| Sunny Side Up August 17, 2005 �2005, Kathleen Gibson God's Indian jumping bean Dinakaran and Benjamin I met Solomon Dinakaran in India. He reminded me of the Mexican jumping beans I played with as a child. Tiny (only five foot three) and always on the move. A notable district superintendent (bishop) in my own denomination, he'd traveled fourteen hours by train to meet me, arriving in the city of half a million just in time to freshen up and pick up my friend Esther and myself in an open Jeep. We zipped through demented streets to the slums. I hung on for dear life and prayed to arrive safely wherever we were going. We landed outside a small cement room. Inside waited an excited congregation of about forty recently converted Christians. These people had waited three years to meet this man, but Esther's coastal city is on the outside edge of his territory, and the church had no formal presence in that city. Just this small flock and their pastor, who'd repeatedly contacted Dinakaran at South India's denominational headquarters, begging him to visit. My coming gave him an excuse to travel to meet them. (Since then, they have formally joined the denomination and grown to five congregations.) I still feel the atmosphere in that small room - it pulsated with heat and energy. India's coastal heat, and everyone else's energy. Not this white girl's - the heat had drained it all. I sat on the white plastic chair, feeling awkward to be elevated while the congregation sat on the floor - women on one side, men on the other. They draped yellow marigold welcome garlands around our necks - Dinakaran's, his travel companions' (several other clergy), Esther's, and mine. They sang first. I couldn't understand their words, but their joyful spirit leaked around the edges of the Eastern cadences. Dinakaran preached an exuberant sermon (in three languages), then told me it was my turn. The Bible tells Christians not to worry ahead of time what to say when called on to speak; that God will give words. I usually worry nevertheless - about the content, the delivery, the length. That day I had no lead worry time, and it worked. God delivered more words as the last batch got translated. I saw Dinakaran twice more in India, once in the twin cities of Hyderabad/Secunderabad. The same things happened, only this time the congregation sat outside, under a large, open tent with billowed sides, colored like a kite. A goat wandered past, curious. I met Dinakaran a fourth time. In fact, the Preacher and I just bade him farewell. He came to North America for a denominational conference, followed by a speaking tour. Stayed with us for two exciting weeks. Every morning God's jumping bean rose early - between four and five. We could hear him downstairs, singing and praying. Bless him, he tried to be soft, but sometimes he got excited. He did that every morning, for two to three hours. We miss Dinakaran. The house is silent of his Indian voice, but the echo of his prayers lingers in our hearts. Respond Home |
 |