More Precious Than Silver

I feel that God, more often than not, speaks to me in two distinct ways: through his peace that goes beyond my own understanding and....through song. Having grown up in a rich Christian tradition and been part of countless churches, youth groups, summer camps, retreats, conferences, bible studies and choirs, I'm distinctly well versed in a large array of Jesus lyrics that find their melody in everything from hymns to hip-hop. It happens sort of like this: I'll be praying a typical, 'Lord, give me guidance' type of prayer when all of the sudden I notice that I'm humming along to a song. Sometimes the song just pops into my head and I have to break out in worship mid-prayer. If it's an old one I might even google the lyrics or have to sing it four or five times before the muscle memory of each word comes back to me. Whether it be part of a very natural fruit of worship or a divine message from God, when I pay attention I often find that those lyrics hold the exact 'answer' that I was looking for.

A few years ago when I was doing an extended trip in India I found myself for days on end humming a melody that I could not recognize. I was going up to people begging them to identify the song for me and help me remember the words. Finally a friend from another local mission project began to sing along to my soft hum. 'Word of God speak, won't you pour down like rain...' Something clicked and I felt God instantly calling me towards scripture. It was a discipline I had been avoiding and one that saved my life in the last month of my stay in Andra Pradesh.

This morning as I sit and wait on the Lord I come with a heavy burden that has been weighing on my heart for over a year now. It has been a long journey of teary-eyed nights, intense therapy sessions, wrestling with God and lots and lots of conversation. There have been few moments when I feel as though every part of my life is as uniquely connected in growth and struggle as I have this year. I have been called to grow in depth, in lament, in healing and in tolerance for the brokeness of humanity. I have sat with desperation alongside others as we, knowingly or otherwise witness the labor pains of a groaning earth in New York City. I have felt the rawness of humanity in its holy reflection of a loving God and in it's vile sinfulness- a paradox that fosters exhausting and yet hopeful expectation. I long to feel rest in my identity as a beloved child of God.

In a manor that seems more than appropriate, the words that came to me this morning are from a song that takes me back to my childhood bedside as my parents sang with me as part of a nightly bedtime ritual.

"Lord, you are more precious than silver. Lord, you are more costly than gold. Lord, you are more beautiful than diamonds. Nothing I desire compares to you."

Short from a detailed manifesto that outlines the next steps my husband and I should take in the upcoming months (I wish!), these words spoke direction and assurance to my heart in their child-like simplicity. In my exhaustion, I have been struggling with the idea of being called away from something good- I mean, like something really good. How is that I can be surrounded by everything I've ever wanted in a church, in a community, in a lifestyle and still feel as though I want to- even need to leave? The thought of walking away drowns me in insecurity, guilt, selfishness and confusion. The simple answer is that nothing compares with loving and being loved by God. Yes, I believe God loves the thought of church planting, of a contextualized gospel, of trauma-informed ministries, of a multi-cultural body, of sacrificial service and love- all things I feel guilty to walk away from. However, none of those things compare with the God who is the author, illustrator and manufacturer or such things.

If my ability to seek and experience God's presence is being hindered by anything- good, right and holy or otherwise- I have a choice to make. Is needing to rest in him and him alone selfish? Is he more precious than my works? Is he more beautiful than community? Is knowing him more valuable than doing justice? Not only am I sure that it is, none of of the later are even feasible without first being loved by God. As I shift my prayer from 'What do I do!?' to 'I need you and I want to experience you, help me' I feel that peace. Following God is costly in some of the most unexpected ways and yet it is more precious and beautiful than anything else that I desire. 

Something about Christmas Time...

It's something about Christmas time that always makes me want to write. Maybe it's the fact that I have more time- exams are over, work has slowed down, vacation is eminent- or maybe it's the winding down of the year that tugs at my sleeve and draws me into a reflective and thoughtful mode of introspection- or, perhaps it's simply the high level of processed sugar inevitably in my system from December to January, the result of holiday goody bags, candy canes and hot chocolate circulating in every social circle. Whatever it is, about this time of year I find myself lost in thoughts, fantasizing about having them all written down- captured, processed, implemented- and tied with a bow.

My first year of counseling has left me swimming...which while exhausting, I'll admit is far better than drowning. With each week I feel my muscles growing stronger and at the same time, land- a solid foundation- something firm to put my feet on- feels immeasurably far away. Grounding is hard to achieve when thinking about every stroke I take keeps me in the hear and now and, for the moment, inhibits my ability to take a look at the bigger picture. One false move and I'm under the wave, no longer maintaining my forward momentum. Christmas feels like I've stumbled upon a small island. I can rest my arms, clear my head of the need to remember to keep paddling....and look back at the distance I've covered. It's far. Where did I even begin, which direction did I come from? I'm stronger. I'm tired but I'm less tired than I was before. If I'm lucky and I squint, maybe I'll even be able to make out traces of hard land ahead.

My ocean is injustice, suffering, pain, trauma, confusion, empathy, open-ended questions, comfort, sitting with the emotion, reflecting, pushing, cognitive restructuring, playing, scheduling, rolling with resistance, analyzing, structures, race, homelessness, shelters, violence, addiction, recovery, relapse, healing, being present.

Being present. There is something about being present. A professor of mine said that the gift of a therapist is being able to descend into another person's hell while keeping one foot in the land of hope and happiness. It's only there that we can be in relationship with someone in the purity of their pain. Though coming from the heart of secular helping profession mantra, that message sounds all too familiar.

Emmanuel, God with us. God who is present. God who came, God who descended not only to our world but into our hell. Triune God who maintained his fatherly sovereignty in the land of hope and healing while at the same time being fully present in the purity of our human pain.

In the words of Shane Claiborne, "Everything in our society teaches us to move away from suffering, to move out of neighborhoods where there is high crime, to move away from people who don't look like us. But the gospel calls us to something altogether different. We are to laugh at fear, to lean into suffering, to open ourselves to the stranger. Advent is the season when we remember that Jesus put on flesh and moved into the neighborhood." He dove into the ocean....I like to think that Jesus too swam. He too was tired and he too felt all together far from solid ground.

My hope comes from the fact that my savior swam in the same waters that we swim. He was born in a stable. He descended into our hell...and when he died he took up our inequities, rising again to settle things once and for all. He conquered death and all that comes with it and so for now... I can keep swimming, keep smiling, keep waiting, keep hoping.

Courage/ˈkərij,ˈkə-rij/: Starting Down a Road That May Never End.

I have finally gotten up the courage to write about New York. About Social Work. About faith. About things I’m learning and pieces I’m struggling to put together. Yesterday when one of my students was too upset to talk, I left her alone with a pen and a piece of paper. Do you think you can write it? She nodded. Half an hour later she handed me two pages of things she had never been able to verbalize in our sessions. Writing naturally opens us up to a world that may not appear during our regular walk through the day. This is the beginning of my attempt to find that world, to make sense of it and to share it with all of you. 

15 Things I’ve learned about New York: 

1. The average New Yorker spends about 1,000,000 hours a week on public transportation. 
2. Appropriate things to do on a subway train are: Play “Candy Crush” on your iphone, plug into some music and subtly (or not so subtly) bob your head along to the beat, stare straight ahead just above eye level and pretend you are not listening to the loud fight going on between the couple next to you, if two seats open up- move over (apparently, its not ok to stay squished up to the person next to you), read your book standing up, bring your guitar and sing about everything you see on the train.
3. It’s called the 1 train, not the red train. You will be corrected.  
4. Everyone has dietary restrictions. Learn how to cook Vegan, Cave-Man and Gluton-Free before you have people over. 
5. If you say, “How’s it goin?” or “Hey y’all” people might not understand you. Try “What’s good? or How’s everything? instead. 
6. People will not judge you for your religious beliefs, sexual orientation, or life-style choices, but they will judge you for your shoes. 
7. If you don’t like this pizza place, try the one half a block over. 
8. Never assume that someone speaks Spanish or doesn’t. That taco joint down the street is actually owned by a Chinese man who speaks Arabic. 
9. Schedule coffee dates 3 weeks in advance. These people are busy. 
10. Steer clear peak tourist zones and hours when on a bike. Don’t expect them to understand that you are in a hurry or speak your language when you say, “On your right!”  
11. LES, BK, UWS, SOHO, NOHO.....and SOBRO...? 
12. “Up and Coming” actually means gentrified. 
13. Neighborhoods are more defined by race and ethnicity than they are by maps. 
14. In many ways, your neighborhood actually defines you. “Do you know who I am? I’m from the Bronx.”
15. It really is the City that Never Sleeps. I have yet to stay up late enough to confirm that, but I’ve heard stories and seen pictures. 

5 Things I’ve learned about Social Work: 

1. You have to know yourself and discipline yourself before you can give yourself. 
2. If you don’t think you have issues, that’s where you have to start. 
3. A career in Social Work gives you a new lens through which you view the world. To that end, it is impossible and even dangerous to separate work and life. 
4. My economics degree in undergrad is one of the best choices I ever made. 
5. The world is fallen and more messed up than I can handle at times. 

3 Things I’ve learned about Christianity: 

1. The world is fallen and more messed up than I can handle at times BUT there is hope everlasting SO I will not be passive. 
2. Justice can not exist well without grace. 
3. Grace has to be received before it can be reciprocated. When we can seek Justice AND live grace, THEN we begin to love like Christ. 

A Night to Remember

Having finished camp yesterday afternoon, I spent today catching up on household chores- laundry, cooking, cleaning, etc. My friend Rebka hennaed my hand and we just relaxed around the house. I went for a run in the evening and as the sun was setting I walked over to the SCH orphan home where my good friend, Gillian has just moved in for the month. 

Sarah’s Covenant Homes (SCH), for those of you who don’t already know, are homes that are designed especially for special needs orphans. (http://www.schindia.com) All of the children in the three homes have either mental or physical disabilities, and in many cases, both. The home I’m about to tell you about is commonly referred to as the School girls apartment because the top floor is home to about 10 middle school aged girls who, despite their disabilities, all attend school. The bottom floor, where I spent the evening, is where the younger children stay. 

Tonight, as I walk in, a herd of little tikes came running out yelling variations of ‘Koti!’, ‘Aca’ (sister, in Telugu), and ‘Tister’ (Sister in toddler). Finally one starts correcting another, correcting another, and word spreads that ‘Cort-ta-ney Sister’ had just arrived. Talk about feeling loved. I saw that all of the girls had their finger nails painted and Gillian was sitting on the floor giving the final touches to some of the ‘Aiyas’ (Telugu for ‘Nanny’). She is pretty much awesome. 

Each child at the home is incredibly different and incredibly special. For safety's sake, I won’t mention names, but diagnoses include Apert’s Syndrome, Downs, Dwarfism, blindness, Autism, deformed limbs, etc. Personalities range from joyful, loud and extroverted to cuddly, soft spoken and introverted...and all of those in between. 

I had arrived just in time for dinner. Gillian, who has moved into the home to help establish routines and create more of a familial atmosphere, has done a great job of creating fellowship ‘around the dinner table.’ All of the children sit in one room together as bowls of rice and dal are are passed around and a multitude of right hands dig in. Challenging, yes. But is it working, oh yea. 

As they finished up they moved into the front room to brush their teeth and play while dinner was being cleaned up. I imagine that some people would feel suffocated if 10 kids jumped on them at once...but personally, I can’t think of anything better. The trick, I’ve found, is accommodating them all in various positions. The human body can actually hold more kids than you might think. You can totally have your arm around three while the other hand holds back a child who is learning not to hit. Your skirt can then be made into a slide for three more children to take turns going down, and two more can actually be hanging around your shoulders. Just make sure to keep your ankles crossed, watch out for the one that bites and close your eyes when the blind one reaches up to identify you. 

P.S. The kids came up with the slide idea by themselves. I was strictly told not to uncross my legs and there was one boy monitoring whose ‘turn’ it was. He, in his three years of wisdom, was like the ride master at six flags. He made sure each child crossed their arms and laid back and then he would pull their legs until they successfully made it down my legs and hit the floor. 

Anyways, the new routine includes a sweet time of prayer and devotion- a feat some (me....) might have called impossible without seeing it with their own eyes.  As we moved back into the common room, the kids settled into various laps and positions and the aiyas started to sing. Like clockwork each child began clapping their hands along with the voices. In that moment nothing mattered..nothing made us different, not age, size, health, nationality- we were just children of God sitting together singing praises to  our God. The boy in my lap clapped my hands together and every once and awhile leaned over to help another child clap her hands. (yep, one in the same ride-master, authoritative three year old). One of the nurses shared a Psalm and then the Aiyas took turns praying. It has been my experience that when Indian women pray, they strip themselves bear before the Lord. The tears and outcry that came from this women that now kneeled before me in prayer could only be evidence of a heart that has been repeatedly poured out before the Lord. 

As I looked around the room, not all of the kids were lost in prayer. One young girl was sticking pieces of paper from a torn up magazine to her face, another boy was using his friends toe to kill an ant and another was blowing bubbles with her spit. They were, however, sitting together in fellowship, still before the Lord, being covered by the prayer of the women who have devoted their lives to their care. I’m sure I was not the only one who felt as if a blanket of peace had been placed over the home. 

In the chaos of life these moments are immeasurably valuable. It’s there, in his intimate presence, that God reminds us of who we are, why we are here and what we have to look forward to. 

Bedtime, goodbye kisses and a nice walk home made for one of my most favorite evenings in India. 

One Time at Summer Camp...

This last month of my internship was spent helping to plan for and host a summer camp for the children that participate in ICM’s Covenant Child Development Centers. The 10 days that we ran our program felt like a whole different world. While it was happening I had trouble remembering what life was like before camp, and now that it’s over it seems like it may have been a dream. (Something perhaps out of the Twilight Zone?). Each day was long, exhausting, hot- and yet, extremely rewarding in its own way. 

The blog that I write for CCDC has a bit more of the details (http://ccdc-india.com/covenant-childrens-camp-2013/) but here I just wanted to post some of my favorite moments and memories from the last week and a half. 

1. I let each group, broken up by age and gender, choose their group name. Throughout the week, these were some of my favorites: Little stars, Rose group, Mango, Apples, Jehovah, Jesus, Immanuel (pronounced Ye-man-yell). 

2. There were HUGE language barriers that made for moments that were challenging, frustrating, funny and sometimes quite creative. Out of ALL of the English words that kids could know, here are a few that made me laugh: “Sister, Pimple.” (means, “You have a pimple on your face.) “Sister, helping?” (means: Can I help you?)  “Sister, my name?” (means: Sister, what is your name? ‘Mai’ in Telugu means ‘your’...a bit confusing) “Sister, my mother’s/father’s name?” (means: What is your mother’s/father’s name?) “Games!?” (means..I’d rather be playing games..) One girl, Divya, was constantly doing overly active Charades to try and explain things to me with exaggerated motions and sound effects. My favorite one included her imitating me blowing my whistle the change stations. I wish I could of gotten it on film. 

Divya is the one on the right. 

3. To help with one of the lesson’s about God’s plan for Moses, I taught the ‘Pharaoh, Pharaoh’ song with motions. For the next day and a half kids constantly ran up to me and sang it. It sounded more like this ‘Faro, faro, wooo, wooo...lemuhpipogo (let my people go)..huh! ya ya ya ya’

4. There was one night when I was in front of the kids stalling as my teammates struggled to set up the projector for a movie presentation of ‘The Kind of Egypt.’ The computer was on, but the screen was not showing up on the projector. The laptop we were using was from work and the only mp3 files it had on the hard drive were musical recordings of ‘Every move I make’ and ‘One Way Jesus.’ I danced and made up choreography to both songs as we sang them each about 5 times over. When Jacob, one of my co-workers saw me struggling to choreograph the second song he noticed that the file was actually a video, not just the song. I stepped back and mimicked the moves I saw as 100 kids then copied my motions. All I can say is #onlyinindia #worldmissions.

5. I can’t tell you how funny a ‘balloon between the knees’ relay race is in a competitive culture with kids who have never done it before. I’m sure you can imagine. The balancing a cup of water on your head, however, was surprisingly easy for everyone.

6. Indian children like to shake hands. After every activity, whether, coloring a worksheet, eating their snack, or beading their bracelets, everyone would come up to me, show me their work, shake my hand and say ‘thank you sister.’ I learned several variations of the word ‘bagundi!’ (which means ‘very good!) as I responded to at least 50 multi-colored Moses and the burning bush coloring sheets daily.

7. The spirit of generosity that exists among children that don’t have much to begin with is absolutely one of the most humbling things I have ever experienced. At the end of camp each child was given a ‘care bag’ that has a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small toy, a coloring sheet and some crayons. When we were short on crayons for the last camp one boy offered his two care bag crayons and then about 20 children followed suit. I have learned that in a communal culture, no one goes hungry, thirsty, unclothed or...without crayons. If there is enough for one, there is something for many. 

8. ‘Jesus Love You’ tattoos. I think that by the end of camp each child had at least 5 stamped all over their bodies. The boys would rip open their shirts to show me the 3 they had pasted onto their chests. Awesome. 

Thanks to all of you who prayed me through those days- I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that support!

Looking back on the details it is amazing to see how God ordained everything from my having a whistle on my keychain, to spontaneously deciding to start waking up early the week before to finding puzzles and instruments in our supply bags. He provided for all that we needed, even things that I would have never thought of on my own. It’s true you know...When God is for us, nothing can stand against us! 

You are invited to a Girl's Night Party!

The first month that I was here I prayed that God would set ministry before me. I had no idea that he was going to bring it to my door....literally. About two months ago 5 young girls between the ages of 7 and 11 appeared at my door step. They live in my apartment building and had seen me and my two roommates coming and going from our fourth floor apartment. I don’t know who dared who, but somehow this day,  they got up the courage to ring our doorbell. (Which by the way plays a variation of different diddles and then says ‘please open the door’). They didn’t really have a plan for much else, just curious I suppose. When I answered the door, they simply asked, ‘Can we come in.’ The logical response of course being, ‘Well, sure.’ We just stared at each other for awhile, and then my roommate, (quick on her feet) suggested that we play cards. 

The girls started coming over nightly, and ringing the doorbell several times a day asking if they could come in and play cards. Being told, ‘not right now’ or ‘not today,’ never discourages them from coming back an hour later with the same hopeful look on their faces. 

Contrary to the children I work with through ICM, these girls are materially well off, and socially of the highest caste level in India, Brahman. They are well educated and speak perfect English. They are also Hindu. I ask a lot of questions and have subsequently learned things like why Ganesh (a hindu god) is honored in this district, why some of them are not allowed to eat meat, and that if you sneeze before you walk into a door, you should wait 10 minutes and then put water on your forehead...or you will have bad luck all day. I also get a chance to ask some questions like ‘Why do you think you get good friday off from school?’ ‘Who do you think Jesus is?’ ‘Do you know what Christians believe about him?’ Its a fine line...but so far our exchanges have just been part of building a friendship. 

Last week, after the first few days of summer vacation began, and door bell ringage exponentially increased, I decided to throw a sleepover party. I mentioned the idea to the girls that I knew and although their mother’s weren’t keen on the idea of an overnight event, they were very excited about a ‘girl’s night party.’ We set the date and made invitations. They were pumped. Each day as I passed by in the hall I would get a new countdown.. ‘Three more days until our party!’, ‘Two more days until are party..’ Ecetera. 

Yesterday morning, the day had finally come. I set out early to clean, buy groceries and, make playlists and set up the room. There was a nail-painting/beauty salon station, a craft station, a games station, a table full of good unhealthy snacks,  and, most importantly, a dance floor. I got a recipe for ‘chapati’ (Indian tortillas) and spent most of the afternoon cooking and trying to remember old line dances from camp.

I opened the gate at 5:55 and the girls arrived at 6:01. They all had on their party clothes and flowers in their hair. ‘Oh you look so pretty’ ‘Nice hair’ ‘Ooh, I love that shirt.’ What girl doesn’t like an excuse to get dressed up!? (or in my case, at least shower...). After a few rounds of UNO, we moved on to the dances. The girls love the Macarena (the Macaroni, as they call it) and they caught on pretty quick to my rendition of ‘It’s raining men’ and ‘Build me up Buttercup.’ Gillian, one of my only American friends, set up our nail salon and the night continued with run-way walking, Nutella filled chapati’s, ring pop’s, art and lots of giggling. 

As they were packing up to leave, each girl hugged me and said, “Thank you so much for inviting us!” They were gone by 8:59 with colored tongues, painted nails, and serious sugar high’s. 

I love these girls. I have learned that while they don’t have very many physical needs like the the children in our development centers and orphanages, they are growing up in a world that teaches them to bow down to idols pray to gods that will never respond. They are not orphans, they are not living in poverty, but their need is one that is much deeper. Pray that seeds would be planted and that they would know that I love them only because their heavenly Father loved them first. 

Adventures in Bangalore

About tuesday of last week I decided that I wanted to take a trip for Easter. I am half way through my internship with ICM, and taking a trip out of Ongole to do a bit of sight seeing sounded like a really good idea. I emailed a friend in Bangalore, bought an overnight bus ticket and was on my way by Thursday evening! 

Night buses are totally the way to travel in India. They come complete with a bunk for each person, drop down TV's, pillows, blankets and headphones...all for about 20 dollars. A nine hour journey becomes just another night's sleep. 

Amy and Patrick moved to Bangalore in January. Patrick works for the same company as my dad and Amy is volunteering as a school councilor at a community, not-for-profit school that brings kids in from the slums and gives them a top notch education. (It's pretty awesome) They are figuring out the in's and out's of ex-pat life and living it up in their first year of marriage abroad! 

Having just arrived a few months prior, and having only three days notice, these two were the most gracious and incredible hosts consistently spoiling me for three days straight. From home cooked meals to Bangalore's finest dining, huge city markets to fancy shopping malls, latte's to hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts (yes, you read right..), botanical gardens to fish spas...I left their apartment ready to take on the world (or at least two more months in Ongole!) My stomach was filled with foods I had not seen in months (Lasagna, salad, strawberries, feta cheese, wine, nutula brownies, molten chocolate cake, snicker's bars, good coffee..need I go on?). Seriously, spoiled. Another treat was an wonderful Easter morning worship service at their International church. There are probably more than 25 nationalities represented in the congregation and between the Nigerian girls who sang in French and the Indian hip-hop team that did a drama/dance to the gospel story- I felt like I was literally in heaven, worshiping with the nations. 

Whole Sale flower Market

Veg Market

Botanical Gardens

Krispy Kreme

Amy is the most spectacular blogger I've ever come across. Actually her daily posts put my spastic, once-every-few-weeks entries to shame. On my last evening in Bangalore, we had quite the adventure trying to get me to my bus. After reading Amy's description of the event- equally entertaining, detailed, and accurate, I have decided that I had to re-post it here. Her post is featured below..enjoy! 

THE DEPARTURE, by Amy Glicker

“Courtney!” I yelled, with white knuckles gripping the interior of the car door. We were zig-zagging in and out of Bangalore’s traffic at a speed I have never, ever driven at (in the States or in India).  “How on earth are we ever going to adequately blog about this experience?!” I managed to say as we were tossed around the back seat of the car, swerving, peddle-to-the-metal, laying on the horn, and running people off the road.

Courtney laughed, and thought for a minute.  “I know! Just tell them... ‘It all began at a fish spa.’”  

And so it did. It all began at a fish spa. 

We had a couple of hours to kill before dropping Courtney off to take the ten hour bus ride back to Ongole (the city where she has been volunteering for the past few months). 

"Let's try to squeeze in one last adventure!... Let's see if we can fit in a trip to the Fish Spa."  I told Courtney and Patrick as we loaded up the car and made our way to Whitefield (the area of town where Courtney would catch the bus).  Little did we know that one adventure would turn into two.

After a hilarious session at the fish spa, filled with uncontrollable laughter as fish suction-cupped their little lips to the bottoms of our feet, it came time for us to head to the bus station.  Now, as you have probably figured out, things in India take a very long time, therefore, it is important to allow an adequate time-buffer from point A to point B.  Seeing that the bus station was only 15 minutes away, we allowed over an hour to make the last leg of our journey and say our farewells and goodbyes to Courtney.   As we prepared to leave the Fish Spa, we called our driver to come and pick us up (yes, I know, it sounds crazy to have one's very own driver... but here in India, that is the norm.  In fact, driving here is truly a skilled trade).  Anyway, I digress...

Patrick called the driver.  One ring, two rings, three rings... No answer.  A text message: "We are ready. Please come pick us up." ...No response. More phone calls, followed by an equal number of unanswered calls. 

"I bet he doesn't have reception in the mall's parking garage." I said. "Let's go see if we can find the car.”

Now mind you, the Fish Spa that we visited was right smack dab in the middle of Whitefield's infamous Phoenix Mall; a mall so big it even has its own rock climbing wall, "snow zone" complete with sledding (yeah, try to figure that one out in Bangalore's 90+ degree heat!), an outdoor concert venue, restaurants, etc.  Needless to say, the parking garage for this behemoth of a structure was equally impressive and equally enormous.  The odds of us finding the car were slim to none.  That said, perhaps it was a small Easter Miracle, but we eventually stumbled upon our small four-door coup. 

"I found it!" I yelled, as Patrick and Courtney made their way over to join me at the car.  

There was only one problem: No driver.  He was absolutely nowhere to be found. The following forty-five minutes was spent strategically covering every main entrance, corner of the parking garage, and major meeting spots at the mall. Still no driver. We were starting to feel a little frantic.  

"I'm going to call the driver service company." Said Patrick as he dialed the number on the phone.  Soon, the three of us and the Driving Company were all trying to call our driver, however, it was useless as none of our calls would go through. 

The tension was rising.

It was 7:45pm, and Courtney was supposed to report to the bus at 8:00pm (it was scheduled to depart at 8:15).  We took a look at her backpack filled with all of her weekend necessities that was in the back seat of the car, locked. 

“I’m going to break in the window.” Patrick said. I gently reminded him that that probably wasn’t the best idea. 

"What should we do?"  We asked each other.

After careful deliberation, we decided that if there was any hope of getting Courtney on her overnight bus to Ongole, we would have to abandon ship, take a rickshaw to the bus station, and worry about couriering her the backpack the next day.  We sprinted out of the garage and to the street lined with rickshaws just was fast as we could. 

"We need to go to KR Puram bus station... FAST!!!" I said to the rickshaw driver. He charged us way too much, but we didn't have time to negotiate.  The three of us jumped in the back of the rickshaw and made our way towards the bus station.  By this time, it was already after 8 o'clock, and our odds of catching the bus in time were getting slimmer by the minute. 

"Ring. Ring. Ring."  It was Patrick's cellphone.  On the other end of the line was the driver.  There was no time to figure out what had gone wrong at the shopping mall.  Patrick handed the phone to the rickshaw driver and he told our driver where he was going, and said to come meet us with Courtney's backpack.  He then proceeded to hang up the phone, and pull over to the median of one of Bangalore's busiest highways. 

"Get out here." He said.  Your driver is coming.

"Are you kidding me?" Said Patrick. "No! Please take us to the bus station.  We will deal with the bag later."

The driver refused. There was no use in arguing, he clearly wasn't going to take us any further.

There we were, three white kids, at night, standing in the middle of the highway. At last the phone rang again... It was the driving company.

"Your driver is at the petrol station. He just arrived." The dispatch person explained.

We looked around. There it was, and there was his car.  However, there was only one problem.  The petrol station was on the other side of a six lane highway. In the middle of the highway was a fence dividing the lanes in half. To make matters worse, the top of the fence was sharp, making it impossible to climb. 

For anyone who has ever played the game "Frogger,"  you can probably visualize what it looked like as we crossed the busy highway and made it to the half-way point.  We walked along the fence until we found a hole that we were able to squeeze through.  Meanwhile, traffic was rushing back and forth on either side of us.  At last we made our way to the petrol station and arrived at the car. 

Another hiccup: The car was there, but the driver AND the bag were gone.

"You've got to be joking." Said Patrick, looking around frantically for the driver.  After another phone call, we established that the driver had picked up the bag and taken off running to meet us back on the other side of the road.  We had completely missed each other.   

Are you exhausted from this story yet? ... Well, just wait!

At last the driver made it back to the car.  He was drenched in sweat, and breathing so hard he literally couldn't speak. He ran to the driver's seat door, jumped in, and we all piled in behind him.  The race was on!

As I mentioned earlier, never in my life have I been in a car at this kind of speed.  It was complete chaos. We weaved through the traffic, running people off the road, and swerving into every available open space as we made our way through the final 2 kilometers of highway before the bus station. At one point I turned to Courtney and said, 

"If I am ever pregnant, in labor, and late to the hospital... I sure hope this guy is around to take me there!"  

That said, that was about all I was able to say to Courtney because, quite honestly, I was fairly occupied mentally preparing for whatever kind of car crash we were certain to experience. 

By this time it was already about 8:25pm (several minutes after the bus was scheduled to depart).  Now, in any other country, we may have just given up and headed home, however, here in Bangalore, one thing is consistent:  Things never run on schedule.  There was still hope that the bus had a late departure.

"There it is!" We yelled as we approached the make-shift bus station.  Sure enough, a line of busses filled the streets.  Now to find the correct bus.  We scanned the names of all the bus companies written across the back window of each bus. 

"THERE!!!!"  We shouted. Sure enough, up ahead was the name of Courtney's bus company.  We weren't sure if it was the correct bus that was heading to Ongole, but at this point, we had no other choice.  There was one problem: The bus had already taken off, and was making its way toward the freeway. 

Our driver, a crazed look in his eyes, pressed the gas pedal to the floor. We took off towards the bus as through we were competitors in a NASCAR race.  We came along the side of the bus and our driver pushed the horn as far into the steering wheel as it would go, letting out a piercing honking noise to let the bus know we were there.  Next he swerved back and forth into the bus, as though he were trying to run the giant vehicle off the road.  Finally, he stepped on the gas once more and, honking incessantly, pulled in front of the bus to intentionally cut it off.  Meanwhile, the three of us passengers were waving our arms at the bus driver and yelling for him to stop.  (Yes, it was quite the scene).  At last, the bus driver signaled to the left and began to slow the vehicle.

Our driver stopped the car in the middle of the highway, turned on the emergency flashers, and, with the car still running, we all dove out of the vehicle and sprinted towards the bus.  Not yet stopped, the bus slowed to a crawl and opened its doors. The driver through the backpack in with all his might, and Courtney dove in behind it.  At no time did the bus ever come to a complete stop.  

She was off. 

The three of us (Patrick, the driver, and myself) got back into the car, out of breath, and dripping in sweat. 

My phone rang. It was Courtney.  I will never forget what she said...

"Amy!... That was AWESOMMMEEEE!!!!"  

Yes, yes it was. It was an adventure. A totally, crazy, awesome adventure.