The Village

Written Mid-October, Near Narengar, Nepal
My home for the last week has been one of cozy simplicity. Each night I fall asleep sharing my bed with one of the other guys, a bed that soft would never be used in its description while adequate suffices quite well. Morning brings the rooster, as usual, crowing at the earliest break of dawn; here life is on the same schedule as the sun slow steady, warm and refreshing. Children are a constant. Everywhere they are playing simple games and being kids in ways that would terrify modern western parents. Slingshots are still a necessity, dogs are always a nuisance and throwing rocks is an acceptable form of entertainment, whether it’s at each other or a nearby house. The home in which I am staying is of simple construction it was built by the owner with no power tools from logs that he milled. The floor is mud compacted to a smooth comfortable surface. There is nothing square, level, or sealed, but it is sturdy and homey. The traffic through the house is always at a consistent pace containing children, baby goats, chickens and the occasional dog, it’s like a petting zoo come to you. In the corner hangs a bunch of bananas slowly turning yellow from the top down, hanging from the rafters are ears of corn drying to be used through the winter. Life is an exercise of survival. Through out the day gentle sunbeams stream through wafting smoke to illuminate the interior through the rough cut walls.
Outside is constant motion, although the sound of an engine or horn is a rare thing. It is far more common to hear the sound of baby chicks, goats, water buffalo, pigs, birds, children, laughter and the breeze. Roads are made for walking and the occasional buffalo cart. Work is done entirely by hand, with the occasional exception of a tractor for the extremely difficult. Community is needed not only for relationship, but also for survival and accomplishment. On the top of the hill behind the house there is a church being built for the small community of believers slowly growing here. The land was donated by one family, the money for materials given by the entire church, from people that have almost no money to begin with. While building is underway all who can are available to work and give input on the best way to accomplish the task. It is truly a labor of love.
Food here is a matter of nutrition rather than entertainment, it is very tasty and well made, but always made of only a few staple ingredients rice, dal (lentils), potatoes, a few spices and an occasional chicken, that was previously running through the house. Breakfast is the only differing meal, fruit and toast or boiled eggs. Meals are always a sufficient source of nutrients needed for an active life, with meals six hours apart.
By far my favorite aspect of this place is our daily bathing and clothes washing. Each afternoon after working or having an open-air event we head to the river. The favored spot is in a small enclave that is seemingly hidden from the entire world. A waterfall of perhaps nine meters into a deep pool feeding the sinkhole in which we bathe, just big enough to jump and dive from the top of the waterfall. One day when we arrived to swim monkeys had already taken up residency, but they quickly offered us the place to ourselves. Although I lost my watch to its depths I will forever love the hidden playground.
One evening I was privileged to join their bi-weekly bible study. Four homemade jar-candles light dimly the faces of the villagers as we worship in their language. I am able only to clap in time as they sing. We are surrounded by tall trees mango, banana, papaya and some I do not know. The home outside of which we are meeting rests atop a small knoll; in the distance the silhouettes of hills are barely visible as the moon drifts behind thin clouds. The stars above are near enough to touch and twinkle with a clarity rarely seen, the faint blue gases of the Milky Way seeping through the vacuum. While teaching begins children play mischievously just out of reach of light and discipline. The faces of those in the circle give entrance to a world that I will likely never understand; they have worked harder for survival than I ever have for a paycheck. In their heart lives the same God as mine, yet their knowledge of him is far different. They came to a saving knowledge of him not through logical decision making, cultural upbringing, or even needing to fill an emptiness, but by seeing his power in rescuing and healing them from the demonic and life threatening sickness.
It is timeless moments such as these that I am most amazed at the God whom I serve. I do not deserve the experiences and privileges I am given. However, I am grateful beyond expression for them.