Our plan was to fly into the capital city of New Delhi and then travel by train to other parts of the country where we had arranged to meet with social work students, visit libraries, and take a tour of one of Gandhi’s residences. This all sounded very exciting – but it turns out that sitting on the hard floor of a classroom listening to long lectures in a language you don’t understand is terribly, terribly boring no matter what country you are in.
We found our way to the New Delhi Railway Station for the first leg of our trip. The train station is massive and crowded with an amazing number of different languages spoken. Although things continue to change, the diverse country of India is still very much divided into different classes or castes and wide gaps separate the rich and poor. Train travel in India is a reflection of the division of classes in Indian culture – within the various cars of one train the comfort level can range from non-existent to luxurious.
I soon learned that my understanding of waiting patiently in line for my turn at the ticket counter or in the restroom was not universally shared. Negotiating through the station was particularly challenging for those in our group who liked to keep a little personal space between themselves and others.
Before we could say yes or no, our luggage was scooped onto the heads and shoulders of men working as porters. They didn’t speak English and it was all we could do to keep up with them as we watched our suitcases bobbing off. For a time, my friend and I were separated from the rest of our small group. We were pushed around by people who knew where they were going and all I could think about in that moment of panic was how I would get back to Iowa where it was safe and familiar. What had seemed like a great adventure was suddenly terrifying. We had no idea where we were supposed to go and no clue how to find out.
Even if you haven’t been in a foreign train station, I’m guessing that we have all been in situations in which we felt overwhelmed, confused, or lost - not knowing where to turn or whom to trust. Maybe you are going to a new school this fall or you've begun to test the waters of a new career path. Our kids grow up, move out, move back, move out, start families of their own; our bodies begin to fail us and cause us to visit medical professionals with increasing frequency. Our neighborhoods change and the languages spoken in our grocery stores and on our streets are sometimes unfamiliar.
Back in the train station, my friend and I found that, by keeping an eye on our suitcases and yelling out the name of our leader, we were able to rejoin our group! Although that solved one problem, we still couldn’t tell which of the hundred trains was the one we needed to be on.
Huddled together to keep from being separated again in the sea of people, we tried to get our bearings. On one of the passenger trains closest to us was a small sheet of white paper posted by the door. Maybe that would at least give us clue about what direction the train was pointed? I volunteered to find out what it said and was shocked to discover that on that piece of paper in a crowded train station more than seven thousand miles from home at a moment when I had never felt more lost, more homesick, more frightened…. On that white piece of paper was my name. Lynn Gray.
My name! On the side of that train! The journey was no less frightening, the crowds and languages no less confusing, the smells and noises no less overwhelming. But I knew where I belonged. Rejoice!
We belong to the God who calls us by name, who chooses to speak our many languages, who meets us when we are most lost, who gives us his very breath and sends us into the world where so many of God’s beloved children feel helplessly lost. Perhaps we can carry a piece of their baggage for a time, point them in the right direction, and walk together on the way.
