Beauty

After I prayed for the umbrella to come down from around my heart, I noticed that I began to feel more deeply, to love more deeply, to search more deeply, and to care more deeply. I felt the raindrops press into my heart; I loved when it was hard to love; I prayed that I could search and see more deeply into the souls of the lost; and then I cared deeply--cared to see them know Christ. Because HE knows what He is doing. He says that the rain and snow does not fall without watering the dry ground, and the words of His mouth do not leave and return void, they accomplish that for which He purposed. The rain in Mumbai waters the thirsty ground; but it won't rain forever, no. In the midst of the muddy ground here, there is beauty, for"beauty is the battlefield where God and Satan wage war for the hearts of men." The war, Paul says, is won in the person of Jesus.

This quote reminded me of a lesson that I began to learn before coming here to India. God has really been redefinining my perception of beauty. What's pretty is not always what's beautiful. In fact, this nauseating city is beautiful in a rather backwards way--but in the most true sense of beauty. This beauty has need. This city is beautiful because I looke at its need with no way to meet it, but see only one way to healing: Jesus. I pray that Jesus would rain down His truth here. May it seep through the walls and through the plastic tarps that so many here call "home." May they need His living water, and may it come in abundance. Evil will never reign, for Christ has already claimed victory.

Last Tuesday, I went back to Aruna. I was so excited because I went out again with Zeba. We went back to the brothel that I went to the first week--you know, the one with 6 floors. For some reason, I was really anticipating seeing the same women, but when we entered, I didn't recognize them. We talked with a few women, but were told that there was a police raid just a few days before, and so the madams were not happy that we were in there. As soon as Pinky told us that, it made sense that the women retracted into their rooms or tried to ignore us rather than accepting and even longing for prayer like before.

Finally when we got to the third floor, Zeba reached for my hand. She pulled me toward Dipa's room. I saw Dipa shoot her head out the door and call us in excitedly. I walked in the room and saw her little baby laying in the center of her shanty bed. The last time I was in the room she was very pregnant. Her huband was in there, and her roommate was on the other side of the curtin taking a customer. This time, although she was wearing the same red and black polka-dotted dress, she no longer had little Rija inside of her. This time the curtins were back, and the sun flooded in, making the teal walls visible, and the grime in their little shower area almost as obvious as the dirt dusting the patched, cracked walls. Last time I was there, Dipa was concerned that her pregnancy would not be normal, and I prayed for her health and her husband and her little baby. Turns out, two days later, Dipa went into labor, and Rija was born normally. Only ten days old, Rija weighed probably 4 lbs, and she was the smallest thing I had ever seen. I couldn't tell if her skin was yellow from jaundice or if that was just her Indian skin tone. Only ten days old, she had eye liner painted around her eyes, and a red dot in the center of her forehead.

Dipa said excitedly that my prayers for her were answered. She asked that I would pray for Rija though because she is so small. So I held the hands of Dipa, and Neha (another prostitute who was so eager to receive any kind of love) and prayed for them. I prayed for them to know Jesus' love for them. I prayed for Rija's health. When we were done, Dipa thanked me and I placed my hand on Rija's little belly and said, "Jesus loves you so much, little baby!"

We started talking to Dipa, and I asked Zeba if Dipa knew the Gospel, and if she knew Zeba's story. Zeba said she did know the Gospel and that she went to church some Sundays as well. I pointed to the Hindu shrines above the door, and asked why she had those. Zeba began asking Dipa questions in Hindi, and ended up telling Dipa some of the story of how she was rescued from 5 years of prostitution as a minor, and how Jesus had changed her life. Dipa started fidgeting, and I could tell she was impacted. I asked Dipa if she was happy. She looked up at me, and smiled hesitantly, "Yes, I am. I'm just worried about the baby, that's all." She then let down the smile and looked at the ground. "I don't believe her, I can see her sad eyes..." I told Zeba. Dipa's husband walked in a few minutes before, and that's when she began getting quiet and less excited. After she told us she was worried though, Zeba began singing. She sang the most beautiful song I had ever heard. And it was especially beautiful because at that moment, I knew that Dipa's heart was the battlefield where God and Satan were waging war. God was winning. I didn't know the words that Zeba was singing, but I knew that it was worship, and I could see by the tears that welled up in Dipa's eyes that she was deeply impacted. Everyone in the room listened to Zeba's sweet voice, and the women in the hallway peered in from around the corner. She sung about God being our strength and our hope and our joy and our love. It sang to my heart and sent chills up my arms.

Zeba sang and Dipa was touched. I could tell that she wanted for Jesus to be the light of her life. I could tell that she knew something was missing. As she fidgeted more with the gold ring in her hand, her discomfort spoke volumes, and Zeba knew it too. Before I left that day, Dipa asked if I could come by everyday. Sadly, I told her I coudn't while thinking to myself--surely she is not alone though. Jesus is in a beautiful battle over her heart. Pray that He would win.

No More Umbrellas

It is really shocking to me how much of life here has just become normal. Children begging, old women begging, men staring, taxi drivers overcharging, horns honking, drinking bottled water, spicy food... It's almost disgusting to think that I can forcefully say "no" to young children begging me for money. It's gross to me that I walked into a brothel just 11 days ago and thought to myself--"wow, this one's nice." Here's a little taste into my reality: I carry around a folded bandana so I can wipe sweat off my face throughout the day; I talk often to students on campus about arranged marriages and injustice and religion. So many of things have become "normal" that made me squirm the first couple weeks I was here. This includes the incense burning through the streets, the sad eyes of the street kids, and the vendors yelling "yes, madam, you want?"

It's easy to begin to feel helpless in a place like Mumbai. So much pain. So much deception. So much filth. As I think about it, my eyes well up with tears for the first time in days. The time is passing quickly here, slipping by day by day, and I have felt in the last week, guards going up around my heart. "I can't take this on by myself," I think. So I won't take it on at all. I won't even give it to Abba. I can't even do that because it doesn't seem like "enough." I cry because I walk down the streets looking mad and unapproachable so that I won't be pestered by beggars. As I purchase souvenirs, I ignore the tapping on my arms and the pulling on my skirt from the 6 year olds carrying 6 month olds.

I carry an umbrella now. In the beginning, I would just walk in the rain, embracing it with laughter. I now take out my umbrella as soon as I feel just a drop of water in fear of being drenched for the rest of the day. God has been gracious in showing me these last couple weeks that I have begun opening an umbrella over my soft heart for fear of it being heavy and abused by the mess of Mumbai. You see, when you use an umbrella, you don't feel as vulnerable. You get wet, but only on your ankles and feet--the water is far away. With the umbrella propped up around my heart, the pain is distant. It's the difference between sympathy and empathy. Jesus had compassion. Deep compassion. He wept and He rejoiced. He felt deeply and He loved deeply and He cared deeply. I'm not Jesus, but I am His ambassador. This Jesus that I live for is trustworthy. He is big enough for me to give the pain of this city to. There is nothing in the universe that is outside the realm of His control. He is a just God and it is Jesus that entered into the jaws of evil--into the greatest injustice, so that His children may one day know true justice.

Last week, as I felt like the gaping holes in this city created by sin and rebellion were unmendable, the Spirit corrected me and reminded me of His faithfulness, and His mightiness to save. He sent me down to my knees to beg for the things that I, myself, cannot even begin to change. I still cast my burdens on the Lord and walk on. I walk sludging through Satan's garbage unafraid knowing that Christ will prevail. Out of my distress, I called on the Lord; the Lord answered me and set me free. The Lord is on my side as my helper, I shall look in triumph on those who hate me. It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in man." (Psalm 118:5-7).

Everyday last week, I looked out the window, and saw the rain dripping from the leaves of the trees, and I thought to myself--"maybe I won't carry an umbrella today. Just let it rain." I've been coming to Jesus at the end of each day, weary and heavy laden, trusting that He alone will give me rest. "Those who wear bulletproof vests protecting themselves from failure, shipwreck, and heartbreak will never know what love is. The unwounded life bears no resemblance to the Rabbi." (Brennan Manning, Abba's Child) I want to love unguardedly; I want to love like Jesus.

With each conversation I hold, I shoot up a quick prayer asking Jesus for His guidance; asking for my removed umbrella and bulletproof vest to keep their places so my heart would stay guarded only by the hands of my Rescuer, by the One who says that "Those who war against you shall be as nothing at all. For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, 'Fear not, I am the One who helps you.'" (Isaiah 41:12, 13) The God who tells me that I can't fee from His presence says that even in India He shall lead me, and His right hand shall hold me. If I say, "surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light about me be night," even the darkness is not too dark for Him; the night is bright as the day, for darkness is as light with Him. (Psalm 39:10-12). This is the God that I'm trusting to shield my heart from pain too intense for me to handle.

There have been four people that have been weighing heavy on my heart since we have been here in India: Julie, the prostitute that I met two weeks ago; Sanjay, a homeless, broken, parent less, drug-selling, street-sleeping, ten-year old kid; Niti, a popular third-year college student; and Nipsha, a third year law student who has a heart for justice. I have realized that with my unguarded heart, God has been helping me to love them more recklessly. He has been showing me what it means to labor in love, because none of these people are easy to love, by any means. Jesus has been loving Julie through me, and loving Sanjay through me, and loving Niti through me, and loving Nipsha through me. I walk away from interactions with them so drained, and pained, and heavy, but Jesus has shown me in His kindness that my labor is not in vain.

I think I mentioned in a previous post about how I have been learning more about the fatherhood of God. In this, I have been learning that I am radically defined by His love for me. Sometimes I begin to fall into the lie of believing that my love for Him is one-way, and that if I love Him enough, then He will love me.

One week ago, Friday, Carrie went to the brothel where I had met Julie. When she walked in, she said Julie's face lit up with anticipation, but when she didn't see me, she was sad. Julie asked for me by name, hoping to get to meet with me again. I wondered before if Julie knew that in the ten minutes that I knew her, that I loved her, and after Carrie told me that she remembered me, I knew that Julie knew of my love. I also knew that my love for her was not one-way. She loved me too--with a broken, confusing love--with the only love she knew, she loved me.

Last week, I had a hard interaction with Sanjay. I had bought him dinner, shared the Gospel with him, and purchased a train ticket for him to go home. It was after I bought him the ticket that he told me he didn't have a home. It was then that he told me out of nowhere that he hated me, and that he wanted nothing to do with me. It was then that he told me he was an evil person and a drug dealer. I know that it was not Sanjay speaking to me, but rather a scheme from Satan, but it scared me. Monday at Bible study, Alyssa and Lauren told me that they saw Sanjay. After admitting that I didn't really want to see him because of the unpredictability of our interaction while still longing to love him well, they told me that he asked for me by name. He told them that I was his friend. He knew that I loved him. It was then that I realized my love for him was not one-way. He loved me too--with a broken, confusing love--with the only love he knew, he loved me.

Nipsha was a girl that I hit it off with right away. When we talked about justice together, we fired one another up, and I loved her with a deep love right away. On Sunday, Nipsha invited me to her house. I saw visibly the love she had for her parents that she told me about; but as she spooned food onto my plate, and as she drew henna on my arm, and as she confirmed our next coffee date with one another, I realized that she loved me too. I realized that my love for her was not one-way. She loved me too--with a broken, confusing love--with the only love she knew, she loved me.

And then there's Niti. As I walked through the first weeks of India with a heavy burden for her, lifting up many prayers for her, I experienced much disappointment when she failed to meet with me when she promised that she would. On Monday after a weekend of feeling the weight of this city's mess, but moving to trust Jesus with it, Niti showed up to our coffee date at 1:00. She even cancelled her meetings for the day. She wept as I told her my story, and she warned me that she had never told anyone her story, but that she wanted to tell me everything. As I witnessed her deep trust in me, I realized that my love for her was not one-way. She love me too--with a broken, confusing love--with the only love she knew, she loved me.

What a powerful display of God's kindness. My Father taught me something profound this week. Through broken, confused people, God chose to show me that He loves me. My love for Him is not one-way. He loves me too--with an unbroken, steady love--with all the love He has, He loves me.

His Kindness

I left out a little part of that last story. My interaction with Julie happened one week ago, on Monday. The other half of our group went back to Oasis on Friday. Carrie, my discipler from the summer, went back to the same brothel where Julie was. When she went inside, I guess Julie asked about me. She did remember me. When Carrie told me on Friday, tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt so loved by my Father. He knew that would minister to my bruised heart, and it was a gift as I continued to work through my grief from Monday. We have a kind Father, and as we stumble through this life, He knows what picks us up when we can't seem to gain the strength to do it ourselves.

Pray, today, for Julie. Pray that she would know the Father, and that she would become my sister...

Oh How He Loves Us...

A lot has happened in the last week, and I unfortunately I won't be able to share it all or you would be reading for days!

Songs I love:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diMZ3ucq24g

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCunuL58odQ

Monday I went back to Oasis. I'm learning so much about not having expectations because there is never ever going to be a repeat day here. Each day is so different. There is no norm--always extremes. So this time, when we walked into Oasis, we were there literally five minutes, split up, and went right out into the brothels. I went with another girl on my team, Lauren Davis, and we went with a woman who worked with Oasis that spoke hardly any English.

We walked through the curtin door into the busy alley. My stomach turned a little bit in my stomach when we arrived at the brothel just ten steps later; it was literally right across the alley from the Oasis office. I was shocked and appalled by my initial response as we walked into the brothel--"nice," I thought to myself. The rooms were bigger than the one I walked through last time. They had doors, the floors were clean, etc. We went into this big common room and the women were sitting around watching TV and eating their breakfast/lunch since many had just woken up at 2:00PM. They were bigger women--some were over weight, in fact. I remember at one point wondering if a couple of the women were pregnant. I could tell that this was a more expensive brothel, and I didn't witness any pimps or madams while I was there. Lauren jumped right in with her name, introducing herself to the women and telling them they were beautiful, which was so wonderful. But I felt a little bit paralyzed, not really knowing what would be overwhelming to the women, so I was just myself. My shirt starting floating up because of the fans, and I screamed, grabbed it, and started cracking up. The women laughed with me, which was life-giving. Could I have laughed if I lived the life that they lived?

Julie was wearing black and she was the only one wearing capris--all the rest were wearing long, printed night gowns. She had earrings on with three black beads stacked on top of one another, and her hair was in a ponytail. We started talking a little bit nonverbally, and I told her I thought she had wonderful eyes. I finally asked if we could pray together, and she said, "No English." I quickly responded with--"That's okay!" She agreed and we reached for one another's hands. As soon as I got a hold of her hands--hands that I had no idea where they had been; hands meant to meet one another in prayer; hands meant to hold sweetly to that of another's; hands meant to hold a pen to write; hands made to turn the pages of the living Word of God; hands made to be spared from crucifixion. At the moment that my hands touched hers, a buzzer rang, and all of the women left the common room with the exception of four. I saw Julie take down her hair. She reached across me for her keys, and held up her finger as if to say, "one minute." They walked out. About three minutes later, they all camb back, but Julie didn't. I think I knew what that meant deep down, but didn't want to believe that it had happened. So I asked out loud--"Where's Julie?" The women responded in unison, "customer, customer..." Not wanting to believe it still, I heard but didn't really hear. After taking with the other women for a few minutes, I asked about Julie again. In harmony, they answered, "customer!" again. Our translator looked at me and said, "Business, no?" Like, "where do you think we are little American?" "Okay," I said quickly scanning my eyes frantically to they eyes of each women in the room, and then shooting them to the ground as the reality of what it meant to be a prostitute began to sink in.

The image of Julie taking down her hair as she left is burned in my brain--wavy, long, black hair covering her bare shoulders. I wonder if she tried to win the customer. I wonder if she batted her eyes at him or played with her hair. I wonder if it was a competition between her and the other women. Or I wonder if she stared at him like she stared at me, longing for love. Or I wonder if she stood with the other women with her eyes at his feet. I wonder if she took down her hair to cover her shoulders. I wonder if he came regularly. I wonder if he paid more to have her during the day. I wonder how long he stayed. I wanted so badly to wait for her. I didn't want to leave until she came out and I could look her in the eyes while holding her arms gently telling her that she is loved by the only One that can truly romance and satisfy her heart. I wanted to kiss her forehead and pray for her. I don't think I've ever grieved not being able to pray with someone as much as I grieved not being able to pray with Julie.

So as we left, we hugged the women and smiled at them. I walked out of the common room, and said goodbye to three other women in the hall. I walked back into the common room and said to one of the women, "Julie--tell her I said goodbye." "Okay," she said moving her head in agreeance. I wonder if Julie knew that even after knowing her for just ten minutes that I loved her. I wonder if she would remember my name. I wonder if she would remember how insistent I was about praying for her. I wonder if she knows she is valued. I wonder if she knows what true love could look like. I wonder if she's deceived into believing that this is her only option, or worse, if she believes that she's satisfied there.

After we got back to Oasis, I didn't know what should be my response because it was so very different from my first experience in the brothels. As I talked with the other members of my group, truth came spilling from my lips, which was such grace from God.

One of the things that God has been teaching me about and driving home to me is that I am radically defined by His unchanging, undeniable, perfect love for me. His love that is true and constant. And at the moment that I sat in Oasis beginning to unpack my experience with Julie, Jesus spoke to me, and told me that for those women who have nothing constant in their lives except pain, and abuse, and calloused hearts, and stares of lust--they are also radically defined by His steadfast love for them. I know this to be true. I am learning to trust Jesus through my grieving process--finding rest in knowing that His love never leaves, even from those who don't know Him.

So I came home from the brothels and wept. I wept for Julie and for all of the other Julies out there. I wept for the girls who know nothing except captivity; for the minors hidden in the attics and walls. I wept for the women that believe the false Hindu God's satisfy. I wept and pleaded for them to know Jesus; to know love.

So much Hope.

Continued...

Oasis is located in the heart of the red light district, so we only had to walk two minutes to get to the brothel. Zeba, Kaitlyn, and I climbed a flight of stairs into just one of the hundreds of brothels. Women with faces painted--pink lipstick, black eyebrows, eyes smothered in eye-liner--welcomed us. Zeba smiled and laughed--I'm pretty sure I looked completely horrified. After meeting the first 5 or so women, one woman asked for prayer. I asked her her name and prayed that she would know her worth. That Jesus would show Himself to her as the one and only God. As soon as I said "Amen", I asked Zeba to tell her she's beautiful in Hindi. The woman looked me in the eyes, and I held her cheeks--just like Jesus had done to me earlier--and I smiled a teary-eyed smile. Then, I hugged her and held her. The Lord was giving me strength. I looked each woman in the eyes and tried to make sure that they knew I cared deeply--that Jesus cared and loved them deeply.

As we walked on, we stopped in many rooms, sat with women on their beds and prayed. We prayed for Jesus to rule and reign in that brothel. For the women to know Him as their King, their Dad, their Good Shepherd. Many of the women giggled and smiled, while others looked hardened and cold. We prayed for husbands, for health, for relief of pain, for coming babies, for separated families, for sick mothers. At one point, we prayed for a woman in her room while her roommate took a customer on the other side of a curtain. That's when a disgusting reality hit me, and hit me hard. These women sleep in the place that they work. They sleep on the beds that they are abused on. Their kids sleep underneath. Some rooms had four women in a room the size of my bathroom. Rooms adorned with false Hindu Gods and patrolled by "madams" who were sure to keep a close eye on their "employees." Men walked around--some smoking, some on boxers, some flirting with the girls. That one brothel was the most hell that I had seen on earth in my entire life. And that was just one of them.

Situation after situation, I learned to love like Jesus loved. Every time that Jesus felt for people with deep compassion, He healed, and cleared up misconceptions that people had about Himself by sharing with them true love. I prayed that my lamp would burn brightly in that dark place, and that I could be a true display of Christ-like love.

Zeba, Kaitlyn, and I climbed at least 6 floors of women all living lives of disaster, of destruction, of pain. And I left knowing not what to do. Feeling nothing, but wanting so badly to feel something. I was mad but not furious; sad but not in despair. I was literally in shock, and it took days for my heart to catch up with what my eyes had seen.

We got back to Oasis, and Zeba, the 95 pound power-woman who commanded traffic and fearlessly entered the brothels, shared with me her story. She was orphaned at the age of five after her parents were poisoned and killed. Her and her sister were taken care of by a Muslim family down the road. They were beaten with rods often, so she hid in the cabinets from them. They were both eventually sold into marriage for 50,000 Roopies. All she wanted to do was play, she said, because she had no idea what it meant to be a bride! So she ran away, and was met by a man that told her he would offer her a job in design if she didn't tell her sister where she was going. So she id. Before she knew it, she was being drugged into obedience. Until she was 15 years old, Zeba was used as an underage sex slave. She tried to run away 7 times, but was caught and electrocuted each time. But on the eighth time that she ran away, she met a man from Oasis who paid (?) for her to escape and took her to church camp. She was free, and confessed her trust in Jesus Christ as her personal Lord and Savior. Now, 11 years later, she speaks through her scars to women whose pain is fresh, proclaiming that by Christ's wounds she is healed. Zeba is now married and I found out in the car that both she and her husband are HIV positive. A woman who awaits a sure death, but who lives with such extreme joy gives me hope. She is living proof that you don't need to be "strong" to have eternal victory because we have a God that fights for us--we need only to be still.

So my first experience in the brothels was without a doubt one of my greatest storms, and I was changed; my insides were ravaged. I left feeling nauseated by the validation of sin, but I was not in despair, no. There is hope. One woman had a smile that painted over her pain. She giggled and smiled, and was genuinely beautiful. I prayed for her in my mind as I talked with her in her broken English. I felt like I needed to tell her that Jesus loved her. So I knelt down at her feet, looked her steadily in the eyes, and told her in the most genuine way that Jesus loved her a lot. "I know," she responded. "You do?" I asked to make sure. "Yes," she said, her eyes welling up with tears and shooting to the ground. Zeba noticed her reaction, and began speaking to her in Hindi. Zeba told me as we walked home that the woman was educated, and had a degree in commerce, but wanted nothing more to do with prostitution anymore. She wanted out. Zeba and the woman exchanged numbers, and Zeba encouraged her to go to Oasis. Zeba seemed excited, and so was I. Jesus is giving this woman the courage to stand up to her oppressors and to leave the work that sucks away her dignity and her life.

My Jesus' arm is not too short to save, and He saves. That gives hope, in the places that seem so hopeless. For He is hope. So I grip tightly to the truth that Jesus is the God of this city, and He is jealous over the hearts of these girls and women. May we begin to see heaven breaking through in the brothels on the streets of Mumbai, and Jesus ruling and reigning in victory over the thick evil that coats the walls of these buildings and the hearts of the lost.

He's Bigger

Friday was a day unlike any other. It started out with children. Maybe 30 children--children singing and dancing--children that don't know their parents, but who know their Father. They ached to be looked pleasingly upon, they ached for a genuine, loving touch; they ached for hope. So we told them about their Rescuer, the Calmer of the storm. We told them the story of how Jesus commanded the storm at sea to stop. We told them how the wind and the waves that He created obeyed Him. We told them that they had no reason to fear for Jesus was with them. We told them that while the storm was too big for the disciples to handle that it was not too big for our Jesus--

no matter how big the waves and no matter how small the boat.

So we told these kids that our God is bigger; that our Jesus is the Protector; we proclaimed that Jesus is King over all; that He sees them and understands their storms, but as I walked out of the room full of cackling laughter and songs of praise, I walked into the biggest storm of my life--riveted just like the disciples who doubted. Wherever we walked that day, I clutched tightly to the nail-scarred hand of my King and ran every thought by Him. I talked to Him as I walked through a home for blind men. Men lived there who had either been born into blindness or who were inflicted into blindness. Many of them are struggling to find work, but most of them had hope in Jesus and Jesus alone.

We left from there for Oasis--the health center where prostitutes seek help either medically or mentally. We walked there with two power-women: Zeba and Monisha. Zeba explained as we walked that we needed to walk quickly and powerfully. They pointed out the brothels. They were everywhere. "A horrible place," Zeba would comment in her broken English. People stared, but continued on as if life was normal there. That it was normal to set up shop at the base of a building where hundreds of women held their shop after regular "business hours." I saw a man that made my stomach turn as he stood in the shadows behind a gate smoking a cigarette. He didn't think we could see him, and I could tell that he was startled when I caught his gaze; but he scared me. His eyes sent a chill down my spine. I've been continually having to ask for forgiveness, because as I see men like him, I've begun to assume that they are defenders of this evil, and therefore my opponents. Even if that man were one of the men that stick around until late and wander up the stairs to the bed of a girl that could be the age of his daughter, he is not my opponent. In fact, I need to pray that his eyes would be opened to what his true needs are. That man--the one that sent the chills down my spine, has needs in his heart that he is dealing with in dehumanizing and destructive ways. He has a God-shaped hole in his heart, and I pray that Jesus would reveal that He is the One who formed these women and girls, not for the purpose of being a temporary satisfaction for hungry men, but rather to love and be loved.

When we crossed the crowded streets, Zeba commanded the traffic--this woman, maybe 95 pounds was one of the most joyful in spirit and strong in will that I have ever met. She pointed up over almost every building saying, "this one is horrible. They all are, but this one..." and she'd shake her head. As I walked with her, I couldn't help but wonder where the heck a women like her got off being so strong. We passed fruit and vegetable vendors, condom stands, kids playing in knee-deep gutter water, dumpsters parked in front of people's "homes", naked kids, women sitting cross-legged on the dirty ground, men on motor bikes with infants on the front, taxis honking, nice cars passing with Indian rap screaming out the windows, cattle walking down the center of the road, taxis parked with legs hanging out the door--a "comfortable" place to sleep, women and men and children sleeping on a dirty sidewalk with flies buzzing all around them, men sitting in the doorway of their shack shoveling sloppy rice into their mouths with their hands, kids washing one another in 5 gallon buckets of murky water, babies alone crying, and above it all--a canopy of leaves.

I ran through my mind a verse that I had read earlier in the morning from Revelation that said there would be a clean river of water running from the throne of God through the middle of the city; on either side the trees of life. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be anything accursed. Revelation 22:2, 3 The city will have a river of water--bright as crystal running from the throne of God and He will rule the city. As I walked, trying my hardest to take in all of the sights and smells, I reminded myself that if Jesus is leading my every step, if Jesus is bigger than every storm, if Jesus promised to be with me to the end of the age, if Jesus told me to take up my cross--then there is nothing I'm seeing or experiencing that He isn't. There is nothing--not even this street in Mumbai that His heart isn't breaking over.

The God of heaven and earth dwells and resides in my heart, and He takes every step with me. He is my Father. When I began to weep silently after speaking with and praying for a group of 5 eunuchs, He held my cheeks and reminded me that this was not how it was supposed to be. He reminded me that the thief comes only to steal, and kill, and destroy. I came that they may have life and have it abundantly. I am the good Shepherd. The good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep. He who is a hired hand and not a Shepherd, who does not own the sheep, sees the wolf coming and leaves the sheep and flees, and the wolf snatches them and scatters them. He flees because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep. (John 10:10-13)

I can't help but think that someone decided to take the lives of these eunuchs and lay them down for their own life. But Christ took His own life for the sake of many, and no matter how far those eunuchs feel from a God who cares deeply--a Good Shepherd who leads them by still waters--a Creator who knows them and protects them, Jesus stands up and cries out to them. "If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink! Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, 'Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.'" (John 7:37, 38). He calls to them and holds His arms open wide, and I? I've been anointed to bring good news to the poor, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives. So as I wept silently, my heart screamed out from the deepest part of my being to Jesus--for Him to come--for His kingdom to come to earth through my hands and feet. Through the hands and feet of those who serve the Good Shepherd.

It was those same feet I was praying for the Lord to use that finally got us to Oasis. When we got there, we got a short orientation, split up in small groups, and headed out to the brothels.

TO BE CONTINUED.
I'm running out of internet time, but my next entry is the hardest one for me to write. So keep your eyes open, it should be posted pretty soon...

Pray for Jesus to make Himself known as the ONE AND ONLY God to the men, women, and children living in poverty and destruction here in Mumbai. Get on your knees for them--so many are without defenders...