What is this thing called hope? Where does it come from? What is it made of? Having confronted an answer to these questions many times before, I presumed it would seem petty and trivial to revisit the theme. Little did I know that a singular experience would make my most colossal version of this entity that I knew well, seem almost facetious.
Sometime back, I had the privilege to visit, with my friends, a home called S.H.E.L.T.E.R. (Don't mind the acronym; it stands for something I couldn't remember past the first time I heard it). There are three reasons for which I would grant a visit to be a privilege: 1. If it involves Eric Kandel 2. If it involves Eric Kandel and 3. If in retrospect, my mind seems to be reduced to a state of utter humility and "smallness" - for lack of a better word. And as you would have rightly pointed out, this particular visit fell in the third category. For this was one of the most beautiful homes I've ever been to; One filled with all the qualities which set apart a home from a house; One filled with surprises at every right-angled turn of every brick wall within it. Pleasant surprises make you smile. Yet, the kind I experienced in that home were of a special quality, almost of an epic nature. Yet, the the majority of the occupants of this home were hardly 4 feet off the ground - And no, I do not speak of hobbits. Children - and when I say the word "Children", it almost sounds onomatopoeic. Especially so when I recall the time I spent with the children of S.H.E.L.T.E.R home. They told me that these 15 children were different from those whom the government categorised as "HIV-affected". No, these children were categorised as being "HIV-infected". A world of a difference two letters make in a word that follows an acronym for a horrid disease. This despite the fact that between the more fortunate of the two and all others is another world of a difference. I use the word "fortunate" reluctantly for I am well aware of the adage "Fortune favours the brave." And the children I speak of are among the bravest of us.
It was a hot saturday afternoon (as is typical of most days of the year in the south indian city of Chennai, previously known as Madras) and we made the 30 minute drive from the beautiful Emmanuel Methodist Church to the home located on the outskirts of the city. Most of us travelled on two-wheelers, although there was the singular car. Parking our vehicles along the broken road along which a makeshift passage of water was dirtily trodding along, we noticed that the home was located on the end of the road and beyond that was unused and (of course) unkempt land - some of the water making micropassages into certain parts of the land, probably sustaining the weeds which cluttered most of that area. I made my way into the home expecting nothing, for I did not want to think. Thinking just seemed so hard at this point. I removed my shoes before entering the home (as is the custom in most indian houses) looking down as I went in only to find my ear drums squealing for mercy. "GOOD EVENING UNCLE!!!" rang in my ears as if the proverbial bell was being tolled in the steeple that is my little head. "Uncle?" I suggested surprised, only to be drowned out by a "GOOD EVENING AUNTY!!!". Yep! I wasn't the only one being given the royal reception. It was around 4 PM when we entered. Time seemed to fleet away. We spoke with the kids, sang with them, learned how to dance (for real) and spent some time in prayer. And it was the time spent in prayer that I felt I couldn't hold in the tears any longer. It is said that when all the prayers from all over the world reach heaven, all of them go into specific mailboxes and the mailbox with the "top-priority" listing was where all the prayers of the children went in. Yet, these kids didn't pray for themselves. One of them even prayed "God, thank you for all who have come to our home today, may they be healthy. Protect them from all kinds of sickness. A-men." It was then that I realised of how selfish I could be in prayer. These kids knew that they were stricken with a debilitating disease and yet they chose to be unselfish. They chose to be joyful when they had every reason to be sad. And I speak not of happiness, which many people spend their time getting. I speak of its divine cousin - Joy, which is seldom found in the hearts of many. I eventually managed to hold back the tears while I was with them. I got to know some of them more personally. Their stories, their dreams, their hurts, their thrills, little kid-things you would speak about with your kid sister or brother, nephew or niece. Through the entire conversation, not one ounce of pain did they depict although its extent would seem unimaginable. Joy - so pure and abundant. When I recall their smiling faces, all the junk I call my "pain" seems a laugh. What is my pain? A drop in a bucket, or so it seems. With all the squabble that is so characteristic of our everyday lives, in the midst of all our fears and pain, if only we could look outside ourselves. If only you could have seen what I saw. I confronted hope that day, in the midst of hopelessness; afresh in those smiles. It comes from a fountain of joy set deep within and it is made of something called Love.
P.S.: The Emmanuel Methodist Youth Fellowship (EMYF) has helped S.H.E.L.T.E.R home through a project to fund the construction of a backyard wall for the home (picture above). The wall is now complete and protects the children from snakes and insects which occasionally would get in through holes in the makeshift blockade which was present. The EMYF is still closely associated with S.H.E.L.T.E.R home and its small staff and continues to visit the children there who make the world a more beautiful place.
Sometime back, I had the privilege to visit, with my friends, a home called S.H.E.L.T.E.R. (Don't mind the acronym; it stands for something I couldn't remember past the first time I heard it). There are three reasons for which I would grant a visit to be a privilege: 1. If it involves Eric Kandel 2. If it involves Eric Kandel and 3. If in retrospect, my mind seems to be reduced to a state of utter humility and "smallness" - for lack of a better word. And as you would have rightly pointed out, this particular visit fell in the third category. For this was one of the most beautiful homes I've ever been to; One filled with all the qualities which set apart a home from a house; One filled with surprises at every right-angled turn of every brick wall within it. Pleasant surprises make you smile. Yet, the kind I experienced in that home were of a special quality, almost of an epic nature. Yet, the the majority of the occupants of this home were hardly 4 feet off the ground - And no, I do not speak of hobbits. Children - and when I say the word "Children", it almost sounds onomatopoeic. Especially so when I recall the time I spent with the children of S.H.E.L.T.E.R home. They told me that these 15 children were different from those whom the government categorised as "HIV-affected". No, these children were categorised as being "HIV-infected". A world of a difference two letters make in a word that follows an acronym for a horrid disease. This despite the fact that between the more fortunate of the two and all others is another world of a difference. I use the word "fortunate" reluctantly for I am well aware of the adage "Fortune favours the brave." And the children I speak of are among the bravest of us.
It was a hot saturday afternoon (as is typical of most days of the year in the south indian city of Chennai, previously known as Madras) and we made the 30 minute drive from the beautiful Emmanuel Methodist Church to the home located on the outskirts of the city. Most of us travelled on two-wheelers, although there was the singular car. Parking our vehicles along the broken road along which a makeshift passage of water was dirtily trodding along, we noticed that the home was located on the end of the road and beyond that was unused and (of course) unkempt land - some of the water making micropassages into certain parts of the land, probably sustaining the weeds which cluttered most of that area. I made my way into the home expecting nothing, for I did not want to think. Thinking just seemed so hard at this point. I removed my shoes before entering the home (as is the custom in most indian houses) looking down as I went in only to find my ear drums squealing for mercy. "GOOD EVENING UNCLE!!!" rang in my ears as if the proverbial bell was being tolled in the steeple that is my little head. "Uncle?" I suggested surprised, only to be drowned out by a "GOOD EVENING AUNTY!!!". Yep! I wasn't the only one being given the royal reception. It was around 4 PM when we entered. Time seemed to fleet away. We spoke with the kids, sang with them, learned how to dance (for real) and spent some time in prayer. And it was the time spent in prayer that I felt I couldn't hold in the tears any longer. It is said that when all the prayers from all over the world reach heaven, all of them go into specific mailboxes and the mailbox with the "top-priority" listing was where all the prayers of the children went in. Yet, these kids didn't pray for themselves. One of them even prayed "God, thank you for all who have come to our home today, may they be healthy. Protect them from all kinds of sickness. A-men." It was then that I realised of how selfish I could be in prayer. These kids knew that they were stricken with a debilitating disease and yet they chose to be unselfish. They chose to be joyful when they had every reason to be sad. And I speak not of happiness, which many people spend their time getting. I speak of its divine cousin - Joy, which is seldom found in the hearts of many. I eventually managed to hold back the tears while I was with them. I got to know some of them more personally. Their stories, their dreams, their hurts, their thrills, little kid-things you would speak about with your kid sister or brother, nephew or niece. Through the entire conversation, not one ounce of pain did they depict although its extent would seem unimaginable. Joy - so pure and abundant. When I recall their smiling faces, all the junk I call my "pain" seems a laugh. What is my pain? A drop in a bucket, or so it seems. With all the squabble that is so characteristic of our everyday lives, in the midst of all our fears and pain, if only we could look outside ourselves. If only you could have seen what I saw. I confronted hope that day, in the midst of hopelessness; afresh in those smiles. It comes from a fountain of joy set deep within and it is made of something called Love.
P.S.: The Emmanuel Methodist Youth Fellowship (EMYF) has helped S.H.E.L.T.E.R home through a project to fund the construction of a backyard wall for the home (picture above). The wall is now complete and protects the children from snakes and insects which occasionally would get in through holes in the makeshift blockade which was present. The EMYF is still closely associated with S.H.E.L.T.E.R home and its small staff and continues to visit the children there who make the world a more beautiful place.
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