The heat rises from the streets of Delhi, stirring the woman’s sari. She is crying, distraught, her hands pressed against the glass of our car window. She holds something up for me to see; it looks like a hospital bill. Her hand slams desperately, again and again, making smudges on the glass. I look away, telling myself there is nothing I can do. The traffic light turns green, and the sound of dozens of motorcycles revving their engines drowns out the woman’s cries. We leave her behind in a cloud of exhaust. But she follows me, out of the alleys filled with animal refuse, past the garbage heaps and ragged children. She follows me beneath the bright fluorescent lights of the airport, across the dark ocean, and into another country far away.
Light filters down through the trees of the Romanian forest, in through the car window smeared with handprints and tears. The cries are on my side of the glass this time. They come from a boy with curly black hair who clutches my hand as if I was saving him from drowning. For him and the other orphans packed beside him in the van, this trip marks the end of a week of summer camp. We wind through the countryside, jolting over unpaved roads towards the orphanage where he will spend the rest of the year. The gray concrete building looms ahead of us, shutting out the light of the setting sun. As the van pulls up, children pour out of the orphanage doors and mob us. The boy climbs out of the van, wiping away the tears so the other children won’t see that he has been crying. I hug him goodbye, and then a little girl, and then a different boy, and then someone I don’t recognize. Hands cling to mine as I shut the sliding door. They press against the glass and trace hearts on the windows and the children are running, running after us as we drive away.
I stare into the dusk through the hand-smudged glass. I remember the Indian woman, the woman who I told myself I could not help. I knew that if I rolled down the window, I would be torn to pieces by all the desperation. It’s too much for one person, too much for a million people even if there were a million people willing to give themselves to heal these wounds. But my hands remember the feeling of that boy’s hand in mine. There was no glass to protect me from his need, no glass to keep the heat and filth from my air-conditioned world. I was broken then, drowned. The flood poured out my eyes as we pulled away.
What is the glass? It cleaves the world in two, gives comfort to the lucky few who were born on the right side. I stare down at my hands, hands that were afraid to touch the Indian woman’s for fear that if they did, my world would be shattered. I remember the boy’s hands and I know that I will come back, hold his hands again, and be broken again. I will shatter the glass that stands between us and dive into the flood.
Mary Dewey
attends a university that is too religious for her
likes thinking about big ideas
wishes she had more time for yoga
Comments (2)
What is the glass that insulates us from the hungry and the desperate of the world? Foe us it is our middle class fortune. For us its our middle class religion, the gardens that keep us away from people, the cares that keep us at a distance. It's the fact that we can say good-bye and return to what we call normality. I too have had a similar experience but for me it was severed limbs that were on display but the anguish on the faces was identical. In Northern Ireland we are struggling to become a world-class economy and catch up with our more prosperous southern neighbours; we are struggling with a so-called post-conflict situation, although not many here believe that the conflict is completely over; the churches in the Urban community are in decline and most of the bible-believing Christians have gone to live in the suburbs. What do we need? we need people who are ready to shatter the glass and get connected with the real people who have real problems. We need radical Christians who are ready to join the journey of the Kingdom.
Thank you for this reminder, Mary
Posted by jack Drennan | November 7, 2007 2:36 AM
Posted on November 7, 2007 02:36
Dear Mary, I am so proud of you and know that our hearts share in loving the orphans.
Love, Mom Rose
Posted by Mom Rose | November 7, 2007 4:08 AM
Posted on November 7, 2007 04:08