Monday, July 7, 2008

An Unlikely Cross

The worn plaster, tinged ever so slightly pink, formed the unintended shape of a Cross. Perhaps, in reality, it didn't -- ay random insterection of the rough interior facades could have formed the simple, perpendicular symbol that, for me, held so much meaning.

I found myself glancing at its unimpressive speldnor regularly. Just left of the single threadbare lightbulb that dimly lit the dngy walls we didn't completely wish to see. As things often go when traveling - as UNexpected - we had found ourselves hot, tired, but expectant in the city of Chennai. As we rode through kilometres of laneless traffic free-for-all, we found ourselves at our supposed residence ... but with no reservations.

Disheartened, we settled for a guest house a short "auto" ride away -- a place that Chris would describe as "really local." A place I was inclined to describe as a bit of a dump. The sipid heat only encouraged our disappointment - our new home was, even by missionary measure, filthy.

We set about, though, in high hopes, false as they perhaps were. While we were prepared to live simply, our exhaustion did not give way to the stark reality that we would now be "roughing it." Still, with electricity (when it remained connected - it failed without fail multiple times a day), a Wester toilet (of sorts - but still a luxury), and a television that blared Bollywood, we were still living as royalty compared to most of the city's population.

The cross on the wall took shape.

With each day, I could feel my body slowly adjusting to the stifling heat. The swelter of cobwebs and ants somehow began to go less and less noticed, even when one morning's sun awoke us to their infiltration of our packs. I slowly began to appreciate the tacky stickers, hidden by day, that illumined in day-glow green the paths of unknown stars and planets across our crumbling ceiling. We strung up simple rope, tied at one end to the decorative iron gate that guarded our second story window, coiled tightly at the other end to the protruding socket of our single light bulb. A makeshift clothesline, upon which we hung the assortment of "quick-dry" belongings harbored in our single packs, their colors providing a welcome interruption to the blank mauve walls of our small cell.

As we met more and more family and friends in Chennai, our own small room became more and more our sanctuary, our home. Amidst the busy Anna Nagar street, incessant beeping of traffic, blaring music arguing with the announcements of prayer from the miniaret of the nearby Mosque, the ringing phone always left unanswered, locks and chains and doors and rumbling fancs in a cacophony of opening and closing and keeping cool - somehow, in the midst of it all, we found peace.

And while the dim light from our lone lightbulb did little to keep the shadows of our tucked-away home at bay, it perfectly outlined the cross that became increasingly more clear, in my eyes and in my heart.

"You are the light of the world ..."

Hot. Sticky. Sweaty. Salty. Dingy. Dull. Dirty. Protruding. Inadequate. Low-Watt. But abundant to make clear the cross of Christ - that beautiful sign of hope and love in the midst of suffering and brokenness - strikingly clear in the place we'd least expect.

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