Number 49.

It's hard to believe, as I sit here on a Thursday morning, hands wrapped around a hot mug of green tea, discussing the state of the church with Adam, that only days ago I was in the sultry heat of Calcutta, India. It's hard to believe that as I eat my slightly burned toast, that I am only heartbeats removed from Kalighat, a place that is a house for the dying, a house that I began to feel at home.

I was warned over and over that the only shock worst then going to Calcutta, and volunteering at Kali, would be the one that I received once I returned home. However, I am not sure if it's fair to define my state, post India, as one of "shock". I prefer to label it as "Sober". I have found many of the intense emotions that I experienced during my stay there have subsided. They have evaporated and left a film behind, one of startling realism.

It is hard to describe to someone what such a place, or time, can mean to you. How it can change your perspective. How it can force you to understand the simple things. The things that God has laid out right in front of you. The ones he begs you to embrace. I don't think it would be fair for me, to you or to myself, to try and make sense of these things in a logical, or theological statement. There isn't a way, that I can conceive or imagine that would allow me to accurately portray that.

The only thing I can do, is tell stories. But then again, story telling is fairly biblical, isn't it.

I am not going to try and teach through any of these stories, I just want to share with you the kind of things that we did in Kalighat. And maybe, through some stretch of the imagination, with some sort of luck, you could see why I feel the way I do about the place, and the people. Or maybe not, but I'll leave that to you.

One of the first things we saw upon our arrival at Kali was the carting out of a dead body. For me it was stunning. It was the first time I had seen one. I suddenly realized where I actually was.

A regular day there was quite straightforward. You arrived around 8 am and handed out the food, that had been previously lain by the sisters, to the inmates (that's what they call the patients). We would then clean their dishes, wash their clothes and lay them to dry on the roof. Once finished we would join the sisters in the men's ward and administer medicine and water to everyone. When this was finished it was about 9 30. That left us an hour to serve the inmates however they needed. We would wash them, help them go to the toilet, help bandage their wounds, massage them, and just talk with them. At 10 30 we would all head up and have lunch on the roof. By 11 we would serve the inmates their lunch, helping feed those who could not feed themselves. Do the dishes, say our good-byes and head off at noon.

It doesn't sound too difficult, and really it's not, once you are over the shock of some of the things that go down. You also have to be prepared to do things that will almost certainly make you throw up.

It took me a week to really begin to be able to fully serve the inmates. Everything was such a shock it was tough. Rather than finding myself present in a conversation with an inmate, I would be thinking about how gross the last thing I just did was, or dreading what I would have to do next. Once I got over these things, the time there became beautiful. I kept my head in the moment, and witnessed some amazing thing, that I would have otherwise probably missed.

However, on my second final day I once again found myself in a similar state. And rightfully so. There had been quite a few deaths on the male side that week and I had seen bodies being carried out on the regular. But to my surprise one of the regular guys at Kalighat came up to and asked me to help him carry out a body. I without much hesitation agreed. Placed on a stretcher we carried him out to the truck which would take him to crematory. I started to head back inside, when the same man yelled at me in his heavy Bengali accent that I wasn't done yet. And he told me to get in the truck. I was to sit in the back and hold onto the body so that it would not move around during the ride. I grabbed his ankle and we went. Once we arrived at the crematory we carried him inside and placed him in front of a large oven. The man uncovered some of his cloth so that we could see his face. He was one of the patients that I had cared for on several occasions. It was one of the strangest feelings. Then the man left me alone there to sit with the body in front on the oven. I spent most of that time in prayer, mostly for myself. He returned 20 minutes later with another man and a large bamboo stretcher. We moved the body onto the bamboo and the two men opened the over. I was told to push. I had to be asked twice. It was almost like I didn't understand, but I did. So I bent over and pushed the body into the flames. I admit, I felt ill. It was one of the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

There was not much that I took from that situation. I couldn't find much silver lining. It was only saddening. There were other bodies there with large families who sat and said their goodbyes. And then there was the man from Mother Teresa's home, who had no one. Just a white, foreigner, who didn't even know his name. It broke my heart, that I had to be the one that payed him his final respects. It broke my heart even more that there will be so many more like him.

One of those men, was number 49. Each inmate was assigned a number as it aided in administering meds and also the fact that we didn't know the names of many of them. Number 49 held a special place in my heart. I tried my best to be impartial and love all the inmates the same, but there is so many, and I guess it's in human nature to want to be close to someone. I never found out what this man suffered from, but I assumed it was stomach cancer or something like that. He could not keep food down. He would eat breakfast, or lunch and then puke it up 20 minutes later. Every time. He was so skinny at first it was painful for me to look at him. He was so weak that he could not even speak, I never heard a word come from his mouth. But somewhere we connected. Everyday, I would keep an eye out for him, because he was often left for up to a half hour to lay in his own vomit or piss. I would shower him and and dress him in fresh clothing, clean his bead and lay him back down.
I spent a lot of time with that man. I would sit with him for as long as I could and talk to him about anything. I doubt he understood anything I said, but he sat and he listened. I could tell by the way his eyes connected to mine he was happy to listen. He would almost never respond though, it was too much effort for him to even nod his head. I would often sit and massage his back or just rub his head. I loved the guy,
On my last day, I spent almost an hour with him after I had cleaned him (he had peed the bed). We sat. And I talked. He listened. And Looked at my eyes. As usual, there was no response. And with only minutes left before I would leave Kali for the last time, I asked him if I could pray for him. He nodded for the first time. It almost brought tears to my eyes.
Once I had prayed for him, I said my good byes. I had already explained to him that I was leaving. I hugged him and stood up to leave. As I left I overheard the doctor say that he would live no more than 2 days. It broke my heart to leave. Number 49 gave me that glimpse of God that I spoke about in my last entry. He has left footprints on my life. And he never spoke a word.

There are hundred of other stories I could tell you about Calcutta. Everyday had many.

But now, I head to Romania. I leave in a couple hours. So It's time to move forward.

Please pray for the team that has already headed there. I really believe beautiful things are going to happen. Because they happen everywhere, we just need to look for them.