where is Jesus

Thursday night. 10pm. Phone rings.

"Hi Dara. Sorry to call so late. How are you? Dara, are you busy tomorrow morning? If it's not a problem can you help me with something? One of the street kids I work with lost his mother today. When we found them they were taking down the door to their house to build a coffin. They have nothing. Could you drive our truck to bring the coffin to the cemetery and bring people there and back to their house again?"

"I would be happy to help."

Friday morning, 9am, I drive a full-size extended cab pick-up on a trail I didn't know we would fit down. I maneuver around praying I don't bump a mud hut which is no bigger than the car I'm driving. I back up as close as we can to the home who's had the loss. I walk over to the house and feel ashamed. I feel ashamed because I live less than a mile from this house and have forgotten what life is like outside my wall. The children who've lost their only living parent are filthy, wearing only rags that I wouldn't even use to clean my house with. The door is indeed missing from the front entrance. There are people around but in my cynicism I think that they're the ones that come out of the wood work at this time for the food and to pay their respect to spirits that drive the fear that runs, and ruins, their lives. Where were these people when the children were living on the streets? Who was here when the mother was dying? I didn't get the answers to these questions. It doesn't matter, but I want to blame someone for the situation. When really there's a responsibility that I could take in it. There's a history that my culture, the church, human-kind can, and must, take responsibility of.

I was shocked at what I found at the cemetery. I knew of these rituals but again, I've been away from them for some time. On top of every mound of dirt were suitcases, bags, purses, pots-- belongings that I couldn't help but think people in the homes of the deceased could be using. I'm not sure of the culture beliefs behind it but it's something with the after-life and spirit.

And then there's the cultural wailing and crying; the griever collapsing to the ground, body limp and then being abruptly and  harshly hauled away to minimize the scene that's created. I know it's all the cultural norm and different worldview that disturbs me. And that's exactly what I was, disturbed.

At one point I was so overwhelmed by the tragedy all around me that my body didn't know how to respond. I couldn't cry, I couldn't speak. My body was numb with a subtle urge to dry heave or wretch my guts out.

And then I saw a butterfly and was reminded. There's still life. There is and always will be new life.

At one point I just lifted my head to feel the sun on my face and worshiped God, trusting that He's here. He feels the hurt and knows the helplessness. I prayed and asked that I, and others here, live as salt and light to this oh so dry and dark land. That somehow our presence is pushing back the darkness. That somehow in the rub of the back that I gave a newly orphaned child, love was felt. Because what is this life even about if it's not about love? Love to our neighbor. Even if our neighbor is in the farthest corner of the world, we understand nothing of their culture and our worldviews couldn't be much different. We must find a way to know them, and love them.

Most days I don't understand, or know much, but most days I do know, that this is where Jesus would be.