Dr. Madhu, Armur, India

We didn’t really know what to expect of our meeting with Dr. Madhu. The local pastor told us that Dr. Madhu wanted to meet with us. “Is he a believer?” we asked? No… but he’s “interested,” our pastor-friend told us. That was good enough for us, so we went to see him.

You could see he was very proud of his hospital. While some of his surgeon-colleagues stayed in the mega-city of Hyderabad, India, where the money is good and the standard of living quite a bit higher, Dr. Madhu built a hospital in Armur, a small city of … maybe 60,000, with a family residence on the top floor.

Dr. Madhu wasn’t quite sure what to do with us when we met him. So he started with a safe place. The board room. On the first floor just beyond the patient waiting area. I could see lots of diplomas and certificates on the wall, along with pictures and awards… and a long banner announcing something in Telegu. When we asked him about it he giggled shyly. You could see it meant a lot to him, but he was not the kind to brag or make a spectacle either.

After another uncomfortable moment of not knowing what to do next… he did what doctors do. He went on rounds. And he invited us along. Dave and I grabbed our hearts to keep them beating, not knowing what we were about to see in this third world hospital that looked like a movie clip out of an 18th century hospital. We walked into a large room, with eight beds, four on each side… filled with men who had dazed looks in their eyes and bandages on various parts of their bodies. They were the lucky ones. They would walk away, and live. Next to every bed sat their women, dressed in colorful sarees, attending to their needs. Praying for them. All filled with hope. And overly eager to engage with the “white men” who entered their stories.

Dr. Madhu showed us the bloody-bandaged toe of a diabetic man. He was quite sure he would be able to save the toe. That way the man could continue to walk and use his legs and maintain his livelihood through work. Next we came upon a man whose scrotum had swollen to the size of a basketball. The doc showed us pictures of it on his cell phone—his only camera. He was quite pleased with the man’s progress because the skin graft that he had performed was now taking 100%. With the man’s legs spread far apart to allow the air to heal it, the doc snapped another picture from about 12 inches away. He was keeping a pictorial record of the progress. It seemed rude. But then… he was saving the man’s life and documenting it for others to learn. A humanitarian move. “By grace we have not had one infection since we opened this hospital,” the doc proudly told us.

“By Grace.” After looking around on all three floors I would conclude the same thing—it’s by grace. It smelled very clean, even though the walls and floor lacked the pristine cleanliness of our hospitals, and even though the ventilator on the 2nd floor looked like it had been recovered from the back shelf of a 1970’s medical equipment warehouse. People were being saved. Diseases were being conquered. Life was being restored. Families were being preserved. No wonder I had sensed a spirit of hopeful-joy when we entered the hospital compound. Yes… it was “by grace” alright. God’s grace… no doubt about it, in my mind.

The doctor was “interested” in what we’re doing because he can see it operating in his own life. He just doesn’t know by what Name to call it yet. In the meantime, his pastor-friend, a member of his hospital foundation board, is showing his surgeon-friend grace. And praying for him and his work. And Dr. Madhu continues his one-man crusade to bring healing and life to desperate Indians in small villages where medical help is all but non-existent. Every month Dr. Madhu and some of his colleagues and staff travel out over a weekend to a small, isolated village. They set up a make-shift O.R. in an elementary school, prescreen people on Saturday, operate on Sunday, change bandages and give remaining meds out on Monday. Then they pack up and head back home for daily rounds in the hospital.

Dr. Madhu is a remarkable man. I give thanks to God for his heart… and his work. I pray for him to know the Lord of the Universe, for whom he toils day and night, without fully knowing. The Lord accomplishes His work through whomever He chooses. Because God is a God of healing and salvation. I’m thankful God has chosen me too. I’m proud to serve Him. And I continue to wait for my next set of Orders from the King.

Valentines Day in India

February 14, 2008--Armur, India

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY to you all. American Greetings and Hallmark have managed to convince the Indians that they should join in the celebration too. (Men are pretty easy to “guilt” when it comes to their wives and sweethearts.) So people here will celebrate it today.

The accessibility of internet service has been much more limited than what we expected so I have not had much of a chance to post new blogs. Every city and area of India is different. Some cities have more accessibility, some less. Yesterday we traveled to Armur, north of Hyderabad about 170 Kilometers, and have an internet provider just one block from the hotel.

It’s getting hotter here. Up to 90 today. Sun is out. We ate lunch outside on the grass of the restaurant. Every day we eat the same food--spicy rice with spicy chicken, spicy veggies and side dishes of different spicy chicken. The spicy food is beginning to disagree with my stomach big time, so I'm beginning to pass on the food. This state of India, Andhra Pradesh, is known as having the spiciest food in India. Just my luck. I have to keep a cold bottle of water with me when I eat. Twice I’ve ended up chocking because the spices took my breath away.

We were at a church dedication this morning. 30 people attended. It was the church’s one year anniversary. We were also going to gather some villagers together and present the gospel using the Evange-cube, but the pastor told us that there was opposition in the village to any foreigners, so we decided to pass. The people in the church, and everywhere we’ve been so far, have been very friendly. All the children want me to touch them. The adults want me to bless them. I suppose they think the prayers of a white man have more power. Many of the little villages have never seen a white man. So it’s novel for them. We get lots of stares. One baby cried this morning when she looked at me. (MJ does too sometimes… but that’s a different story). Finally she warmed up to me and let me touch her before I left.


We are in Armur through Sunday. I teach each morning in the pastor’s seminar. It’s a blast and a privilege to teach the Bible among them. I'm getting the hang of speaking to them through a translator. They don’t get much of my humor ... but the few English speaking people and I laugh anyway. Each night we’ll do an Open Air Festival in a fairgrounds-type place in the evening, starting about 6:30 p.m. Done by 10:00. Then prayer ministry to many sick and diseased people…. Blind eyes, deaf ears, limbs that don’t work. One boy about 22 years old had only tiny, shiveled legs (polio) and was carried by his brothers for me to pray over him. It breaks your heart, yet they are so hungry for hope, and to know healing, and the God who can heal. Each night we see many miracles.

One pastor we visited in Challapalli this past weekend has had 36 different people in his church who have been raised from the dead over the course of ten years. We talked with a few of them who were around. Some of them have gone on to be pastors—duhh, how could you not?! There is so much spiritual ferver in his church that he has started/ planted 50 branch churches, each with their own pastor whom he has mentored.

Signs and Wonders in Armur

February 16, 2008
Armur, India

Tom whispered into the little girl’s ear in front of a crowd of about 4,000. Everyone watched and waited to see what would happen. The 8 year-old girl had been deaf in her left ear for years. I could only imagine what her bent-over mother who stood behind her was thinking. The crowd grew silent. I could see Tom’s lips moving as he bent near the girl’s left ear. He put his microphone up to her mouth. She began to speak the English words that she was hearing for the first time. “Hallujuah.” “Jesus.” “Amen.”

As Tom whispered, the beautiful 8 year-old turned her head quickly toward Tom with a look of sheer delight and surprise! Eyes wide open. Eyebrows lifted up. Her hand covering her mouth in disbelief, just like the people who are interviewed on their doorstep when Publishers Clearing House presents them with a check for $10 million. She looked back at her mother, and then back at the crowd. Could this be real? What was happening to her? “Who cares! I can hear!”

What DO you say when the hand of God touches you, and heals you?

Each night I witness the hand of God being poured out upon people who come, searching for a way out… looking for mercy from any one of the 330,000,000 gods that the Hindus worship. Maybe they’ll find the “healing god” here, at this festival, so they come. Many do find the Healing God—but surprise. It’s not one of the 330,000,000. It’s Jesus that they encounter when they come forward in faith, wanting to be touched by God. And God pours out his love. Lavishly. Without regard for religion or nationality. This is God’s way of inviting His people into a relationship with Him. To know Him. And to walk in the way of Truth.

Some are healed immediately of back pain, knee pain, deafness and blindness. Those healed of knee pain are invited to bend their knees and check it out. Those healed of back pain are invited to bend over. Those with leg pain are invited to jump up and down. One person even chased Tom around on the platform. Healing feels good.

Some pray to receive Jesus Christ as the Lord of their lives and begin a new life. Many are blessed by the music, the dancers, and the puppet show. All leave having witnessed the Living God at work, whether they believe it or not.

Each night I pray for the sick, after people come forward to give their lives to Jesus and receive the Gospel of John to begin their Christian journey. As Tom finishes up, Dave and I move off and away from the platform. We are immediately surrounded by a mob of people. They’re polite, but assertive. Each wants to be touched. Healed. Blessed, Prayed for in some way. Sudukar is my interpreter and we begin our work. He speaks to them in Telegu, then tells me what their need is. As I pray, he turns to another and hears their need. On and on it goes. Until the very last one.

I can feel the crowd pressing in from all sides. Everyone is eager to be touched. I have a better sense of what Jesus experienced when “the crowd pressed in around him.” There’s no way out… except to pray and release, one person at a time. After 20 or 25 minutes the crowd dwindles down to the very last person. I walk to the waiting car. One more person catches me. Even though all you want to do is go home and rest and share the joy of the evening, how can you say to someone that God doesn’t have time for you? You can’t. Not when you look into their eyes. It’s the King’s pleasure to touch everyone who asks. So we continue until the work is finished since we’re on the King’s business.

Last night 1,106 people turned in commitment cards, indicating that they had prayed for the first time to give their life to Jesus as their Lord… and to switch their allegiance to Him as their one true God. Imagine… over 1,000 new believers in the Armur district today. That’s something to write home about.

Running in India

February 15, 2008
Armur, India

Went for a run this morning. My body was screaming for some exercise. I’ve only exercised once since the day I boarded the airplane in Minneapolis 10 days ago, and that was a only for a 30 minute run just this past Monday when we traveled back to Hyderabad for some R & R. So I decided to give in before I faced a mutiny from within.

I figured if I ran in the morning there would be less people around and I wouldn’t cause such a spectacle, since we’re the only white men in this town of 50,000.

I took off east, into the sun. Our hotel is on the edge of town, only about four blocks until you get to open fields. Wore my sunglasses and headband and red muscle-man T-shirt. I thought if I presented a tall, strong, no-nonsense appearance I could discourage anyone who might have any thoughts of stirring up trouble with one of the “foreigners,” who they believe are destroying the Hindu identity of Indians through the influx of Western Religion. (Our India hosts are always reminding us not to leave or go out walking without someone who can speak Telegu, the local language. In case there’s any trouble.)

There were more people up and about than I expected so I got plenty of stares anyway. Now that I think about it... maybe they were just wondering “who’s the fat old white guy running through our neighborhood?” At least the tough-guy image I had of myself gave ME confidence, if nothing else.

Every road off the main highway in town is gravel, or dirt. Except for the one-block-stretch of tar in front of our hotel. I passed by women brushing their teeth at the neighborhood well… several pigs eating whatever they could find in the open sewers… women washing clothes. I jumped over excrement in the roads, darted around deep depressions and two-feet-high mounds of dirt in the middle of the road, and noticed the blank stares of children who wondered what planet I was from.

A few motorcycles, bikes and pedestrians passed by on their way to work or school. Children were getting ready for school, dressed in their uniforms. I even passed a school bus—yup, it was yellow-orange, just like ours… only cruder, like all of the busses over here. An old man riding his one-speed passed me twice. I wondered when the last time his bicycle chain had been oiled. The whole bike had that “rusted” look.

What amazes me is that in spite of the “boundary-waters-camping-like” conditions that most rural people live in, they look sharp, well-dressed, clean and colorful, especially the women. They brush their teeth in the morning and send their children to school just like I do. But they go about it differently. Not better or worse than in my city in America. Just different.

Satyam

Wednesday, February 14
Hyderabad, India

Satyam insisted. I guess I had stirred up some excitement in him from his glory days as a Yoga instructor when I came down from my room in my running clothes. I wanted to know where I could do some running, now that we were in the city of Hyderabad. Satyam came outside with me, through the gate, and showed me exactly where to run. And where NOT to run. “Street too dangerous.” I had already been on Indian roads long enough to know the truth of that statement. So, it was around the block I guess.

I started out and suddenly two small boys with eager smiles on their faces showed up. They wanted to join me. They couldn’t speak much English, but I think I got the point across that I might run faster than them, and they should only go around the block once. (They, of course, kept up to me just fine, thank you.)

When I got back Satyam insisted that he teach me how to run in place, so I wouldn’t have to go out in the street next time. I thought about explaining to him that the point of running in the street isn’t just about exercise, but seeing the neighborhood life… but caught myself before I bumbled into that one. I did some quick calculating. I figured it would take…. what, maybe 15 minutes? Sure, no problem. “Yes, that would be great” I heard myself say. Then wondered when I would have the time to keep THIS promise.

Oh, by the way, he also used to teach Yoga. Not “that new, watered-down kind that everyone is teaching. The old school Yoga, from a Hindu master who taught him.” Okay. I set it up for Tuesday. We walked up stairs together to the second floor where we were staying. Satyam removed a knee wrap and told me he had a lot of pain in his knee. I asked him if I could pray for healing for his knee. He didn’t quite understand—was I going to exercise it? No, PRAY for it… pray to God for healing. As soon as he heard the word “God” he insisted—“NO.” No God. I don’t believe in any god—not Hindu, not Muslim. Only natural things.

Okay. At least I offered. And we were building a new friendship.

I was gone all day Tuesday so I missed him. By this morning I figured he had forgotten about our conversation on Monday. Then the doorbell rang on our 7-room suite of this Bed and Breakfast hotel. It was Satyam. He was here to teach me how to run in place before we left after lunch. Lucky me. He taught me three different ways to run in place. I had to stop after 3 minutes of doing each one—I was already sweating and puffing. Wow. What a work out! Super aerobics. Lifetime Fitness should contract with him.

We snapped a picture and talked a little. I tried again… could I give him a gift? A book? “Yes,” he said. I picked up my Telegu translation of the Alpha booklet, “Why Jesus?” signed it and gave it to him. Then I asked him if I could pray for his knee. “Yes,” he said. And by the way, he had some neck/back pain too. So I gave him a touch from Jesus, which I pray will lead him to the one true God. We shook hands, and wished each other well. It’s the beginning of a friendship. With me. Possibly… with Jesus too.

Joti in Challapalli

I didn’t know who or when. I just knew it would happen. That God would speak into my soul deep compassion for His people. It happened when I prayed for Joti.

The crowd on this first night of the open air festival was unusually small. After the worship time… the puppet show… the invitation for people to come forward to be healed of sickness or diseases… and a 30 minute presentation of the gospel, Tom invited people down to the front to give their life over to Jesus Christ. A second time of healing followed. This time Dave and I—the white men—were invited to pray for people as well, using an interpreter. That’s when I met Joti.

Several men, women and children gathered into a small crowd. Joti had not spoken a word since she was born. Which was about 10 years ago. Her mother brought her forward, thinking… maybe this god, Jesus, could heal her precious child. If it worked it would be worth the trip. Her sisters and brother gathered tightly around as well. Their deep brown eyes were filled with expectation and hope-against-hope hope. Something about her touched me in a different way than the others. Deeper. With more compassion. As I prayed, I begged Jesus to have mercy on her, and her family, and to bring healing and wholeness to Joti. I looked into her eyes and I spoke her name personally before God. I spoke a blessing of God’s unbounded love for her.

When I was finished, I listened to see if she would speak. The mother thanked me profusely. Joti’s brother and sisters thanked me for showing so much love and kindness to their sister. They already leaving, but I was waiting. And listening. I continue to wait on into this next day as well. You don’t always get to see the fruit of seeds that you sow, you know. God doesn’t promise that you will. Just—that He invites you to be part of the process of bringing His salvation and healing into the lives of His people.

Hyderabad, India--first impressions

Two things I’m learning right off—grab sleep when you can, and grab food when you can. Got four hours of sleep last night after traveling 24 ½ hours straight from Minneapolis to Hyderabad, India. Then it was time to get up, enjoy what will probably be my last hot shower while here, and catch the train to our first Festival city, Challipalli.

I’m lucky. The four of us traveling companions have a 6-person sleeper berth, with air conditioning. Many others have neither for the 6-hour trip. I’m writing while rural India speeds past my cloudy train window. I can see outside, but not very well. A good bottle of Windex would go a long way on this train. We pass smoldering fires of garbage. Bright green rice patties in the countryside. Piles of rock from quarries lay strewn over the landscape. Men going to the bathroom wherever it’s convenient. Children dressed in uniforms going to school. This is India… my first impressions, anyway.

It’s an odd mixture of two coexisting cultures, 2007 and 1948 (the year before India gained its independence from the British). Much of the infrastructure has not been updated since then. But the world doesn’t wait. It’s a culture where guys who drive old rickshaw taxis operate cell phones.

We have a two hour car ride after we get off the train before we arrive in Challipalli. Hopefully we’ll have some supper… or maybe later. You never know for sure. 7,000 people gave their lives to Christ last week in the Festival! The highest number ever since Tom started his ministry. Tom’s excited and the Spirit is moving. Night one is tonight. Tomorrow we begin the Christian Leadership Training seminar at 10:00 with lots of pastors from the villages, coming for encouragement, fellowship, and learning. It’s a joy to serve and be here. I look forward to bringing good news to these people… and being Jesus among them.