India - I had forgotten the joy

My mind races past their traditions only to fall back on mine. 
I try to harness my thoughts that they would be full of the grace given to me. 
My mind races in so many directions thinking of what I could be doing to be productive. 
Fighting the irritation over and over, I pray for the Lord to give me what I needed not to yell.
Yell at all of this....stuff.  
None of this stuff matters to me and I would never consider spending the time or money of such things. 
I take another deep breath.

 I see the excitement, the gathering of flowers for freshly washed hair. 
New shoe boxes arriving in the auto rickshaws with children's names written on them. 
Minutes ticking past too slowly before the shoes will find their owner's feet.  
Final touches are being made on sound, lights, songs and dance moves. 
Signs are being hung in town, more auto-rickshaws loaded with amps and speakers carry only the voice of the hopeful pastor inviting everyone to come.
It is a celebration.  
I could kick myself for not asking the Hindu people who taught me to make Kalamkari fabric to come celebrate Semi-Christmas with us, me always not wanting to offend. 
Yet, when Santa showed up at the birth of Jesus I was maybe glad I didn't invite them to come.
There seemed to have been a disconnect in the translation here.

It is like being but in a box with your arms tied, being required to make this calling we call ministry happen while you learn a new culture.
Always second guessing tradition, culture and common sense.

I had forgotten the joy that would come in getting a new pair of shoes only once a year.
I had forgotten the joy.
Oh my goodness their faces.
The hugs, the kisses. 
I was feeling less irritated with this whole "show thing" knowing the kids got new shoes. 
This, I liked.

It was Christmas, I was thinking dinner, shoes, songs candy.
I even asked, what will we be doing?
Answer, Oh, a meeting with the Pastors.
No where was it mentioned - the entire town, a stage, video camera or public speaking.

To this day I break out in hives just at the thought of speaking in public. 

As a child my little brother was my shield always going first, mostly against his will.

Well, because I pushed him. 

Yet, while in India I had the ability to speak in front of about three hundred people without butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach for hours of torment. 

Finding something outside of myself seems to be the only cure for the fear that could cripple me.  

I have also learned I would rather put my words on paper, but this isn't always what is asked of me. 

Finding my way through another culture feels clumsy and messy.

Without honoring culture I think we miss the heart of God.

Even in our mistakes.

There is a time for taking responsibility for things taught years ago, undoing good ideas gone wrong.

Like ties in one hundred and fifteen degree weather no matter what.

I believe it is time to rethink missions and aide.

Understanding what it needs to look like today.

Not being offended because it looks different and acts different. 

Giving grace when it is needed, growing when it is needed.

Not forgetting the joy.

It is after all, the Good News.