sounds of the sun: story telling

Two years ago.

I came toIndiafor the third time.

I was living in a little village outside ofDelhi.

It was a significant time.

For I was introduced to thirty two children.

And I started to understand, shallow deep, this culture.

To top it all off, I met my precious husband.

As I have been reading back thru thoughts of that time, I am reminded.

Of Him.

Of His glory.

Of His restoration.

Of His presence even in suffering.

This is some of what I wrote.

 

“The other night I found myself on our rooftop.

Sitting.

Gazing.

Thick heat & haze clouding stars above.

But the moon was full of orange, hanging proudly, shining forth.

It was beautiful.

I was soon joined by Abhay and Palab.

On each side of me they were sitting.

Chatting away.

Leaning in close.

Beautiful diwali fireworks were sparkling and flying in the distance.

Their little eyes bedazzled, in wonder.

Such curious, new wonder.

Up we gazed.

Beauty we saw.

New colors acrossDelhisummer skies we beheld.

How I wish someone was behind with a camera.

To capture and freeze that moment.

But there was no one.

Probably better that way.

But soon the naivete and unscathed beauty of the moment faded.

My heart broke.

Love remained.

His love remained.

But my feeble heart was broken.

Realization set in.

These are two boys born into brothels inIndia.

The reality of that was quite overwhelming.

What had they seen in their young age?

What had they heard?
And little Sapna, Abhay’s sister.

Where was she right now?

Did she remember?

Did that beautiful free spirit remember what she had seen?

Did she dwell in it?

Or did she suppress it?

Most likely, she was downstairs, imagination escaping.

Twirling in a frock.

Serving invisible biscuits and chai to the other children and didi’s.

It was her little Picasso world that she has created and run to when life is too much.

When her mind filled with images.

Of abuse.

Mistrust.

Pain.

Promiscuity.

Missing parents.

She escaped.

She dreamed.

She ignored.

For now, this escape works.

But one day it will not.

Oh how I long for her to know the true escape.

The One who can make all things new.

These three children, Sapna, Palab, Abhay.

Are now a part of my life.

Their smiles and laughs are uniquely known.

Their palms, fingertips, and wrinkles within, are known.

Their stories are being heard.

Their names are known.

Three beautiful children made in the image of Abba.

Do they know His name?

Three beautiful children who yearn for the love of a mother ad father.

Three beautiful children, born into the brothels ofIndia.

Generational sin and the darkness of the human heart have heaped layers of pain and injustice upon these three.

They are stained.

But He comes to wash.

With Water, Living.

That is what they need.

 

What can wash away our sin?

Nothing but the Blood.”

 

“Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow”  prophet isaiah

 

* The names of the children have been changed. Many of you know whom I am writing about . I tried to name them uniquely. I gave them hindi names with specific meanings:

 

Sapna- to dream

Sapna- she is a dreamer. A beautiful free spirit. Who dreams. Her clothing, her painting, her wide eyes, her laughter, and her independence yet affection for love. In my eyes, she is a dreamer.

 

Abhay- brave, fearless

Abhay- he is a little warrior but often times falls to deceit and cowardice. Like we all do. He lives for others. I long for him to have courage and fearlessness. I long for him to live for an audience of One. And in that living, fear of others and what is to come vanishes.

 

Palab- budding leaf

Palab- This little one is a goober. But I think something great is in the works. I believe he is budding into something magnificent. Surely, a good work was started by Him above. I believe He will bring it to completion. In those old words I still rest, “nothing but the blood”

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