"You Can't Hide, Standing Under These Stars"

With the spirit of October beginning to wane, it has become official: I am pining for the oaken halls of Cain’s Ballroom. Apples, pumpkins, the trees of I-540, and the inevitable costume party at which my costume will fail to be recognized (Ashton Kutcher and Richie Tennenbaum both failed to register with anybody but the Twood the last two years): these are all but afterthoughts in light of how I yearn to hear Martin Sexton in person once again. For now, the hills of Godavari must continue to suffer under the anxiety that accompanies my off-key wailing of “When Paula Sparks Up,” the piano melodies of Billy Joel and Death Cab for Cutie echoing throughout a forgotten valley.

So it is that with falsetto somberness that I begin what is in fact my most joyous of updates since arriving in East Asia. No, Jason has not been devoured by a komodo dragon, though I do thank those of you who have in fact been praying fervently for just such an occurrence (I can think of one Dallas seminary student in particular). No outrageous events for the most part, at least in my opinion. No miraculous recovery of my beloved iPod, though it has started to drift in and out of lucidity now and again, reviving long enough to spurt bits and pieces of Counting Crows during the longer bus rides before slipping back into a comatose state.

No, my joy has been made complete because Jason and I have at last discovered a church here in Nepal; not just any church mind you, but one that has a service in English! I won’t lie, I was bored to tears in the Nepali church the children attend here. Sitting through a worship service given in a foreign tongue is fascinating enough as long as it remains an isolated event; prolonged exposure to hour-long sermons in routine fashion becomes an exercise in tedium. I found myself harkening back to my elementary days in the back of the First Baptist sanctuary with my parents, chewing on my sweater collar and reading “Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile” while the adults nodded along with Brother John. In my confusion over whether the pastor was teaching out of Zechariah or Redbook, a desire to play with my mother’s car keys or watch band began to simmer in the depths of my soul. After several weeks of not attending a worship service, period, and living my community out through isolated rooftop worship sessions and a library worth of mp3 sermons, I was about read to admit defeat, resigned to being an isolated Christian in a subversively hostile country.

Thus, Jason and I nearly danced (I’m not allowed to, as per the aforementioned Baptist background kept me from learning such skills as a child) when Rina told us that she had at last discovered the location of the international church Jason had been pestering her over without ceasing for the last month. While I’m not at liberty to share the name of our newfound body, I can assure you that it is a beautiful representation of the menagerie that is God’s character: the service we attended included Nepalis, Indians, Americans, a British couple, Malaysians, Australians, Phillipinos, Turks, Canadians, Chinese, Tibetans, a group of tourists from Singapore, and even a South African. I'm now of the impression that looking upon God is much like looking through a kaleidoscope, if'n that makes any sense. The pastoral staff is completely comprised of Nepali men, though there is an American who serves as an associate pastor over the English services.

Following the worship and the message, we were immediately approached by said associate pastor, a New Yorker, and a Mississippian aide worker; naturally, the first subject of conversation, as is always in America, was Bill Clinton (dear God, NO, I do not know him personally). “Flintstone,” as I will refer to my new congregational shepherd, invited Jason and I to accompany him and his wife (“Wilma” shall be her new name) to a local coffee shop for lunch. Flintstone and Wilma shared that they have been living in Nepal as missionaries for over five years now, astounding considering how difficult it is to get a long-term visa in this country! However, with Wilma’s nursing background and Flintstone’s experience in the alternate universe that is professional engineering (he looks like Eric Dacus’ father, eerily enough), the two found it simple to get jobs in the city: God at rather obvious work.

Oh, and what a coffee shop we found! Wireless Internet (soon), big comfy chairs, cinnamon rolls the size of Jason’s torso, and a honest to God WESTERN TOILET. Oh, oh, and the best part? Aside from an amazing menu that includes banana pancakes, beef sausage that doesn't leave a displeasing yak aftertaste, and cheesecake, these guys make freaking MEXICAN FOOD! Holy intercessory prayer of the American saints Batman! Salsa! Jason and I returned the following afternoon for breakfast burritos that rivaled the birth weight of most newborn infants, fresh-made pico de gallo, and a sit-down visit to the restroom. I wept on that toilet seat, and I am not ashamed to admit to it. The real treasure of the afternoon was the browniecino: a frappucino mixed with brownie mix, with a $1.25 price tag to rival the Arsegas and Starbucks dominion. I support local business, but I just happen to now be in a new locale.

Aside from the utter shock of finding a menu that is seemingly tailored to serve every food I miss from America, I received another surprise in our fellowship for the afternoon. Flintstone and Wilma introduced us to a group of about 10 other American missionaries, all of whom have been working in Nepal for prolonged periods of service. We received more warnings, councils of spirit, and sage advice than one lunch provides room for the absorption of, not that it mattered as I was too shocked by having a clear conversation in my own tongue to notice. The bacon in my sandwich didn’t help any either.

Jason, as is per his routine, sized up our sisters with the inevitable wedding ring glances that single 25-year-old men are prone to, I being far too mature to submit myself to such frivolities (I have the involuntary spiritual gift of celibacy). “BLT” was particularly helpful, beautiful, Canadian, and married, much to the Jason’s dismay. BLT spent eight years working as a volunteer in children’s homes in Nepal and India, and her experience has and will continue to be indispensable to us in our time here. Particularly, she was persistent in advising us avoid seeking the introduction of changes into the pattern of leadership at CWC, and to take care that we don’t undermine Rina and Mommy’s authority in our attempts to help improve the children’s lifestyle.

BLT told us about the growing horrors of the children’s hostel business here in Nepal that she had witnessed firsthand: crooked businessmen starting orphanages to gain government grant money, and then erecting shoddy prisons under the guise of children’s homes and staffing them with bitter and abusive employees. Just days before, she told us, a group of 35 orphans had been dropped off at a local hospital by the police, nearly beaten to death and suffering horrible burns: they had been horribly abused and locked inside their hostel by the owner, who then torched the building (children still inside mind you) to collect the insurance on it. Absolutely sickening, and according to BLT, its becoming a fairly common practice.

The subject of being burned alive was quickly picked up on by the lone Nepali believer who had joined us for lunch; forgive me for failing to remember his name. “Teacher” shared with our table how he had formerly been the principal of a private school in a remote village in the western half of the country. Teacher was approached one afternoon by a group of Maoists (see previous post, or http://www.bbc.com/ for info) who demanded that he pay them tribute for protection. Teacher refused, so the Maoists Rock Bottomed him into unconsciousness and torched his office with the 25 gallons of gasoline they’d conveniently left in the hallway. Teacher came to and managed to escape, while on fire, through an uncovered ventilation shaft in the ceiling. The school was burned to the ground, and Teacher spent nearly two years recovering from burns that covered 35% of his body. He showed us his scarred, tattered legs to drive the point home. No sad ending to this story though. Teacher is wildly optimistic about his future working in the city as a tutor and mentor for at-risk youth, in spite of his quiet demeanor, and he’s also a fellow believer, so you, oh reader, will get to share a pint with him sometime throughout the course of eternity.

After dessert and coffee, Flintstone gave me directions to two local Christian bookstores and invited Jason and I to join him this Thursday morning for a men’s discipleship time. In the meantime, he promised to find us some local contacts to build shelving for the art room Jason and I are casting vision for, as well as for blankets and comforters for our children. Flintstone, thou art the connection to inner Kathmandu that I have been praying for.

Jason and I visited the bookstores that afternoon, finding enough bibles at an incredibly cheap price to personally give one to each of our orphans. The other bookshop primarily houses educational fare, but I grabbed a copy of Catch 22 and 12th Night; Jason salivated over the massive library of Sweet Valley Twins and Nancy Drew, but settled for Freakonomics (at my suggestion) and To Kill a Mockingbird, amongst others. This place has everything by the way: I've got future plans to back and pick up some science and geography texts, as well as a collection of classical literature, Shakespeare, and R.L. Stine (I'm sorry, but I loved those stupid Goosebumps books as a 6th grader). And if any of you have a copy of Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing or Superfudge sitting at home, please, please send them!

So there you have it: a multitude of casual prayer requests, and one rather massive spiritual need, answered in the course of one afternoon. However, despite all the goodness, we still need continued prayer. I'm sick with my third Nepali cold, and the exhaust fumes from the city are starting to give me massive headaches every time I come into town. Rina has been sick with the flu for the last 2 weeks herself, and because she's only three months from her delivery date, her doctor refuses to allow her to take any meds, so pray for swift and full recovery. Jason has been struggling with irritability with some of the younger children, so pray for healing of his heart and mind. The rest of our children return from holiday this weekend and return to school next Monday, so pray for their safe return to us, and our renewed efforts to care for them with respect and compassion.

Our biggest priority at the moment however is the Maoists. There was an armed conflict in the city this morning, or so went local rumors, that held up traffic for 2 hours. On top of that, Maoists have been visiting all the local children's homes to announce that they will be stopping by to sing and dance in return for sizable "donations" in the near future; I'm not making this up, its apparently tradition within yet another of the Hindu festivals that ends today. We thought that CWC had been overlooked after receiving no word for several days from any Maoist messengers, but a letter was delivered Sunday while Jason and I were at church announcing that they would be stopping by in the very near future.

In light of the story I heard from Teacher, this stirs a new fear within me: what happens when the Maoists find out that there are Americans working within CWC? They have been demanding tributes from trekkers in the mountains of upwards of $300 per person, and I will not, and cannot afford to, pay them anything. Will we be harrassed, terrorised, or burned to the ground? Please remember us in your prayers, and like the Passover angel, pray that the Maoists conveniently forget to visit us again, or are transformed by the message of the gospel of our salvation if we must come face to face.

More news to come in the near future...