may god catch you

“You do one thing. You pray to the God that created you,” the Superior commands with resolution. She means to solidify my allegiance to Jesus, but instead opens up a new understanding of faith. This simple statement eliminates the ornaments of religion and identifies the heart of it: cultivating gratitude and expressing it; communicating our intentions for ourselves and others, praying. It doesn’t matter to whom, by what we call our God (‘a rose by any other name...’). Only that we pray. For ourselves. For each other. For our world.
Surrounded by spirituality I am. A boy begging in the market pulls his rosary from inside his shirt as he pleads with us. I can’t help but wonder if his shirt hides other chains with Hindu and Muslim symbols. Monkeys fill the temple’s trees, where they are fed fresh coconut and worshiped on bent knees. Snakes are feared and revered as Gods, spoken of in hushed voices, as if they may hear, and their presence as an omen is more powerful than the poison they carry. Every action is accompanied by prayer.
I’m coming to understand the scripture, how these disparate beliefs are connected. Faith is best expressed in metaphors. With the consumption of his body, Jesus tells the world that God and all of His creation is in every bite, every thing, every one. In this food I clearly see the universe sustaining my existence. When he cautions disciples that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man into heaven, he is explaining the cause of suffering: attachment. He is Buddha celebrating his absent cows. If we see heaven as here on Earth, as joy, it becomes apparent just how difficult it is for those always and forever desiring and acquiring to see the beautiful present before them.
The definition was written in black and white, chalk on the board: Shadow is darkness caused by form blocking light. Like pools of shadows the slums grow beside wealthy houses. Born in the construction of vast cities, the puddles spread to shelter builders and their families, relatives, and finally strangers. Shadow can only exist because of the source that created it. Such is poverty. People know they are poor only when they see the wealth of others. I ask an orphan, what is suffering? “Winter,” she replies. “Cold. Hungry.” It is desire unfulfilled. A teacher, a slum-dweller, tells me: “everyday of life I’m so happy. God never let us be less of anything. Food, let it be. Clothes, let it be. House is small but mine. Faith in God growing.” But she is one of the lucky ones, who understands. There are no slums here, in the village. "What is slum?" one girl asks. Everyone is equal. Some houses are bigger, some clothes are nicer. But everyone is connected, their blood and water and waste. It all flows to the same place.
Until I arrive. I am different, and it is impossible to hide this: my clothes, my shoes, my food, my tea, my music, my everything is strange. And they want it. They ask to see a dollar. An American dollar. I show them, and they try to grab it. I pass out stickers, and they sneak back in line for more. Everything I have and use and do becomes an object of desire, and I can’t stop it. I sit down to tutor the “bridge” girls who have just come here and speak little English. One begins to pet my arm; another rubs my feet. No, no, chalu, enough. But it makes them so happy. She kisses my toes and giggles. Then they gather, like always. Conversation turns into a swarm of pushing and pulsing starched bodies, and the children fight to shake my hand and say good morning. And now they fight to kiss my feet. Two begin to cry, and I hold one in each arm and bring their hands together and “say sorry.” But somehow, I feel guilty. For wanting to leave so soon, even as they beg me, “you will be here now only, Yemma.” They call me beautiful, so nice, and I see glory in their eyes. They worship me after only a week, and I don’t deserve it. I am tired and weak, and not that good. I fall asleep in church and hide in my room and take an extra share of my favorite tiffin. One girl proposes to me, and I tell her I’ll take her away (they all want me to take them away, to America, in helicopter) and buy her castles made of chocolate, like my mother promised me as a child, and now she calls me her darling. An old man in church bows long and low and brings my hand to his forehead. His eyes, dark and foggy with the film of memories, stare into mine with earnest clarity, blue thought, and something else: a deep and noble gratitude I’ve never seen face me. I’ve done nothing for him, only attend mass at his parish, but I feel those eyes hold my own, and I try to copy the movements of his blessing and the intention within, and I know that I want to earn this, to be capable of doing anything for him.
We have an infinite number of choices in life, but they are all deviations of one: free will is the ability to decide how we spend our time. All animals have free will, and every movement we make is the actualization of it—how to be conscious for this, this present moment, where and with whom. And why, that is God.