn’t understand much of what they were saying, but an onlooker told me that he had probably stolen a cell phone or a bicycle, and had gotten caught.

I managed to get face to face with the adolescent, close enough to see his one broken sandal (from running), a few cuts on his skin (from the beating), and a visible wet mark on the front of his pants (either sweat in the sheer heat, or urine from utter fear).  All I could think to say was ask him if he was alright.  He turned away without the recognition that he heard or understood me, sitting bound and guarded in an odd sort of nonchalance.  The type of disregard on his face suggested that he had been through this before.  However, from my vantage point of 3 or 4 feet away, it was hard to miss his trembling legs.

As is the custom on the street, he had received his initial punishment and now that somebody in the crowd had called the police, he would await his second.  A Kolkata prison is an awful place to be, I’m told.  Not that the slammer is ever pleasant (unless you go to one of those 5-star joints that pay for your education golf lessons), but locals have told me stories that I would never want to witness.  It’s a scary, brutal place for many.

I came out of this day in a bit of a haze as to how I should respond.  My wife says poverty breeds desperation.  I haven’t the means to take away this poverty.  I won’t single-handedly change the structure and pecking-order of a society so overpopulated and entrenched in an “every class for itself” mentality.  If I actually believe in God’s justice and sovereignty (which I do), I must also then believe that He is up to something in the hearts of corrupt officials and deceitful thieves.

It’s tempting at times to feel that God is nowhere to be found on the streets of such complete lostness.  I know that is not the truth, and I’m praying to see something different.  Does a two-minute conversation, a kind look, an apple to a hungry person really mean anything in light of eternity?  We pray it does, and we try to accompany it with words of Truth.

One day at a time.

 

Street Kids May 12, 2011

Kolkata is an urban metropolitan.  At first glance you may notice the deafening noise, the overcrowded roads with their decaying buildings, or even the poor.  You may also observe the brightly colored local dress, or the many markets lining the streets.  All of which can be shocking to the Western lens.

As we rub shoulders with the Nationals, walk the side streets and begin seeing “in between the lines”, we know the plight of this city is more complex than initial impression affords us.

For example, the onslaught of street kids.  Sure I (Brandi) have stopped to touch them with my white skin or practice my Hindi, but lately that interaction has felt so trite.  I know building relationships and working to provide food and shelter is important, but what about their childhood?  What about the opportunity to play, laugh, and sing – to be lighthearted?

This gripped me deeply one evening last week.  We were taking a taxi home.  Tanicia and I were in the back seat, Joel & Adah in the front.  With no air conditioning in the vehicle, the windows were rolled down.  While stopped for a red light 4 boys came asking for money.  I’ve seen this group around the area a few times before. One boy, the eldest, seems to be the ring leader.  He often has a cloth in his hand, sniffing it occasionally.  This night, his eyes were glazed over and dilated.  He was high.

Then there are the others.  One boy looks around 7 or 8.  He takes care of a toddler about Adah’s age.  The baby reached in to touch Adah.  His caregiver quickly, but gently, said “nahee”.  “No”.  I felt my eyes well with tears.  That small interaction was dripping with nuance.  “No, don’t be curious, don’t have fun, this is work time…don’t learn how to be a kid.  Learn how to survive.”  What my kids live like everyday, what seems like their right, is an unattainable privilege for many of Kolkata’s kids.

Just as the taxi was getting ready to drive forward, I saw the oldest gesturing with another boy around his age.  I thought they were going to reach in for our bag.  I discreetly tucked in between Tanicia and I.  My judgement was wrong.  The ring leader did reach in, but instead of grabbing for a small bag he grabbed at me.  It was inappropriate and took me back a little.  I quickly explained to Tanicia, who was stunned, that people do things when on drugs that don’t make sense.  I told her that although very wrong, God sees beyond such actions.  I told her we should ask for the same care and concern.

What can I do to help those boys?  How do I live out my words to Tanicia?  There is a children’s home rescuing kids like this.  We have been there twice.  They are in a rural village area close to the city.  Those kids are thriving and Tanicia begs us to bring her  to visit almost daily.  In that environment, secluded from the malicious street kid owners, they interact with my own  kids like its normal.  They sing songs to us.  They play games.  They go to school and don’t go to bed hungry.  They are sober. In the past, this has offered hope to my heart.  Yet, to be candid, some days recently it has felt like a drop in a bottomless bucket.

I pray that some of those rescued kids would grow up and have compassion on others like them. I hope they are successful in business and life and that they would funnel resources where it makes a difference.  I regularly ask that God would use my kids as catalysts of change and influence.

On the days I miss home the most, I ask that I am changed and made useful by these sweet lives I am privileged to interact with.

I Feel a Song Coming On! May 9, 2011

I believe there is a song for pretty much any situation in life.  This ideology is largely informed by my childhood.  I have fond memories of growing up.  One of my favourites is when my dad and I would be in the car and he would burst out in song, sometimes to the radio, but more often than not it was a spontaneous rendition brought about by something somebody said, or something we saw outside.  For example I may say,

“What did that sign say?”

And Dad would sing, “Sign, sign everywhere a sign…” and then he’d answer my question.

In our new home, we ride the elevator everyday.  You may think that elevator music is a thing of the past, but it’s alive and well here.  Every time we make our journey up or down, one of two songs generally blasts out in slightly louder than elevator music etiquette.  The song we usually hear is that ever popular theme from the Titanic, “My Heart Will Go On”.  It’s so final, and desperate.  I feel like either never leaving the apartment, or shouting “I’m the king of the world!”.  As a throw-back to Dad’s repertoire, I would much prefer “Rock the boat, don’t rock the boat, baby…”  but I don’t see that happening any time soon.

Maybe there’s a song that will come to your mind today.  Your very own theme music.  What would it be?  Adventurous, depressing, happy go-lucky, reflective, etc?  Whatever it is, I guarantee there is a song to be heard today, so make it count.  Don’t be afraid to “rock the boat” a little.  There is one rule, however.  When that moment comes, that crystal clear fragment of time where you almost step outside of your body and think “I know the perfect song for this exact moment!”, you MUST sing it out loud.  It’s far more liberating than keeping it in, and besides, what good is a theme song that nobody can hear?  The theme music is a reflection of the moment, the life lived, or the heart behind something.  So by all means, belt it out!

We’re Not in Kansas Anymore… May 3, 2011

There  are moments while living abroad that reality smashes you in the face, making it painfully obvious that you are in a different place.  Last weekend was one of those times.

While we live in a high-traffic area we are accustomed to 24-hour volume courtesy of cars, shouting, and the occasional wild dog fight.  However, from Fri. afternoon-Sat. night we were graced with the heartfelt, yet somewhat pitchy vocal stylings of a man blasting from a loudspeaker.  His serenade, which was dripping with front-man charisma, was part of a religious ceremony of some sort.  Just in case your couldn’t hear him, several thousand watts of electricity surged through vibrantly coloured chaser light displays and signs.  The purpose and magnitude of such a celebratory weekend could not be avoided even if one tried.

Yup, we’re a long way from home.  But I think I know where to go for a good deal on Christmas lights.

Sing us a song, you’re the sitar man… April 11, 2011

I come from a coffee shop community of local singer-songwriters and visual artists; aspiring individuals trying to make a name for themselves.  While there are a number of coffee (and tea) haunts in the city, the flavour of local talent is decidedly different.  My mind is bending a little to wrap itself around the meter and melody of this music so contrasted to my RCM upbringing and love of groovy piano and acoustic guitar.  There’s no Simon and Garfunkel covers here.

Music and entertainment are windows into any culture.  Although it’s a little difficult to distinguish the heart and emotion behind it, I’m determined to peer into this unique and ancient window, and maybe understand a bit more about my new neighbors in the meantime.  Maybe I can get this guy to lay down a little drum loop for a remix of “Piano Man”.

Baby Steps April 6, 2011

 

We are finally in our new city.  After more than half a year of waiting on permission to get into the country, we are here and ready to start-up!  Most people who have chosen to pick up and move abroad will tell you that there is a whole new set of steps and processes to learn as an expat.  When you are a foreigner, you are subject to the “System”.  Language, social nuance, and traffic rules are all code for “You don’t understand me.  Try to figure it out”.  Thankfully, we have a few great friends who are showing us the ropes so we don’t end up committing TOO many faux pas.

We are learning first hand that although we are chomping at the bit to get settled in our home, learn the language, and really start this new life, sometimes you have to settle for baby steps.  As ridiculous as we may feel, and as frustrating as it may be, progress is still progress.  We’re hoping for toddler steps to come really soon (like yesterday!), but for now we must stay the course and be confident in the ground being broken.

Packin’ Up October 4, 2010

We just recently finished packing up our home as we are planning our big move to the other side of the world.  As many of you know, moving season means decision making.  I’m not always the best at this.  Evenstill, this painful process of letting go and moving on must be done.  Sometimes I find it easier to throw away everything, but innevitably in my haste, sentimental items get turfed.  The pack-rat side of me would like to store everything, you know… just in case.  But that’s how I end up with ten-year old retainers, and greeting cards stashed away in the misc/sock drawer.  Ahh the pain.  But, I guess this cleansing process must go on, especially when you’re downsizing from a townhouse to a handful of check-in suitcases.

Here’s a video clip that might express a bit of my pain.

The 3 R’s June 16, 2010

I was recently on a trip with my wife and two daughters.  It was an exciting family holiday, one that we had been planning for months.  Although we have done a number of road trips together, this would be the first plane ride for our little six-month old.  We were interested in seeing how she would respond to the noise, cabin pressure and all the other physical stimuli that the life of air travel has to offer.  She did great, although I have to say that the travelling world is a catalyst for creativity when dealing with the most routine parental duties.  For example, the on-board diaper change and disposal.

So, allow me to set the scene.  A diaper disaster had occurred at ground zero, and I volunteered my handy services on clean-up.  Struggling to change a squirming baby is one thing, but doing it in those tiny airplane bathrooms is another story.  Needless to say, the patriarch prevailed and emerged from the John nearly unscathed.  All I needed to do was make eye contact with the flight attendant (since she told me she would take care of the shrapnel) and I was home free…or so I thought.

By the time I got back to my seat, she was going through the usual safety check, and I couldn’t seem to get her attention.

“No worries,” I thought.  ”I can problem solve on my own.”

Reaching to the seat in front, I pulled out a freshly folded motion sickness bag (it sounds so dignified when you say it like that).

“I’ll store it in here until I can get the nice lady’s attention,” I told myself in satisfaction.

As I reached my hand into this crisp, clean bag I found myself wondering why the inside was wet.  Sanitizer?  I thought that would be odd, so I pulled out my hand, only to find the traces of a previous patron’s “motion sickness” now stuck to my flesh!   Now, I’m all about “going green” and the 3 R’s have become a pretty regular part of our home, but in my books, puke bags are definitely off the reuse category!

I thought about how I could recycle this story as a metaphor to greatly enrich our lives, and although I thought of some good anecdotes, this one’s better at face value.

My Old, Red Soccer Bag May 24, 2010

I have an old, red soccer bag.  It looks something like this.  I won my old soccer bag for being voted the MVP at a soccer camp I attended when I was 17 years old.  This may sound impressive, but before I paint too glamorous a picture, I should say that it was a poorly attended soccer camp.  Actually, I was the oldest participant in my section of the camp by about 7 years.  You do the math.  The organizers apologized and tried to shuffle me around to another position in order to keep my interest.  I have a suspicion that they voted me as the MVP as a way of helping me recoup my costs for spending a week learning how to play Keeper next to a couple of runts that were a good foot and a half shorter than me.  They couldn’t even touch the crossbar.  Even still, I love my old soccer bag, and I carry it proudly anytime I happen to join in on an athletic endeavor where I have the felt need to flex my small town, overstated mvp (yes that’s lower case) muscles.

Recently, my wife, two girls and I took a road trip where the MVP trophy was needed for a noble cause…to carry shoes.  I was loading up our little grey car, as I have done for countless trips before, when I had a thought.  As I looked at my red shoe carrier on the floor of our car, I realized that it may not be joining us on our move across the ocean in the fall.  Luggage will be limited, and there will surely be other things taking priority.  As funny as it sounds, I have to say that for a moment…I grieved.  Not simply because of leaving a sports bag behind, or because I may need to simply carry my soccer boots in future.  Rather, because I was reminded once again that I will be leaving a part of my own identity and my past for a future full of people who will not know me, or where I came from, or what I have accomplished in my life.  Reputation, education, none of that.

A clean slate can be exciting at times, and as many of you know can also be a little difficult.  Sometimes the smallest, silliest things can serve as the biggest reminders that we are embarking on a journey much bigger than ourselves and our own identity.  And I guess, thank goodness.  MVP by default may be flattering for a moment, but it’s never helped me with my left-footed cross.

Follow-Through March 10, 2010

So, I (Joel) have been reading this book lately called “The Follow-Through Factor”.  It’s one of those “unlocking your hidden potential by discovering a new state of mind” type of reads.  I definitely don’t agree with everything the author speaks on, but it has caused me to stop and think about my lack of follow-through at times.  The words of a Gavin DeGraw song “you have to follow through with every word you say” come to mind.  Do I have a follow-through problem?  Do you?

Well, admitting it is the first step, right?  I am a self-diagnosed procrastinator, a trait I don’t like to gloat about (unless of course I end up getting my tasks done on time…then I am struck with an adrenaline rush which I feel should be shared with the world).  What is it that keeps us from following through to completion on tasks (I’m assuming there is at least one of you who has done the same thing)?  Is it a memory laps?  A lack of motivation?  A self-doubt that keeps us from reaching the end?  Maybe it’s all of these.

No matter what, I know there is no excuse.  The words I say should always be a solid bond to my action, and I am working on their cohesion.  Whether it’s an odd job around the house, a fitness regime that fell through or an online course that just never quite got finished, I invite you to step up and commit to following through on something today.  Throw that lingering feeling off your back and just do it!