There are a few things in life that you can count on: one of them is that a visit to the Good Samaritan School campus located in the large Dakshinpuri (DK) slum in New Delhi, India will bring gladness to the heart. The irony is that the school is housed in a vastly undersized structure that is dank, dark and decrepit. The surrounding neighborhood is one of the poorest and filthiest slums in New Delhi. But inside the school, one finds a magical place full of laughter, song and excited hope. Hearts melt and tears of joy well up as you take in the children’s bright, innocent faces.
The school is situated deep in the heart of the DK slum community. As vehicles transporting first-time visitors make their torturous way through the narrow, twisting streets, passengers peer out as the driver negotiates potential hazards including large pot holes, massive chunks of buckled concrete, malnourished cows and scrawny Indian men pushing carts filled with various items they hope to hawk on the busier New Delhi streets. To newcomers, it quickly becomes unmistakably obvious that children who grow up in the DK slum have little hope of rising out of the devastating poverty and destitution that characterize the area.
Pigs in Trash Dump Directly Across from DK School
Stray dogs, pigs and cows roam the trash-strewn streets among unattended children with dirty faces and ragged clothes. Adding to the sense of tragic despondency is the crematorium that occupies the property across the street from the school. On most days, men shouldering corpses cocooned in white cloth pass by the school as they transport their cargo to one of the crematorium’s open burning pits. The smell of burning wood and human flesh lingers constantly in the air.
And yet, in the midst of all this stifling poverty and privation sits a small ramshackle building where teachers day-after-day kindle hope in the hearts of more than 100 elementary age children. Here, in the home of the Good Samaritan Schools’ DK “campus”, kids are crammed into spaces that are far too small for optimal education. But the school’s principal and teachers gladly work in these conditions to allow as many of the children to attend as is reasonably possible. Routinely, parents of the children living in the slum tearfully plead with the principal to admit their child. But it is impossible to squeeze even one more student into the building. Despite years of tireless searching, no other space can be found in close proximity to the slum and the city will not allow the current building to be altered.
A Bright, Artistic Welcome for Our Team
Today, Leslie and I made our fourth trip to the DK school. And we were joined by our 2024 India Team including our daughter, Bailey, and our friends, Brenda and James. For Brenda and James, it was their first visit to this remarkable place. The transforming nature of the work of the Good Samaritan Schools becomes clear when I watch first-time visitors experience the striking incongruity between the oppressive condition of the DK slum and the joy-filled excitement of the Good Samaritan’s’ DK classrooms. The stark difference between the slum and this small island of hope begins to become apparent to first-timers when, on the dirty and broken sidewalk just outside the school entrance, they encounter the marvelous artwork of colored chalk and marigold blossoms that welcome them to the school. While still taking in the beauty of the sidewalk art, visitors are quickly distracted by small pre-school aged students who have come to adorn each visitor with a stunning marigold necklace. The radiance of the orange and yellow blooms pale in comparison to the excited smiles and sparkling eyes of the children.
Neena, DK Principle and Preschool Students Upon Our Arrival
Once inside the school, in an extraordinary feat of “making do with what you have” the teachers “gather” the students for morning assembly which includes singing the national anthem, announcements, recognition of birthdays, recitation of the Lord’s prayer and students reciting scripture verses. But the climax of the gathering is the singing of worship songs. Heavenly is the only word that describes the sound of these children singing praises to God in the midst of the DK slum. I cannot imagine that the face of Moses, after speaking directly with God, could have been much more radiant than the faces of these children as they make their “joyful noise to the Lord.” Even the most stoic of hearts wells up in praise as the light and joy of the children’s voices seeps deep into heart and soul. Here, in the midst of a slum characterized by deprivation, darkness and death, the voices of hope arise in praise to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
Kentucky is neither southern, northern, eastern, nor western, It is the core of America. If these United States could be called a body, Kentucky can be called its heart.
from Kentucky is My Land by Jesse Stuart
“No, Papa. I have yet to run into Frank Penn. Lexington is a big place and between work and school, I don’t get out and about much. You and Granny should come to Lexington to visit me and you could look up your old friend while you’re here.”
So went the conversation with my paternal grandfather each time I made my way home to rural Barren County after I moved to Lexington in 1985. That year I began pharmacy school and Papa Littrell turned 66 years old. “His mind must be going.” I’d say to myself when he once again inquired about Mr. Penn, his old World Word II buddy who hailed from Lexington. It’s funny how 66 seems so young now. It seemed ancient in 1985 when I was a spry 21 years of age. Now, at a less spry 55, 66 actually seems “young.”
Its only a 2 hour drive to Lexington from the small community of Railton where I grew up. Papa had lived in this west central region of Barren County for most of his life. But folks in our community didn’t travel much. So I knew Papa would probably never take me up on visiting Lexington. I did find his interest in his WWII buddy somewhat amusing. But I never gave serious consideration to looking Mr. Penn up. I had other fish to fry: like getting through pharmacy school and courting the young lady who I was soon to ask to marry me.
Of course the name Frank Penn was familiar enough. And not just to me. Each of Papa’s 9 children and any one of his 19 grandchildren could recite Papa’s oft told stories about Mr. Penn and WWII. After enlisting in the Army, Papa had been pleasantly surprised to find that he would be serving with someone else from Kentucky. And not just from anywhere in Kentucky; Frank Penn was from Lexington!
WWII Photo of Papa Littrell (1945)
“Now Robert, you know Lexington is the heart of the world, don’t you?”, Papa would ask with his big smile complemented by his trademark chuckle. Of course I knew the story but I also knew the joy it gave Papa to re-tell it.
“Now why is that?” I’d always respond, knowing all too well what would follow.
“I served in the war with a man from Lexington. His name was Frank Penn. Frank would always say that everybody knew the U.S. was the heart of the world. And if a person looked at a map he’d see that Kentucky was the heart of the US and there was no doubt that Lexington was the heart of Kentucky. So the way Frank Penn saw it, that made Lexington the heart of the world!”
I was never certain of what made the US the heart of the world. Nor could I quite see the anatomical correctness of geographically placing Kentucky and Lexington in the position of the heart. But I had no doubt that for Frank Penn in 1943, Lexington was the heart of the world. No place could have seemed more desirable than home while fighting in a war on the other side of the world.
I often wondered what Frank Penn made of my grandfather. It is hard to imagine a 22 year old Roger Littrell, never having been much more than out of Barren county, sailing across the Atlantic on a massive military vessel and then serving as an Army Military Policeman for 2 years in Italy and North Africa. I suppose Papa’s story was similar to the story of thousands of young men called on to serve their country during the second world war.
Four Generations of Littrell Men – 1992 Roger (Papa), Charles, Robert, Ben (left to right)
Now its 2019. Papa would have turned 100 today (November 5) were he still alive. Leslie and I are fortunate enough to still call the “Heart of the World” home. During the 33 years we’ve lived in Lexington, we never ran into Frank Penn. I thought of him often when I drove past the old Penn Brothers Tobacco Warehouses now long since torn down. Mr. Penn and his brother operated these busy downtown warehouses for years. Passing them always brought a smile to my face as I fondly recalled my venerable grandfather reminiscing about the war.
In October 2010, Leslie, Ben, Bailey and I moved from our home on Cherokee Park to a house only a few blocks away. We’ve always lived in older homes, and our new Jesselin Drive residence was right down our alley. The handsome stone house built in the 40’s immediately caught our attention when it went up for sale. The beautiful stone exterior accented by dark green shutters felt warm and inviting. I remember being drawn to the weather vane that sat atop the detached garage. The weather vane had obviously been there since the garage was built and the current owner had wisely chosen to re-install it when the roof was recently replaced.
The Littrell’s Jesselin Drive Home – 2019
By late November 2010 we were reasonably established in our new home with only a few unpacked boxes lying around. One crisp afternoon, a friend was driving through the neighborhood and dropped by to see how we were settling in. As she stepped through the back door, her face lit up with delighted nostalgia. It was obvious this was not the first time she had been here and it was a place of warm, joyous memories.
“I practically grew up in this house!” she exclaimed as she re-familiarized herself with the den and kitchen. “I always loved being here as a child.”
“Did you live in this house?” Leslie asked.
“Oh no. I lived a block away but as children we spent a lot of time here playing in the yard and house. So I didn’t really live here but the Penn’s house was one of my favorite places to be.”
I’m sure my mouth dropped open as I shook my head in disbelief. “Did you say the Penn house?”
“Yes. Mr and Mrs Penn were like a second set of parents to me.”
“You don’t mean Frank Penn, do you?”
“Why sure. He managed the family tobacco warehouses downtown for years. Their children were close to my age and were childhood friends.”
I could not believe it. What were the chances? Almost 70 years before, Mr. Penn had served with my grandfather in World War II. Upon returning home after the war, Mr. Penn had built the house in which we were now living. Wow! I couldn’t wait to tell Papa. But instead of phoning him, I decided I would wait to tell him face-to-face. We would be seeing him in 3 or 4 weeks when we went home for Christmas. What a Christmas present this would be for Papa…. and me!
Well fate did not allow me to deliver this grand news to Papa Littrell. On December 21, two days before we were to travel home for Christmas, I received the call that Papa had passed away quietly in his sleep at the ripe old age of 91. But my recent discovery of this connection with Papa’s old war buddy was a source of comfort and amusement to our family as we sat together at the funeral home reminiscing about Papa.
Papa’s health had deteriorated in the months before Christmas 2010 so his death was not altogether unexpected. His last days were spent in a nursing home where two of my aunts worked. They had taken good care of him. Only days before he died, one Aunt recounted to me how Papa had called her to his room. He asked, “Can you hear them singing?”
“Who’s singing, Daddy?” she asked.
Gesturing toward the window near his bed, Papa replied, “The angels. They’re just outside the window. They’ve been singing all night long.”
I have zero doubt that the singing Papa heard was in fact angels. And I suspect that as we were sitting in the funeral home mourning his death, Papa was up there singing along, all the while tapping his foot or patting his knee as I’d seen him do many times before as we sang hymns at Shiloh General Baptist Church near my childhood home. And perhaps he had now been re-united with his old war buddy, Mr. Penn. I hope the two of them experienced as much joy and amazement as I had when they learned that one of Papa’s grandson’s was now living in Mr. Penn’s former home – right smack dab in the “Heart of the World.”
Post Script
I hope you enjoyed today’s blog. If you did, I’d love for you to subscribe. Just scroll back to the top of this post, enter your email in the space at the top right and press the “Subscribe” button. You’ll receive an email notice whenever I post a new entry. I’ve got 25 subscribers but many more readers. Help me increase my subscriber base! Thanks for reading.
With a hint of ridicule in his voice, a friend once suggested that the reason I enjoy country music is that country music is “simple.” Now in one way, that’s sort of a compliment. But in another way, its a criticism.
If by “simple” my friend meant pure, honest, straightforward, unpretentious, clear or coherent then “simple” was a compliment. On the other hand, if by “simple” my friend meant naive, inexperienced, gullible or uninformed then perhaps “simple” was not really a compliment. Given that my friend was a fairly accomplished guitarist who enjoyed every kind of guitar music except the “steel” kind, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t giving a compliment to me or any other country music fan. In fact, he was very much “looking down his nose” at me when he described the simple nature of my favorite music genre. Nonetheless, I remain a country music fan.
These days, I find I prefer what is now called “classic” country music. Many times, I’ve jumped in the car and tuned the radio to the “Today’s Top Country” station all the while telling myself that I’m probably missing out on some good music. But inevitably, I listen for few hopeful minutes then shake my head, admit I can’t tolerate the new sound and switch back to the “Classic Country” station. Its sad but true: I’m definitely getting old.
Classic country music reminds me of some of the best times in my life. Maybe that explains my affinity for it. Its subject matter is familiar to me, describing people, settings and circumstances that are warm and comforting. Like woods and ponds, tractors and trucks, barns and churches, huntin’ and fishin’.
For example, when I listen to Alan Jackson sing “Drive”, I’m suddenly 14 again, sitting behind the wheel of Daddy’s old 1953 Ford truck, its bed stacked high with sticks of oak and poplar firewood cut from the woods behind our house. Daddy’s coaching me as I wrestle with the truck’s long gear shift which protrudes from the steering column. In the bed of the truck, out in the crisp Fall air and under an unimaginably blue sky, my two brothers sit atop the pile of firewood as I proudly transport them and our precious load across the field . Mama will have dinner (“lunch”) waiting for us when we reach the house. And I feel like a man.
And nothing entertained me more as a child than listening to my Uncle Skippy strum on his guitar and sing Johnny Cash songs. Sitting on the floor in Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Skippy’s living room, I would plead with Uncle Skippy to sing “A Boy Named Sue.” When he turned to pull his guitar from behind his chair, everyone’s faces would light up and we would settle in for a real treat. I can still hear Uncle Skippy singing “Folsom Prison Blues.” Each time he sang it, the anticipation would build as we approached the unforgettable guitar rip that comes about halfway through the song. Today, as I listen to the live recording of Johnny Cash singing “Folsom Prison Blues”, an excited joy still rises in me as I recall those special moments.
These days, as a grandfather, I find that I listen to my classic country music with a different perspective. I’m always considering the type of message any given song is communicating. Knowing that my impressionable grandsons may one day be listening along with me, I’m concerned about what sort of behaviors and attitudes these songs promote. Perhaps I should have taken this perspective when our two children were growing up. But I’m pretty proud of them both – as is their mom. So I guess exposure to all those lyrics about drinking, smoking, cavorting and cheatin’ did no irreparable damage. But I still don’t want to take any chances with my grandsons.
The Grandsons
So often the lyrics of some of the most beloved classic country music songs communicate messages that are far from commendable. Some are downright immoral (Sammy Kershaw’s “Third Rate Romance”) or unhealthy (Shelly West’s “Jose Cuervo”, ) or both (Hank Williams, Jr’s “Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound”). But some country music lyrics get it right and communicate a positive message (Tim McGraw’s “Live Like You Were Dying”) or an important truth (Kenny Chesney’s “The Good Stuff”).
In the coming weeks, I plan to post two or three blogs that point out country music songs that, in my opinion, get it right and some that, in my opinion, get it all wrong. Topics of these tunes include life, love and, one of them most prevalent subjects in country music, alcohol.
While I like all the songs I’ll be writing about, I don’t agree with some of their messages. But maybe I can teach my grandsons to not simply tap their feet and sing along to these great tunes but to also carefully consider each song’s message. Listened to in this manner, these songs can make us all more thoughtful about what we believe and perhaps more deliberate in how we think and live. Just maybe this “simple” music can help us to live fuller lives in this confused and complex culture in which we live.
It’s been awhile since my last blog. But for those of you who know me, you’re not surprised. I tend to get excited about a particular activity or topic and go “whole hog” after it for a bit. Then my interest wanes as the newness wears off and I’m on to something else. A few examples of some of my here-today-gone-tomorrow fads include raising Japanese quail, reading books on Antarctic exploration, and baking bread.
See image attributions below
But some things I periodically return to and ultimately become fairly consistent with – or at least my spurts of enthusiasm develop a sort of rhythm, coming and going regularly. My fascination with books by or about CS Lewis, Dietrich Bonhoeffer or Thomas Merton fall into this category. I may go months or years without reading a book related to any of these men. But one day, something re-piques my interest and I embark on a reading binge that lasts for weeks or months.
Now there are a few things that I have pretty much stuck with – been “consistently consistent with” – for years. My devotion to my lovely wife is the most obvious example – 33 years and I’m still smitten (most days). Hunting and bicycling also come to mind. (Speaking of hunting… if you love hunting and the outdoors, check out my son’s blog here. He’s written some great stuff.) And woodworking fits here. In fact, woodworking has been the primary distraction in my life for the past several months. It’s one of the reasons my blogging sort of fell off.
I’ll use today’s blog to introduce you to the exciting woodworking project that I – and several others – have been pouring ourselves into for the past 7 months. We’ve been building a bridge!
Not That Kind of Bridge
Well, not an actual bridge. Instead we’ve been building a woodshop that we’ve come to call the Iron Bridge Woodshop. It’s become one of our most effective tools in achieving the mission of our small nonprofit Six Treasures (6T). Have a look at the following short (less than 2 minutes) video on our work with the homeless and how the woodshop fits in.
You might wonder how woodworking benefits the homeless or our volunteers. As it turns out, individuals who work in the woodshop enjoy rich opportunities for three experiences that are vital for a full and meaningful life: opportunities to connect, create and contribute. Allow me to briefly elaborate.
Connect
Iron sharpens iron and one man sharpens another.
Proverbs 27:17 (NIV)
The Woodshop Crew Horsing Around After Lunch
The overarching theme of the woodshop is consistent with the Six Treasures mission: the development of sound, life-giving relationships. Even the name, Iron Bridge, is intended to evoke the image of strong relationships that bridge the gap between the materially poor and the materially non-poor.
Such rich connections are especially lacking in the lives of those living on the streets. And given that the comparatively wealthy in our community live busy, fractured lives, people with stable housing often find themselves surprisingly lonely and disconnected from those around them.
At Iron Bridge we work hard at creating a shop atmosphere that is welcoming, relaxed and orderly. Our intent is to provide all our participants a fertile environment in which they can work, learn and, most importantly, connect.
Create
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth [and] God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him.
Gen 1:1, 27 (RSV)
Nat working at the scroll saw
God’s first recorded act in scripture is to create the earth and all that is in it. And we learn a few verses later that God created man in God’s own image. It follows then that men and women, like God, are by nature creative. To fully live, we humans need to create. The Iron Bridge Woodshop enables participants, both “homed” and homeless, to live into the creativity that results from being made in the Creator’s image. Creating products in the woodshop is fulfilling – it is literally life-giving.
Contribute
…”It is more blessed to give than to receive.”
Romans 20: 35b (RSV)
Persistent isolation and idleness tend to cause the homeless to feel unwanted and unnecessary. And constantly being in need- always receiving and never giving – promotes a sense of dependence. Rarely do the homeless get the opportunity to assist others or make contributions to the common good. As a result, the homeless and poor often lose sight of their giftedness and their ability to offer others anything of value.
Those of us that are constantly surrounded by people and constantly “doing” often find that many of our activities are focused on ourselves or our immediate family. Rarely do we set aside time and energy to unselfishly give back to the communities that constitute the environment in which we thrive.
The end product of all the connecting and creating at the Iron Bridge Woodshop is beautiful, handcrafted wood products that bring joy, pleasure and utility to others. Furthermore, proceeds from the sale of the products support the charitable work of Six Treasures. This knowledge is deeply satisfying for all our participants, regardless of their housing status.
Learn More and Support
If you would like to learn more about Six Treasures or the Iron Bridge Woodshop, visit our websites at www.sixtreasures.org and www.ironbridgewoodshop.com. Or email me by clicking the “Contact” link at the top of this page. We also have a small Etsy store that makes a few of our products available. You can visit it here. And finally, if you would like to support Six Treasures or the Woodshop with a financial contribution, click the Donate button below.
Hey, thanks for reading today. I’m feeling the blogging “bug” again so I hope it won’t be too long before I make another post. But I make no promises. Who knows? I may get the itch to re-start my Japanese quail operation….
My late friend and spiritual mentor, John Therkelson, gave me a copy of Thomas Merton’s Life and Holiness as a Christmas gift in 1993. Like almost all the books John recommended, Life and Holiness left a lasting impression on me.
Recently, as part of my daily devotional, I re-read Life and Holiness, each day reading one of the 24 short essays it contains. As I worked my way back through this book, it occurred to me that many of my friends and family may not be familiar with Thomas Merton. Or maybe you are familiar with Merton but have shied away from his writings because you consider them too mystical or contemplative or maybe just too “Catholic.”
If you find yourself in one of these groups, I would highly recommend you consider reading Life and Holiness. You can purchase the book for $7.95 on Amazon. To make your journey through the book a little more interesting, I invite you to read along with me over the next few weeks. Every week or so, I’ll post a review of one of the book’s five sections. To get you started, I’ll provide a brief introduction to the book in this post.
Life and Holiness is much more practical than many of Merton’s books. It concerns itself with the nuts and bolts of living “actively” as a Christian in the modern world. And Merton’s intended audience for this short work is the “non-religious” (a Catholic term meaning those who are not priests, nuns or monks; the equivalent Protestant term would be “laity”).
The overriding challenge put forth by Merton in this book is for modern Christians to resist the tendency to be “normal” Christians or, said another way, to be “nominal” Christians. Instead, Merton invites us to allow our faith to thoroughly affect our day-to-day activity. He maintains that our faith should not simply be one of many variables that we take into account when making decisions. Instead, our faith should be the fundamental driver of our all our behavior and activity. As John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, wrote, faith “means holiness of heart and life” (emphasis mine). True faith finds its expression in the “mundane” activities that constitute our day-to-day lives.
In the Introduction to Life and Holiness, Merton points out that the active life has as its source and its power, the Christian life’s “most common and most mysterious aspect: grace.” He goes on to provide a beautiful definition of grace. Grace is
“the power and light of God in us, purifying our hearts, transforming us in Christ, making us true sons of God, enabling us to act in the world as his instruments for the good of all men and for his glory.”
Merton notes that it is in response to, and through the power of grace that we “act in the world as [God’s] instruments.” The energy that we rely on is not derived from our own will power, but rather from the supernatural activity of the Holy Spirit working through us. In this way we are empowered to join God in realizing his intentions for the human race.
White Dove (see attribution and links below)
I find it helpful to view our Christian life as joining God in the work that he is already doing around us. In reality, we are never the initiators of God’s activity in the world. Wherever we go, we can be assured that God is already there and is at work. We simply need to make ourselves available to join Him. God will then gently and lovingly set us to work in a way that makes use of our unique abilities and gifts. In this way, we become active participants in God’s work in this world. This is Christian holiness. As Merton states in the introduction:
“Christian holiness in our age means more than ever the awareness of our common responsibility to cooperate with the mysterious designs of God for the human race.”
But what about our work, our occupation, how we make a living? How is that work related to or connected with the work of God? Merton warns us that it is a dangerous thing to section our lives off based on the spiritual and non-spiritual. Our work (here meaning employment), if it is healthy, can contribute positively to the spiritual life and lead to holiness. However, unhealthy work can be spiritually harmful. This is a topic Merton returns to later in the book.
Now, perhaps more than ever in my lifetime, it seems our culture is in need of women and men who walk in holiness and love. Holiness without love comes across as arrogant. Love without holiness in empty. Merton’s Life and Holiness is a highly practical book that can help us to to effectively join God in his work to reconcile man and creation to Himself. I hope you will join me as we read this work together.
The stench was nearly unbearable but the words ringing loudly in her consciousness steeled her resolve in a way she was unable to fully understand. She couldn’t deny that this place was not at all what she had envisioned. Perhaps a spot under a tree with a portable tent. Or maybe a simple 10 x 10 makeshift structure that a slum family had once called home. Even a corner of the large public area in the center of the slum would have been better suited for the intended purpose.
But the New Delhi city official responsible for the slum settlement had authority only to grant her access to this foul and filthy space: the open area between the male and female restrooms that served thousands of slum residents. This veranda-like space had another purpose: it functioned as an overnight refuge for some of the city’s homeless population, a group even more destitute than the multitude of families living literally on top of each other in the surrounding slum.
By the time morning came each day, the concrete surface of this area was covered with human urine and feces. Making this squalid setting utterly unbearable were the dank, putrid odors emanating from the massively undersized and ill-plumbed toilets that stood along each side of this tennis court sized area. But the quiet, petite, young woman who held a Ph.D. in linguistics and served as a university professor continued on her knees the back-breaking work of scrubbing this filthy surface. She wanted it clean and tidy for her students, young slum children who would soon begin to arrive to receive today’s lessons.
The Alakananda slum where Dr. Ananthi Jebasingh found herself was a 5 acre government-designated sector located in the middle of New Delhi, India. An astounding 25,000 people called this home. Most had no running water and only the most rudimentary form of electrical power – a single light bulb and perhaps one power outlet. Multiple trips to a public water spigot were required each day in order to carry out common chores like bathing, cooking and cleaning. Most dwellings were no more than a single room that contained a bed shared by all family members, one or two chairs and perhaps a wardrobe or cabinet for storing clothes and the remainder of the family’s earthly possessions. And all 25,000 residents used the toilets that stood on either side of Ananthi’s new “school.”
Indian Children at Play in a New Delhi Slum
This environment was drastically different than the neighborhood where Ananthi and her husband, Emil, lived. Although only a short distance from the slum, their air-conditioned multi-room flat was spacious, secure and situated in an appealing neighborhood. The Jebasingh’s enjoyed all the modern amenities: washer, dryer, separate bathroom with running hot water and even a garage.
How did this highly educated, well-placed woman end up in this place? The answer is simple: she was following the instructions and example of the God she worships. Ananthi would eventually give up her respected position as a university professor and devote herself full-time to educating the children in the Alakananda slum. She would go on teaching in the toilet complex for more than a dozen years before the slum was demolished by the government. Following the demolition, the school moved to a temporary location and continued to grow. Within a few years, God would miraculously provide a beautiful new facility.
Good Samaritan School Building Completed in 2005
Today, Ananthi serves as the Founder and Manager of the Good Samaritan School with four campuses serving more than 2,500 students. I would highly encourage you to hear Ananthi’s full story by watching the video below or reading a recent interview here.
Feed My Lambs Video: The Story of the Good Samaritan School
Our family first met Ananthi nearly 15 years ago when she visited Lexington. Since that visit she has been in our home multiple times while travelling in the US. If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know from a recent post that our family has also made several trips to New Delhi to see first hand the unbelieveable work of the Good Samaritan School. You can find out more about the school at the Friends of the Good Samaritan website.
When I first heard Ananthi’s story, my mind immediately went to Philippians 2, the scripture I used in my Christmas blog last week. I like to say Christmas comes every day at the Good Samaritan School. For Christmas is the celebration of Jesus becoming human – of Emmanuel, God with us – of God taking on human flesh – and coming to dwell with us. Everyday at the Good Samaritan School, Jesus takes on flesh in the form of teachers, administrators, staff and volunteers who come into the children’s world and are there to offer the children hope and a way out of the difficult environment of the slum.
Of course the teachers and staff are only following the example of their leader, Dr. Ananthi Jebasingh. The first time I visited the school, I was a little taken back by the degree of deference shown by the teachers and staff to Ananthi. Anytime Ananthi walked into a room, conversations gradually ceased as the awareness of her presence spread across the room. And every person in the room stood up and remained standing until Ananthi insisted that they return to their seats. It seemed a little excessive. But as I interacted with teachers, staff and students, I learned that this deference was certainly not something Ananthi expected or required. Rather, it was a concrete expression of a deep respect for this humble and beloved leader. You see the teachers were exalting Ananthi in the same way that Philippians 2 states that God will exalt Jesus as a reward for emptying of himself and becoming an obedient servant.
Early Photo of Students Attending School at the Toilet Complex
As we start this new year, are their decisions you need to make to mold your life to be more like the Servant described in Philippians 2? Ananthi made such a decision and literally changed the lives of thousands of young people. She continues to do so each and every day. Perhaps her story can help motivate you and me to live more obedient and sacrificial lives – lives that better mimic the model of the incarnate God:
If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
As a child there is no doubt that I experienced more joy in the weeks leading up to Christmas than I did at any other time of the year. I mean, really, so many exciting things were going on: Mom baking cookies (pinwheels and fruitcake cookies!), preparing candy (divinity and peanut butter fudge!) and boiling custard (I’m pretty sure that custard will be served with every meal in heaven); practicing for the annual church Christmas play (who can forget the stage curtains made out of bed sheets and green cloths line wire?); putting up Christmas trees at home, church and school (I really miss the sight and smell of scraggly cedar trees laden with stringy silver icicles and hot glass bulbs); watching Frosty, Charlie Brown, and Rudolph on TV (I cried every year when they wouldn’t “let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games.”); listening to the scratchy sound of Christmas music playing on an old record player (especially The Chipmunk’s album that our cousins, Karen and Steve, had); and of course the Glasgow Christmas parade, Christmas caroling, Christmas morning, family gatherings, exchanging gifts… The list goes on and on.
Old-Style Christmas Tree with Icicles (Photo by Les Anderson – see full attribution below)
This year leading up to Christmas, I found it hard to reproduce those warm, joy-filled emotions of Christmas as a child. Usually lying on the couch with the Christmas tree and fireplace glowing in the background is enough to transport my mind and emotions back to those glorious days. But this year nothing seemed to work. And I really can’t say I am disappointed.
There’s certainly nothing wrong with all our “Christmas-y” experiences and feelings; I undoubtedly count them among my most treasured memories. But Christmas is so much more than that, isn’t it? I mean, it’s appropriate that Christmas is the “hap- happiest time of the year.” But Christmas happiness should not be rooted in activities and traditions. These things are intended to be a celebration and reminder of an event. Its easy to lose ourselves in the activities and traditions and totally miss the birth of the Savior. Will you pause briefly now with me to consider the “good news of great joy” that we celebrate at Christmas?
Linus Reciting Luke 2 in A Charlie Brown Christmas
The second chapter of Luke is the most commonly recited version of the Christmas story. Heck, its even recited in A Charlie Brown Christmas! But over the years I have come to appreciate the story as told in the first chapter of John and the second chapter of Philippians. Both describe the event that is the focal point of Christmas: God’s startling and unexpected act of taking on human form and entering His own creation. Of course we Christians have come to know this as “the incarnation.” Christmas is (or should be) a celebration of the marvelous incarnation. And nowhere is this told in more moving fashion that in the Philippians 2:6-11 passage known by many as the kenosis hymn (kenosis means “the act of emptying”). It follows some introductory exhortations by Paul:
If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death— even death on a cross. Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
Philippians 2:1-11
To outsiders, the incarnation is one of the most controversial concepts in Christianity. The incarnation is scandalous for the simple reason that many believe that a holy God could not possibly reside in human flesh. The suggestion that God would inhabit the flesh of his fallen and rebellious creatures is blasphemous. (As you can imagine, a crucified God is even more outlandish. It is absurd, from the perspective of some, to suggest that God would allow himself to be unjustly executed at the hands of those he created. “No god, worth his salt”, they say, “would behave in such a manner.”)
And yet the New Testament places the incarnation (and crucifixion) at the very core of orthodox Christianity. To take away the incarnation is to empty Christianity of meaning. To have Christianity, we have to have Christmas. “God coming down” is an essential act in the story of Redemption. It is necessary for him to become human, to “empty himself”, in order to demonstrate fully the extent of his love for humanity. That’s what John 3:16’s “For-God-so-loved-the-world” is all about. And the idea resurfaces in 1 John 3:16 – “We know love by this, that he laid down his life for us.” From a human standpoint, the ultimate expression of love is to offer one’s very life for the benefit of the beloved.
Tim Tebow Sporting John 3:16
Consider Paul’s purpose in reminding the Philippians of the miraculous birth of Christ. He prefaces the beautiful kenosis hymn by urging the believers in the Philippian church to “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus on Christmas morning” (vs 5). Okay, Paul didn’t use the phrase “Christmas morning”; but you get my meaning, don’t you? Paul essentially is saying, “When you look at the manager scene, consider what kind of God it is that you serve. A God that was willing to step down out of heaven and enter fully into the chaos, brokenness and filth of your world. And he came not as an earthly king or a person of privilege. No! He came as a lowly servant and allowed himself to be cruelly and unjustly crucified. That is the kind of attitude and life that God will exalt.”
In a previous blog post, I introduced you to a wonderful couple that Leslie and I have tried to emulate since the earliest days of our marriage. Having a real, live human being to serve as an example of how to live is probably the most effective way for a person to have their life transformed. Think of parents, coaches or teachers that have served as role models for you. Real people living real lives have the capacity to change us like almost nothing else. That’s what Jesus represented – a real live person living a real life. A birth, life and death that Paul is urging the Philippians (and us, I believe) to imitate.
This Christmas, stop and consider what the circumstances of Jesus’ birth reveal about the God of the New Testament. And consider how he lived his life and how you can best imitate that kind of life in your own circumstances. The gospels give us great insights on who Jesus was and how he lived his life. Read them. Pattern your life after them.
Read the Gospels to See How Jesus Lived (Image by Anthony Garand – see full attribution below)
Now you may be saying, “Reading about Jesus is one thing; it would be more helpful to have a living, breathing example in front of me. That’s what I need to see.” Well, I ended last week’s blog with a teaser about a story I was planning to include in today’s post. I decided to save that for my next blog. In it, you’ll get the opportunity to meet a real, live person whose life reflects Jesus’ attitude as described in Philippians 2. As a result, this person’s life is a perpetual re-telling of the Christmas story. So try and read next week’s post. It’ll be a great way to end 2018. And perhaps you’ll be motivated to better imitate the God we celebrate at Christmas in the new year.
Featured image, The Adoration of the Shepherds by Giorgione, is from the National Gallery of Art and is in the public domain; Open Bible image by Anthony Garand at UnSplash
I was never a big Patrick Swayze fan – God rest his soul. The movies in which he starred always seemed pretty shallow and predictable to me – although I must admit, MOST modern movies are, in fact, shallow and predictable. Come to think of it, I am often shallow and predictable. Maybe I’m just proving that the old adage is true: we dislike in other what we dislike in ourselves.
Anyway… I was excited back in 1992 when I learned that Swayze would be featured in a movie version of a novel that had made a lasting impression on me, Dominique Lapierre’s The City of Joy. When I was able to finally see the movie, I was disappointed. It wasn’t so much that Patrick Swayze delivered a poor performance. Rather, I felt let down by the movie’s failure to effectively capture the images that the book had so vividly painted on my imagination. Isn’t it strange that with the movie’s $27 million budget, the production company couldn’t even come close to depicting the rich scenes portrayed by the author? And the author only required pen and paper. The book is always better than the movie.
Nearly 30 years has now passed since I read The City of Joy. But I still remember the book’s main characters. For me, the central character was Hasari Pal, a farmer from rural India who comes with his family to seek work in the large city of Calcutta, a city most often associated with the work of its most famous resident, Mother Teresa.(Calcutta was renamed Kolkata in 2001; I’ll hereafter refer to it by its current name.) As Hasari’s family attempts to create a new life in the bustling city, they struggle to survive in the harsh conditions of the Kolkata slum.
Modern Kolkata slum by Wolfgang Sterneck (see full attribution below)
The two other main characters in the book are also newcomers to Kolkata. Father Stephan Kovalski is a French priest who chooses to devote his life to serving and living among the poor people inhabiting the slum. And into that same environment comes Max Lowe, a disillusioned young American doctor who comes to Kolkata in attempt to find some meaning for his life.
In large part the book describes the experiences of these three men and how their lives intersect in the context of one of India’s poorest communities. As I made my way through the book, I was captivated by the description of Indian life and culture. Prior to reading the book, I knew almost nothing about the country. But after having read the book, I knew that if I ever had the opportunity to travel to India, I would take it. Little did I know that only a few years later, a much more personal reason would draw me to this fascinating country.
Over the past 15 years, India has come to hold a strong and significant place in the heart of our family. We frequently speak of India to our families, friends and co-workers. During these conversations, people often ask us, “Why do you travel to India? What is it in India that is so attractive to you that you want to go back?” Of course, we are excited to answer these questions. In part, because we love talking about India. But also because we hope that our answers will help encourage others to join us on our next visit. Here are a few of our typical responses to these questions.
Indian teachers performing for students on Children’s Day – New Delhi – November 2018
First, we love the people of India. Indian people are friendly and hospitable – especially at the schools and church that we visit while there. I grew up immersed in southern hospitality but I have to be honest, the Indian people might give us southerners a run for our money for the title of most hospitable people in the world! When you combine Indian hospitality with the contagious joy that Indian’s exude, you can understand why we love to visit. And the Indian people adorn themselves with wildly colorful clothes. They also speak many varied and interesting languages. And Indian music is unique and lively.
Elementary school children – New Delhi – November 2018
And we love the children. I must say that the children in India have to be among the most beautiful in the world. More than once, I have been moved to joyous tears just by being in the presence of Indian children. Their singing is heavenly. A friend once commented that the sound of Indian school children singing must be what the singing in heaven will sound like. And I have to say that I agree with him.
New Delhi traffic (Image by Lingaraj GJ – see full attribution below)
We also enjoy visiting India as it provides an opportunity to experience sights, sounds, tastes and smells that are extraordinary and distinctively unique. In New Delhi, it seems that my five senses are constantly active. The smells of food cooking in the streets is almost worth the dreaded jet lag resulting from the 14 hour flight. And the tastes of the food! Indian food remains my favorite. As for the sights, it is fascinating just to watch the movement of the multitudes of people, cars, scooters, motorcycles, rickshaws, and bicycles. As we are shuttled around the city by our Indian drivers, I often find myself sitting quietly in the passenger’s seat, enjoying all the activity swirling around the vehicle. It is fascinating to me.
Cows freely roaming the streets of New Delhi, a city of 20 million people
And I love the cows! I grew up around cows and they rouse in me fond memories of my childhood. And don’t cows always seem to be at peace? Even in the middle of all the activity in New Delhi, the cows seem undisturbed. As a result of the time I have spent in India, the sight of a cow has come to remind me of how precious our created world is. There is something in the Hindu respect for the cow as a giver of life-sustaining milk that I think we can all learn from. Our God has blessed us with His wonderful creation by which he sustains our physical bodies. While only God deserves our worship, we should have deep respect and gratitude in our hearts for all of his creation – including cows, rivers, birds, plants, mountains, air, water and all the other wondrous blessings that come from God’s hand.
In home women’s prayer meeting – New Delhi, India – November 2018
Another reason we enjoy visiting India is that it allows us to share time with the Christians there. We draw so much encouragement from their faithfulness to Jesus. Less than 2.5% if India’s 1.3 billion people are Christian. Consequently, Indian believers face many more challenges than we do in the US. This seems to strengthen their faith and give it a vigor and vitality not commonly seen back home. This challenge us to go deeper with the Lord and to increase our dependence on Him. And for that we are grateful.
This leads me to the what is ultimately the primary reason we enjoy India so much: we encounter Jesus there. Like few places in our country or in other countries we have visited, we see the real Presence of our Lord and Savior there. Jesus is alive and well in New Delhi and his Presence inspires and encourages us. And it brings us JOY!
I began this blog with reference to The City of Joy, a novel set in Kolkata, India. Since publication of the novel, Kolkata has come to be known as the “city of joy”, and rightfully so. But Leslie and I also believe New Delhi is worthy of the same title. Because “joy” is the word that we most associate with our travels there. And no where is that joy more evident than at the Good Samaritan Schools. But I’ll save that story for my Christmas blog which I hope to post next week. Thanks for reading.
Back in October, I read with great interest the news that the United Kingdom was proposing a ban on plastic straws. For the record, I think it’s a good idea. But my reasons for supporting such a proposal may be different from the British government’s reasons. I’ve been an opponent of straws since my college days. It was during that period of my life that a straw conspired to embarrass and humiliate me. That story is the focus of today’s blog.
You see, I was never a big fan of straws in the first place. Drinking straight from the glass, cup, carton or bottle is my preferred approach to ingesting liquid refreshments. But I can remember a time not so long ago when servers at some eating establishments automatically placed straws in your drink. Yes, a restaurant employee actually picked up an unwrapped straw with his or her bare hands and then put it in your drink. YIKES! This was the practice at the Wendy’s location that serves as the setting for today’s story. Keep this in mind. It is important.
Now on to the story….
The original Snell Hall on the campus of Western Kentucky University (WKU) has long since been torn down. Its hallowed halls have been replaced by a more modern edifice that bears the same name but is better equipped for the contemporary college crowd. When I attended WKU in the early 1980s, Snell Hall was already considered to be a dinosaur of a building. Even then, most students were not excited to learn that the outdated Hall would be the location of their upcoming biology class.
The Original Snell Hall, Western Kentucky University
I can still feel and smell the musty warmth that emanated from the dull silvery-gray radiators as the scorching steam popped and hissed its way through Snell Hall’s ancient pipes. Her hardwood floors had seen better days. Yet there was something comforting in the high-pitched squeaks and creaks uttered by her floors in response to the shifting weight of students treading upon her time-worn surfaces.
For me the most memorable element of Snell Hall undoubtedly remains the attractive brunette who sat two seats ahead and one row to the right of me in my 11AM sophomore bacteriology course. From class day one, her presence made it impossible for my 20 year old mind to clearly focus on the pale middle-aged professor and his sonorous discourse on the science of bacteriology.
As bacteriology class ended on one crisp and sunny early spring morning, I found myself sitting in the venerable Snell Hall gazing in wonderment upon this vibrant attractive human of the opposite sex. Feeling an unexpected surge of bold optimism, I confidently approached the previously unapproachable coed, made some long-forgotten (although I’m sure engaging) small talk and before I could come to my senses I managed to invite her to lunch at the Wendy’s nearby. When she accepted my offer, I couldn’t decide if I was feeling mostly excitement or horror. Did I just ask her to lunch? Did she just accept? Now what?
As we we strolled across Chestnut Street and made our way to Cabell Drive, I alternated between ecstasy and panic. I was delighted that I’d been successful in getting this “date” but overwhelmed by the possibility of an awkward or stilted lunch conversation. But my nerves began to settle a bit as we walked towards Wendy’s, the cool sunshine seeming to lift lift my anxious spirits. It was spring after all; a time for fresh starts and blossoming romances.
Image by Adina Voicu (see full attribution below)
Today I am unable to recall many details of this ill-fated lunch date, including the young co-ed’s name. I suspect that in some self-protective mechanism brought on by the sheer trauma of the event, my mind has all but obliterated the escapade from my memory.
One detail that remains is that I was able to choose a table in the corner of the dining area. It was a little quieter there and I thought that would be a more suitable setting for the lively conversation I envisioned we would have. Little did I know that the selection of this spot would also limit the number of people who would witness the bone-headed stunt I would perform only seconds after taking my seat.
No memory exists of what I said as we took our seats but as my date began her response to whatever brilliant statement I had made, I remember quickly taking the opportunity to enjoy a swig of the refreshing soft drink I had ordered. While maintaining eye contact with the sexy brunette sitting across the table, I reached down and blindly grasped my cup. I slowly raised the cup to my mouth, all the while remaining lost in my companion’s dreamy eyes. But before my lips made contact with the brim of my cup, the long straw, whose presence I had ignored – remember, I’m not a “straw person” – found its way an inch or so up into my right nostril.
Now I thought there was a remote chance that the young lady had not noticed what had just happened. So quickly I sat the cup down on the table in front of me. The cup did end up on the table. The straw did not follow suit. The straw was lodged in my nasal passage. I now had a straw hanging out of my nose. I knew there was no hiding this! The brunette suddenly stopped mid-sentence and her eyes became transfixed on the straw dangling from my nose.
You know sometimes when you are trying to convince yourself to take some action that you are really fearful about taking you’ll say to yourself, “What’s the worse thing that can happen?” Well, had I asked myself that question before inviting this young lady to lunch, I can tell you for sure that I would not have imagined an event nearly as embarrassing as having a bright red Wendy’s straw protruding from my nose. Since that day at Wendy’s, I’ve never been able to take any consolation or encouragement from the “what’s the worst that can happen” question. Some things are so bad that there is no way you can predict them ahead of time.
Now this story would be entertaining enough if it ended right here. Unfortunately, I apparently decided to destroy any hint of personal dignity or self-respect that remained – I mean I guess I REALLY want to make as big a fool of myself as I possibly could. Go big or go home, right? So I proceeded to remove the straw from my nostril and, realizing that I didn’t want to put my mouth on the end that had lodged in my nasal cavity, I turned the straw upside down and, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, placed the straw back into my beverage and took a big sip through the clean end.
It took my brain a second to realize what I had just done. But when I did, the bottom dropped out of my stomach and I could feel the tingling in my face as it changed from pale white to crimson red. Oh how badly I wanted to jump up and run as fast and far away as possible. And since that instant, I have been a sworn enemy of straws.
In my experience one of the most effective antidotes for a foul mood is the simple exercise of listing things for which I am grateful. A thoughtful review of such a list can cure a bout of self-pity like nothing else.
Creating real gratitude lists, mentally or in actual written form, is a common exercise this time of year as we celebrate Thanksgiving. Its one of the things that makes Thanksgiving such a healthy holiday.
Image by Adolfo Félix (see full attribution below)
Due in large part to the constant bombardment of advertising on TV, radio and social media, we spend so much time thinking about what we don’t have or what we wished we had that we often fail to enjoy and appreciate what we do have. And as Americans, we generally have way more than we need.
Its unfortunate that we only have one holiday that encourages us to consider how blessed we are. Perhaps even more unfortunate is that Thanksgiving is followed so closely by Christmas, a holiday that continues to be celebrated in a way that encourages unnecessary, wasteful spending. And this unhealthy spending quickly drowns out any small bit of gratefulness we may have cultivated around the Thanksgiving table.
Today I will refrain from putting together a gratitude list. Instead, I’d like to attempt to capture for you two moments in the not so distant past during which I caught a glimpse of the magnitude of my good fortune. In both instances I was with one of our two children. Both have grown into responsible young adults and are pursuing paths that Leslie and I are so proud of.
I am all too familiar with the sad, disheartening stories of many young people who have lost their way in this deluded and misguided world. Why, to this point, our children have avoided such a fate is beyond my understanding. And it breaks my heart that other parents live in worried angst over the lives of their children. I earnestly pray for these parents and situations and genuinely hope that ultimately the outcome will be joyous.
Harrodsburg, Kentucky – September 30, 2018
It’s the last day of September and the air remains slightly sullied by the last of summer’s humidity. Intermittently, mosquitoes, unaware that their days are numbered, annoy me with their high-pitched buzzing as they hover about my face. The air is still and the rays of the setting sun extend more and more horizontally as the bedazzled ball of orange eases ever so slowly down toward the western horizon. Apart from the rushing and gurgling of the nearby stream, the woods are still and quiet, interrupted only sporadically by the barking of a squirrel or the sharp cluck of a woodpecker.
The perspective provided by my perch some 20 feet above the leaf-strewn forest floor is a fitting reward for the awkward, wobbly climb I made moments earlier. Fortunately, my 26 year old son, Ben, coached me through my weak-kneed ascent up the hickory tree and into the stand from which we hope to harvest a deer in the dwindling afternoon daylight.
Earlier in the day, Ben had made his way into the woods to mount a stand for me near one of his own previously placed stands. And moments before, we had crept quietly together into the woods trying to conceal our presence as best we could. I soon caught a glimpse of the two stands from which we would hunt. A sort of quiet joy rose in me as I noted the close proximity of the two stands. I would be positioned in a tree only a few feet to the right of the tree Ben would occupy. Once seated, Ben would be to my left and just a few feet below me.
Perhaps you can understand the elation I felt that warm Sunday afternoon. That my 26 year old son had invited me to hunt with him would be enough to make most any dad smile. Add to that the fact that we would be hunting in close proximity to one another was icing on the cake.
You deer hunters out there are shaking your heads in disbelief. Placing stands that close together minimizes the chance that at least one of the hunters will bring home a prize buck. And furthermore, sitting near other hunters is an invitation to talk and talking is really a bad idea if you hope to have a successful hunt.
Image by Michael Peirce (see full attribution below)
Well, I have a confession to make. While I really enjoy hunting, it’s not the primary reason I tramp through the woods in freezing temperatures, stumble across icy streams in total darkness, sprinkle deer urine on my boots and risk life and limb ascending my climbing sticks to sit for hours ensconced atop a tiny 16″x 20″ platform.
No. The chief incentive for this outlandish behavior is simple. To be with my son.
Before having children, never did I realize the joy of being a dad would run so deep. The memories of all the challenges and struggles of raising a child slowly fade into the background as you see your child gradually transform into a mature adult. I am so proud of my son, Ben.
Ben’s wife, Marriah, and their two boys, John (3 years old) and Tony (one year old), are well cared for as a result of Ben’s deep love and commitment. Their home is filled with warmth, security and joy.
A strong work ethic has always been one of Ben’s most prominent traits. As I have spent time at the mechanic shop where Ben works, it is obvious to me that he has become a respected leader there as well as a valued teacher and mentor for others. His work environment can be challenging at times. Ben is surrounded by many young men who are struggling with addiction, dealing with broken relationships, or are just generally off-track. I have seen Ben compassionately come alongside more than one of these young men to try and support them in difficult circumstances. And I know that he has brought light and life into their lives.
One only needs to spend a few minutes with either John or Tony to see how happy and secure the boys feel. And on top of that, I am so proud of the way Ben and Marriah have lovingly disciplined the boys so that the boys are not only obedient but also polite and respectful (well, most of the time…).
And I am overjoyed to watch the loving sacrifices Ben and his family make in order to care for Tony. You see, Ben and Marriah began to provide foster care for Tony when he was discharged from the neonatal intensive care unit in August 2017. Born as the third child of a drug-addicted mom, Tony barely survived his premature birth and continues to deal with the challenges of a baby born to an addicted mother. But through all the obstacles, Ben and Marriah have persisted in loving and caring for Tony. Now they are pursuing adoption. In a world filled with seemingly insurmountable problems and unimaginable pain, I greatly appreciate that my son and his family are doing what they can to make a positive difference.
Speaking of family, Ben and Marriah are strongly committed to their extended family. They make a special effort to spend time with their aging grandparents on both sides of the family. The joyous effect that their genuine love has had on Leslie’s 92 year old mom is especially moving and is making her final years on this earth so much richer.
And finally and perhaps most importantly, Ben (and Marriah) are insuring that the young Littrell family is firmly rooted in their faith in Christ. As a result of deliberate choices in how and with whom they spend their time, Ben’s family is well-supported not just by their extended biological family, but perhaps more critically, their spiritual family found in the body of Christ, the Church.
Perhaps you now understand better that deep sense of joy I felt when entering the woods on that late September afternoon. It is impossible to express the depth of gratitude I feel for being Ben’s dad. And on that Sunday afternoon, Ben’s placement of our deer stands communicated to me that, perhaps, Ben enjoyed being my son. What more could a father want?
Cahuita National Park – Talamanca, Costa Rica – June 16, 2017
Refreshed by a much anticipated night of air-conditioned sleep and a warm indoor shower, I found myself almost oblivious to the oppressive heat and humidity that had hounded us since our arrival 10 days earlier. We were in Talamanca, the remote and rural canton (think “county”) located in the far south-eastern corner of Costa Rica.
Leslie and I, along with two other friends from our church, had traveled to the tiny Costa Rican village of Shiroles to encourage and assist missionaries Kimi and Raul Molina. The Molina’s run Esperanza, a highly impactful missions organization with a focus on the under-served population in rural Talamanca. Our church has a long term relationship with Kimi and Raul.
Leslie and I had been drawn to visit the Molina’s by a more personal consideration. Our daughter, Bailey, was midway through an eight week stay with Kimi and Raul. Two years earlier Bailey had traveled here with a larger group from our church. As a result, Bailey decided to return on her own the following summer for a three week stay. And this summer, she was spending a full eight weeks here. So Leslie and I were also in Talamanca to pay a visit to our daughter and have the opportunity to serve alongside her.
Today, we were at the end of our 10-day trip, preparing to depart for home the following day. The previous evening had been spent in a small, family run hotel of sorts situated on the southeastern coastline of Costa Rica. We had come to this seaside hotel to spend some time debriefing about the experiences we had during our short trip.
Following a delicious pool-side breakfast that included (of course) rice, beans and plantains, we had followed a path set back about 30 yards from the ocean shore. We meandered along the path through the sea-side jungle enjoying the sound of the waves and hoping to catch a glimpse of the ever elusive sloths that call that area home. I felt strangely as if I had stepped on to the set of Gilligan’s Island.
The deep blue sky visible through the green canopy of the jungle and the accompanying sound of waves crashing into the sandy beach seemed almost unreal. We soon ventured out of the jungle and began to walk along the beach. Before long my heart was bursting with joy and thanksgiving as I replayed over in my mind numerous scenes of the past few days in which I saw Bailey more fully alive than I had ever seen her.
I had witnessed little Costa Rican children, who upon seeing Bailey, ran to her with excited squeals calling her name. Each child’s enthusiasm was rewarded when Bailey, stooping down to their level, received them into a warm, loving embrace. The broad smile on Bailey’s face and the brightness in her eyes clearly disclosed the genuine joy in her heart at being reunited with these children.
And Bailey seemed even more comfortable interacting with the elderly villagers. Old frail women would reach out gently to take Bailey’s soft, golden brown hands into their own hands which had been darkened and wrinkled by decades of hard, physical labor, rough living conditions, and the unrelenting sun. I saw in their old and venerable eyes and heard in their low, gentle voices the tender familiarity usually reserved for family members and close friends: my daughter had clearly won their hearts in the weeks preceding our visit. And Bailey had given them her heart in return.
I could not have been more proud – or more grateful. In fact, the gratitude that I felt in those moments of recollection was nearly overwhelming. It was during one of these moments that Leslie snapped the picture shown above of Bailey and I walking along the shore together.
The shy, subdued daughter that I had always tried to shield and protect had become quietly but undoubtedly vibrant and self-confident. All week, I had struggled with the heat, the humidity, the mountainous terrain, and the lack of all the comforts of home. But Bailey seemed unconscious of these things. In the midst of these difficult living conditions, Bailey was exuding joy and contentment. I kept thinking, “She is in her element.” By “element” I do not mean Bailey’s physical environment but rather her role there of serving, encouraging and supporting.
The path that had brought Bailey to this place had not been some sort of typical transitory teenage fascination with “missions” or a selfish desire to spend a summer in tropical paradise. No. Bailey had prayerfully and thoughtfully sought the counsel of several adults in the months before making the trip. She had also worked tirelessly during these months to raise the money for her trip. She had worked a part time job at Chic-fil-A, hosted a large yard sale, sold clothing and other items on consignment, prepared and served meals for small groups, sold floral arrangements at a church charity sale and parked cars at a large private Christmas party. She had sustained her interest and commitment over time and had taken a mature, responsible approach in preparing for her trip.
What more could I have hoped for in a daughter? Bailey had become more than I ever dreamed or imagined. She had become a young woman whose joy was most complete in serving others in the name of her Lord. Her desire was not for trendy clothes or popularity. The goal of her summer was not simply to relax or spend all day at the pool or on the beach. No. She was living in less than comfortable conditions in order to serve some of the “least and the last.” Wow.
Bailey continues to amaze me and her mom. Since returning from that summer in Costa Rica, Bailey has sacrificially served in Paraguay, Thailand and the slums of New Delhi, India. She is now in her sophomore year at the University of Kentucky and is doing well academically. She consciously has made the choice to live at home while in school in order to save money to support her travel in the summer. All the while, Bailey continues to live out her faith by immersing herself deeply into the Christian community at UK. She is also being faithful to her commitment to her home church, Centenary, by faithfully attending and serving on the Global Impact Team.
Finally, Bailey is now becoming an endeared aunt to her two nephews, John and Tony. Affectionately known as “Aunt B” (John came up with that on his own without any apparent influence from Opie or Andy). The boys squeal with joy when they see Bailey. I suspect as these boys grow up, they, undoubtedly like many others, will be grateful to have had such close relationship with such a remarkable woman. And like me, at some point they will experience the overwhelming sense of gratitude for being able to be a part of Bailey’s life. I know that I am certainly blessed to be the one she calls Dad.
Robert's Blog 