Enough Water

I recently turned forty-two.  Most of my birthdays are marked by yearly traditions: amazing breakfasts in bed, dinner or a motorcycle ride with Greg, and maybe a meal shared with friends.  This birthday, however, few traditions applied since our annual Avalanche Camp was in full swing.

Instead of breakfast in bed, I awoke cramped and sore and crawled over the slumbering bodies of my tent mates and out into the early dawn of a new day.  Avalanche camp, nestled next to a resevoir an hour and half from Ooty, was quiet and serene.  Over thirty-five rescued girls and another 20 staff were scattered in various tents on the hill side.  A few early risers started their hot water bucket baths and sounds of splashing and quiet whispers punctuated the silence. 

I wandered away from camp, down to the cracked dry earth and the shrunken stream of water, all that was left of the lake after 3 months of the seasonal drought.  Its a regular cycle; the lakes fill in January from the 6 months of monsoon rains, and then slowly are depleated by thirsty Ooty, and fill again in June when the rains return. 

Enough water remains for kyaking, enough water to splash in after repelling down the cliff into the pool below, enough water for washing feet.

Here I was, at Avalanche, for the 6th year running, staying with girls, many of whom Freedom Firm had rescued, most whom I would never see again.  A moment in time, a brief window into their world.  A pause in their stories. A place to be a child again.  To forget the horrors of the past.

Avalanche.  The beauty of the mountains surrounding us speak of a good God.  Gut wrenching stories spoken around campfires end in applause as we cheer each other through pain.  And the ultimate culmination of the camp?   A couple of servant men, good men, washing their feet in a ceremony echoing Christ washing the disciples' feet.

That's the image branded in my mind. Girls, stripping off their shoes and socks in a hurry and slipping and sliding on rocks to be the next in line. Waiting as they lifted their feet in expectation.   The urgency of their movement.  Tears streaming down faces, unashamed.   God's Spirit, palapable and near, moving over the pool of water, touching, healing, cleansing.

But I can't stay in that place of intense emotion, where my heart feel split in too.  I can't hold on, don't want to hold on to the one story I will remember.  A girl approached me before the foot washing.
"Didi (sister), I get so angry when we sing and pray to God."

 "Why," I asked.
 I thought I had heard every story under the sun and was immune to shock.  I was wrong.

Her mother was very religious, and when her daughter was eight years old , they travelled to Hindu shrines to worship and pray.  As part of the rituals, priests violated her at every temple.  "The gods have hurt me, didi, the priests hurt me.  Why should I want to worship again?"

Christian pastors wound and maim too.  How do I tell her there is a loving God?  A God who does not take, only gives?  The one God who does not force our worship.  The God of free choice.

Sunayana, our camp leader, and I spoke long and earnestly to the girl.  Her face cleared as we walked toward the pool.  She rushed forward with the others for her feet to be washed by men who represented the sacrificial God.  Something pure and undefiled was given that day.  For once. One moment in time.  By men.  Mere falible humans. Did she catch a glimps of the loving God? Will she be betrayed again?
But who can carry these questions for long?  I cannot stay here.

 Avalanche ended, and I woke up the next morning to an omelett, strawberrys and cream, my own soft bed, Greg and my sweet innocent ones surrounding me, comforting me, lavishing me with thier cards and little gifts and words of love.  My heart wrenches back into place.  Another life comes into focus again, the seesaw balances.  The girl and her story receed.  The moment at the pool of water fades.  I can breath again.

Greg and I headed off that weekend to Bangalore to celebrate my birthday.  I told Greg I wanted a gift that committs me to write.  A desk.  Now its the desk's job to pin me down.  I will have to name her, since I have already personified her.  A little desk, please, to fit into the bay window of the bedroom, where I can look out on the garden, the mountains and write.  A place to remember.  A place to will the mind to look again.

So once in Bangalore, Commercial Market, we started asking for old furniture shops.  I knew the nice shops were expensive, and I am lover of garage sales and deals, so we wound our way through crowded streets into the Muslim section of the market.  A completely different world.  Mosques on every corner, goats the size of Shetland ponies tied to shop corners, sizzling mutton shiskababs on skewers, and the best yogurt lassies (a drink) I have ever tasted.  Rats scuttled everywhere in the bright sunshine, unafraid. 

 a new born Rajasthani kid, not a dog

Junk shops emerged.  Shop after shop of broken plywood furniture, rusty skeletons of beds and metal tables, old filing cupboards and chairs all tossed in high mountains.  I was in heaven.  Somewhere, I was sure, in all of this, was my desk.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Greg was engaged, a good sign.  Both in high humor, streaming with sweat and dust, we started pushing our way through tiny passages in the junk. 

Right in the middle of the first shop, like a jewel among rubble, we spotted a teak wood old-fashioned cupboard, (not a desk).   And the price.  It was cheap.  Like they didn't know its worth.  Back in Ooty it would have cost a bomb.

By the end of the afternoon we were proud owners of a host of "finds." The jewel- like cupboard, an old table, a chair, a mechanical art/drafting table (for Kavi) a teak wood bed (for Abbi ) But no desk.  The ones we found were either too broken, too masculine, or, horrors of horrors had a laminate top. 

Independent of each other, we spied an old sewing machine table.  The ones here in India have a cast iron wheel and pedal, as even today most tailors don't use electric machines.  Coaxing a shop owner to remove the sewing machine, we bought the table.  We will put on a desk top later (when Greg gets back from the latest rescue in Nagpur).

That night we dined on buffalo wings and french fries. For dessert we went to the Hard Rock Cafe which rents space from the Bible Society of India.  We couldn't hear each other at all, the music pulsed through our skin, our stomachs.  Even the waiters had to use sign language.  We grinned like idiots and ate our cheese cake and in my heart I tried to reconcile my life of hunting for second hand furniture in the underbelly of Bangalore, and the luxury of good food and music, and the world of pain glimpsed at Avalanche.  Did all this happen just a day apart?  Really?  Can one person contain it all?

The next day Greg flew to Nagpur and I drove back the eight hours to Ooty, my minivan piled high with furniture, and somehow it reminded me of Grapes of Wrath and the jalopy full of old furniture, and I had high adventures getting home, but that must be saved for another blog.

My own personal gift to myself this year was made possible by two people.  My mother bought the harness, and Laura, our Leg Up volunteer left Ooty at 10 am and returned at 2am with a white and apple green cart.  It is a way to use the ponies in a different capacity, it adds options to our horse therapy, and very small ponies like Herc will be used much more often.  Hercules (the pony) seems to like it as much as I do.


 To see more photos of the horses visit http://www.facebook.com/legupindia


So last but not least on the list of profound and mundane things of my birthday, after two years of searching in the archives of Calcutta for proof of my birth in Calcutta, multiple paper swaps with the Indian government, enormous frustration for my tenacious husband (he is balder now), hiring a lawyer, and finally the invaluable help of Indian friends, I am now a proud OCI.  That stands for "Oversees Citizen of India." 

It means I have a life-time right to be here.  No more visas for me.  It means my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren can choose to live here.  It means the property we bought is safe, since I cannot be denied access to this country.  In a way, it means I belong. 

And so, God surprises me once again.  A sense of rootedness washes over me this 42nd birthday, and I stand in awe of sovereignty, timing and eternity.  I also know I am not bound by fate, but have the gift of free choice and I chose to be here.

 In the midst of all that is my life, the stories of the girls run like a stream, a stream of gravity, sadness and great loss that continue to haunt my dreams, even as I experience the privilege of sharing life with a  few of the girls we rescue.

I am deeply grateful for the punctuations, the pauses, the surprises:  a camp in the woods, just for fun, the pony and cart, hunting desks with my husband (who humors me), Hard rock cafe and my children's hand-made cards of abiding affection,OCI, which all weave together, inseperable, as gifts from a good God as I walk down the center of the stream. As the spring rains have suddenly burst forth filling our parched mountains with lush growth,  I am grateful for enough water.

Mystery at Malstead's Stumpfields

("Stumpfields" is the illustrious name Greg has given our house and land)"

Even if the winds are high today, bending the Wattle trees double and sending chilly fingers through the cracks around the window frames and smoke down the chimney, it is idyllic weather for early February.   Nights and mornings snap cold, but who can complain about the 70 degree afternoons and cloudless blue skies? With flowers blooming in my rock walls and the veggie garden giving us zucchini, lettuce, carrots and the occasional strawberry, I know, compared to my Western friends, living in Western worlds, that this is not winter.

In fact its easy to think at times I am in paradise. The teeming throngs, the heat, the pollution and chaotic noise of Indian city life is just a few hours away down the mountain, but it may as well be a million. There is a certain isolation in these hills. And while not luxurious, the apparent peace certainly can lull me into a sense that everything really is good, ordered and beautiful. The mountains rising before me are pristine. The air here is clear. My mind wants to forget the uglier realities.

Baking Christmas cookies with my children and sister in law and her kids playing Settlers in the living room, joyous shouts ringing with good natured teasing, it felt picture perfect. (see my blog “Christmas is coming,”)Our morning was full of gift-giving and gasps of surprise. Our Christmas dinner (roast pork with stuffing, baked vegetable pie, sweet potatoes and multitudes of other dishes) was sublime. All that good will and good tidings were palatable, tangible. We were warm, well fed, and truly enjoying each other.

Nothing could have prepared us for what awaited us outside our front door. Nothing perhaps except the vaguest sense that perhaps things were too good to be true.

As we all piled out the front door to feed the horses, dogs and cats their Christmas dinner, Rachael screamed first. There, head down on the stone stairs with his body above him was Oscar, our dog of 5 years. The white foam on his lips was the unmistakable sign of poison. Cyanide to be exact. We tore our shocked children (and niece and nephew) inside away from his body.

Greg and I were puzzled. Our house is 300 meters from the road. How could he have found poison this far into the woods? We banished thoughts of a deliberate poisoning from our minds. We weren't ready (especially on Christmas day!) to think that someone could be vindictive, could have done this to us on purpose. Besides, we have no enemies here. (OK if at this point you are thinking how idealist, naive and stupid I am, you are right!)

To say the children were grief-stricken would be an understatement. The howling, mourning and shock that set in on Christmas night took my breath away, and left me no time or thought to grieve at all. The children needed comfort. The wonder and well-being of Christmas was gone, and in its place was a black emptiness. A sinister darkness moved over the sunshine that poured though our windows. It settled in our hearts.

We buried Oscar the next day: a mound of field stones gathered from our land and a rough wooden cross. Ranger, our German Shepherd moved around slowly, forlorn. Christmas presents lay around untouched; food was ignored. At dinner time I let Ranger out to lick a bit of milk out of his bowl. Three minutes later I called him back inside. I heard him bark, run down the steps and as he reached me, I could see he was convulsing, foaming at the lips. He was dying from poison.  Half an hour later he lay still. 

Greg had watched his agony, tried to bring comfort.  I had stayed in the kitchen.  The children knew.  I had to keep them inside, and keep the images from implanting in their minds to come back unbidden in future dreams.

My mind whirled. His bark could have only meant someone was up at the water tower. Someone had thrown him poison over our fence. Someone had thrown poison to Oscar. It was not an accident. Someone had done this, not once, but twice, and on Christmas day and the day after.... . So, now, it seemed, we did have enemies.

But who?

We filed a criminal case, had an autopsy done on Ranger and entertained the police two days after Christmas. They seemed more interested in telling us that we needed to have government permission before owning dogs, so basically it was our fault for owning them in the first place. It was gratifying to see Greg get a little riled up on that point. He did a fair job convincing them that they were here to investigate the deliberate poisoning of two dogs. I doubt they realized that he's had 12 years of professional experience convincing policemen to do their job.

So who done it???

Our own rescued girls in the Aftercare program provided a clue. While out riding the horses during their therapy time, a local village man had told them that he was going to poison our dogs. He claimed that Oscar had killed one of his chickens. The rescued girls thought nothing of it, just an old man complaining and threatening. When the police confronted the man, his grown daughter broke down crying and said her father didn't own any chickens.

Wasn't it Shakespeare that said, "Me thinks thou dost protest too much," ?

Our big guard dogs are gone, and with them, our sense of protection. Greg is building good sturdy gates now and fences to give a semblance of boundaries and the intimation that boundaries should not be trespassed. We are laying an underground fence, so our dogs won't threaten others unduly, and that there will be no excuse to even think of poison.  But who thinks of poison, anyway?

It all shatters the illusion of perfection, bliss, peace. And I am jolted back into the ever present reality that this world is dangerous, and full of people who are cruel, vindictive and who purposely wish evil on us.  It might be easy to become paranoid.

We bought a lovely chubby little chocolate lab the other day. Ada. Then, Kavi's friends brought a “surprise puppy” to us, a little street dog Greg has named Bartholomew (Bart). Ada is a sumo-wrestler and Bart the scrappy little underweight.  We had promised Morgan a lab too... so somehow we have ended up with three!   Evenings in front of the living room fire are full of laughter at their antics. Its almost picture perfect...

They lighten our hearts and draw our minds away from the poison of hate and anger. The only remedy for pain is love. And it is easy to love these three darlings.

Why do it again?  How can we risk it again? How can we stop someone from throwing poison wrapped in chicken over our fence? Why have dogs if they are going to die.  Is God trying to tell us something?  Do the animals we own distract us too much from our ministry?  Our purpose in being in India?  All I have are questions.

But an answer does rise to the forefront as I ponder, a perspective after much loss in the last seven years.  There truly is more beauty than ugliness in this world.  It is everywhere around us, if only we have eyes to see. To give in to fear and sadness is to lose the battle.  Ranger's and Oscar's death is an opportunity to have faith, and to teach our children to keep on trying.  To never give up. 

The idyllic state, nirvana, paradise or heaven on earth is not reality, but neither is darkness and death. It is some mixture of the two, goodness and evil living so closely entwined that sometimes it is hard to separate. But we can choose where we fix our gaze. There is an interesting book I am reading, A Thousand Gifts, by Ann Voskamp.  Gifts in the midst of loss. That's life.

Ada  (left) and Bart

Christmas is coming!

Christmas Greetings from a windy and wintery Ooty!
( I wrote this blog a few days before Christmas, but just now posted it. Better late than never?)

The spattering of rain just drove the kids inside and I can hear them wildly bargaining over Settlers on the livingroom rug. Morgan and Charlie (Chana's brother), are wrestling in between strategic moves of building roads and houses.

The noise levels are deafening, raucous and delighted. Heidi (my sister in-law) presides over everything, with her calm diplomatic British voice, soothing the torrents of competition. In the end, she won victory over all her opponents, and celebrated with a victory war dance.

Rachael and her cousin Chana  are busily experimenting with gingerbread cookies, and “Mom, can you use oil in place of shortening?” And in the midst of all the flurry (who needs a blizzard?) I am writing, with my laptop in the center of everything, absorbing the delicious smells of the baking gingerbread and pumpkin soup bubbling on the stove.

The house is decked out, thanks to the Freedom Firm Christmas party that threw us all into a tailspin of activity, cutting Cypress boughs and trimming the spiral staircase and the fireplace hearth. Games, and presents and a lovely mix of Indian and Western specialties put us all in the mood. Today, after lunch, we will venture forth and look for all those little gifts that are “just right” for each person. Its coming fast, Christmas. And this year, as usual its about family, and the extended family, togetherness, a sense of belonging and yes, tradition.

I was contemplating this morning on the many religions surrounding us here in these hills of Ooty, South India. Christianity, Islam and Hinduism, Buddism. All the faiths infused with a multitude of festivals, celebrations and special holy days. Christ's way was one of love, not judgement. Mercy, not fear. Giving, not taking. Healing, not wounding. Refocusing on the meaning of Christmas allows it to be a fresh, beautiful holiday, not about what we can get, but celebrating the Greatest Giver and Lover of all time.

A merry merry Christmas to all of you. As always we are deeply grateful for the part you play in encouraging our work, our family and our faith.

Blessings,

Mala and Greg Malstead

Firefly Alights at the Malsteads

Ponies dominate the Malstead hobby farm.  Greg teases me that I am a "pony snob, as I have waxed long and eloquent arguments why we should have larger four legged beasts. It just so happens that all our Leg Up rescues to date have been ponies.  I actually bought Shadow, so he is our only horse.  And he is a small horse, just 14 hands.   All the kids are outgrowing the ponies, as our three girls are already as tall as I am.  Well, Abbi is almost as tall as me. 

Ponies are perfect for the disabled riders, being small, they are less intimidating,   They are great for the rescued girls, for the same reasons.  But for horse lovers who really enjoy riding,  horses are best. Rachael, our second daughter, has proven over the years her talent and affinity for horses.

When Leg Up volunteers are scarce its Rachael and Abbi who step up and do the feeding, the mucking and the watering, the training, and the exercising.  Of course I flit and float, filling in the gaps when they are busy at school, but then getting distracted by other things, I constantly move onto more pressing projects and the idea of the hour.  So, I have relied on them, we all have, to do the constant daily chores.  Four legged beasts are no joke.  The work they create is ever- evolving. 

Rachael and I weren't the only ones who longed for something bigger.  Leg Up volunteers expressed the same hope.  "Can't we rescue something bigger?"  Maybe its on the same scale as climbing larger and larger mountains.  We humans always want more challenge.  Life should never be easy, right?

And so, the long awaited day came.  Rachael, Abbi, Pete and Kristin (Leg Up volunteers), our Freedom Firm driver, Susi, and a local Ooty horse agent and I, traveled down to Coimbatore (a city three hours away).  Threading our way through the sprawling city, and out again into the parched countryside, we traveled out to a horse farm. 

Tied to a tree with half a dozen Tamil children hanging around him, stood a cappuccino colored colt.  Already 15 hands high, he was still only 18 months old. Check, we wanted something big.  A pure Marwari (an ancient Indian breed traditionally used for war), his perfectly tipped ears swiveled inward, the tips touching perfectly.  Check, we wanted a Marwari.

"No riding, mam," the owner stated, meaning he was unbroken.  Cross, no way, I don't want something this wild.  Can Rachael really break a horse from scratch?

Rachael was already standing on the log in front of him.  He was snaking his head back and forth at the children around him, ears flat back , teeth snapping.  Cross,  he is vicious.  That quality wasn't on the most wanted list.  We had clearly specified beforehand he had to be gentle. 

The owner untied the lead rope and dragged him by a collar around his neck a few paces from us.  He plunged around bucking and rearing.  We gasped, he was truly a beautiful specimen.  This was no rescue operation.  Unless rescuing him from a potential future of starving and beating and breaking with spiked bits count as rescue.  Check.  We always dreamed of something really gorgeous.  He was far more "horse" than we have ever had in the last 5 years.  He made my Shadow look like a nag.

I looked back at Rachael.  She was very quiet, watching him intently.  Oh no, she is falling for him.  They tied him back to the tree.  Rachael and Abbi persisted in attempting to touch his nose.  Ears pricked forward (finally), and he began exploring their hands with his mouth.  Nibbling them but not biting.  Suddenly the fear died in his eyes and he was all curiosity, nosing, tasting, touching them.  I doubt anyone had interacted that way with him before.  A slight movement of their hands towards his ears, and he would snap forward, ears plastered back, teeth barred.  His eyes blinked spasmodically as he shied away expecting to be hit.

"Mom, I like him.  I really like him."  Oh Rach, I don't know, how can we manage him.  What if he doesn't calm down, what if he hurts someone.  Fears flooded my mind.  Pete and Kristen were as enraptured as Rachael. 

I forced everyone to leave, and we drove an hour away where two paint mares were tied at a factory site.  Just two years old (we checked the teeth) they looked like they were already thirty and had lived lives of hardship and pain.  Abbi joked that they were cows, not horses.   They paled in comparison to the cappuccino colored colt.  Lets go back.

On the way, we negotiated the price with the owner on the phone.  He dropped his asking price by a couple hundred dollars.  We were pleased.  At the same time I felt we needed to do more shopping, needed to be sure.  So, we decided to look at another horse back in Ooty.  But I could tell Rachael's heart was set, and that nothing else would do. 

On the way home she named him Firefly.  Apt, there is a whole lot of fire in this horse.  Back in Ooty, we checked out another 18 month Marwari.  Again, Firefly came out on top, by a long shot.  We made a final decision and called the owner again.    Although we had settled on a price, the owner wiggled and bartered, argued and cajoled, said he had another buyer, etc etc, and in the end we had to pay a bit more, but it wasn't too bad.  We went through several tense days before we reached an agreement.

Pete was the hero, and traveled, with the agent back down to Coimbatore in an open pickup truck to collect Firefly.  He sat in the driving rain all the way back to OotyMarwari, Firefly.

Rachael's quiet joy (because Rachael is quiet) shines out, radiant, assured, confident that she can tame this beast.  A month has gone by.  She is using the Parelli technique of training.  He is dead smart and learns the games easily.  He has stopped attacking all the other ponies, and knows his place in the pecking order now.

He ran away with Shadow the first night after he arrived.  Greg found him in the forest 7 km away from us, abandoned by Shadow, completely lost and bewildered.  Greg said he was just a big baby and stood there waiting to be caught.  He stood, head in Greg's arms, for an hour in the pouring rain while they waited for reinforcements, in the form of Kavi and her friends.

He no longer lunges at us with his ears back and flails at us with his hooves.  Slowly, slowly he is relaxing, realizing we aren't going to hurt him.  He is changing, gentling, trusting.  He has soul-bonded with Rachael, and completely adores her. 

These days are the kid's summer vacations, and Rachael spends hours a day with him.  Brushing, bathing, trying to desensitize him, leading him on walks for succulent grass.  We have many months before training him for riding, so there is lots of time for the relationship to grow and strengthen.  As I watch them, my own teen age years spent with horses flashes before me, and I am thrilled that my daughter can have this joy too.

Our horses and yes, ponies, have another purpose besides our own great delight.  And while there is no guilt at all associated with having them purely for our own pleasure and benefit, they are there for therapy for our rescued girls and for local disabled children as well.  See http://www.legupindia.org/

Our horses, ponies and rescued girls will soon feature in a documentary by Ben Stamper.  Check out this project to be filmed in September! 

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New Growth

In an unprecedented decision, Greg and I travelled for 5 weeks across the United States, sharing the Freedom Firm story.  This entailed leaving our four kids behind in the middle of their school term with good friends of ours.   As we travelled from Georgia to New York and Pennsylvania to Kentucky, we saw winter thaw and spring arrive. Grey trees glimmered with the faintest hint of green, and crocuses and daffodils lifted their heads from the damp earth.

Freedom Firm too is entering a season of new growth.  We needed new partners, new churches and new volunteers.  Everywhere we went we found the issue of sex trafficking was already on people's hearts and minds, and many were eager to hear the first hand accounts. Churches and individuals rallied around us and eagerly sought ways to volunteer and help Freedom Firm.  Spring has arrived for Freedom Firm.

We've come back to India, profoundly encouraged and affirmed. We have a growing network of people with deep expertise dedicated to furthering the work of Freedom Firm. The fight to free girls is a massive one, and it requires thousands of people willing to get involved. We are getting there.

Today I am sitting in my garden, with the children back at school, with a day, finally, to write.

Its summer now in Ooty, with a constant breeze rolling through the mountains and temperatures in the mid-seventies. Our garden, in miraculous leaps and bounds is blossoming in a profusion of colors and scents. Foxgloves, Bachelor buttons, Daisies and Sweet William take the edge off our wilderness and give us a bit of the “English Cottage” look, and suddenly we feel a little civilized. Kavi brought six friends for a sleep over and they played croquette on the lawn. Now that is civilized.

But, lest we get too comfortable, wild bison jumped our stone wall and planted their enormous hooves everywhere in our organic vegetable garden, and, with amazing discretion, ate my entire crop of carrots and peas, and left the garlic, lettuce and cilantro. I guess I should be grateful they left something behind. We woke to the sound of our dogs barking at 2 am and with the help of flood lights spied an enormous bison calmly grazing our lawn just feet from our house. We've had a week of putting in higher fences (made out of branches), hoping to keep them out.

As we arrived back in Ooty, the children started their half-term break. We had a great week of catching up with them after the five weeks of separation. Watching new movies we picked up in the States, eating lots of candy I brought back and taking a couple days by a pool down “on the plains,” was the perfect re-entry to life here. Now, back to work.

My first blog I mentioned how I was grinding to a halt. That I couldn't really “do” anything more for Freedom Firm. I wasn't sure I wanted to. I had no energy left, and hardly the will to stay here any longer. All I really knew was that I needed to rest.

“Rest” to me meant changing my activities, radically. I gardened fanatically, and taught a lot at Hebron school. I ignored most of my old responsibilities. I rode Shadow deep into the forest for hours at a time. Often I sat and read books or journalled in front of a fire in by my bedroom hearth.

Slowly, the changes began.  At first, there was a barely perceptible lifting of my spirits. Then, faint glimmers of joy at small things: making a new recipe in the kitchen, a joke from one of the kids around the dinner table, the stumbling efforts of the kindergarteners I taught at Hebron, the sound of birds in the garden, and bees sipping nectar from our flowers. Perhaps its these small things that make up life. Small moments of beauty that I was rushing by.

Greg and I learned new ways of speaking together, and he took my old job of directing Aftercare of the girls. I had secret smiles of triumph when he came back after a long day on the job and sat staring in silence for several minuites before saying, “ I think I know a little of what you must have felt all these years.”

Most profound is the spiritual change that has rolled over me like sweet and living water, as I have extracted myself from ministry. While I intellectually understood the concept of grace since my childhood, I have never lived it. My life was a constant battleground of grace vs. works.

Here is an excerpt from my diary in October that charts my revolution.

“I am more and more convinced I have only just now understood the truth of Christ in my heart, soul and emotions. ... my life was a struggle to align myself with the confusion of ideas presented in the Bible. Nothing ever seemed clear to me (about the way to Heaven) and so I latched on to something I thought I could do: care for the widow and the oppressed, those in bondage and the broken hearted.

I did my best and gave my all for the dream of being justified, the dream of living out a part of the Scripture (See Isaiah 58, my motto).  My core belief was that no matter what I did, I wasn't good enough. I know now that my efforts cannot save me, rather, they have almost destroyed me. It is only Christ. It is He who justifies.

Trying to reach the unattainable. Always striving, never reaching. . This has broken me. I believe now, that God takes me as I am. I hope God resurrects a new person, born of a new and true paradigm.

So, at age 40, the faith of my fathers has finally become my own faith. My birthday is April 24^th, and I will be celebrating Easter Sunday this year with deep gratitude for His Resurrection and, consequently, my own.  

Malstead Kid's Creative Cookies


  

The end of January 2011. The children are still home on their holiday break and will return to school early Feb. So days are full of keeping them occupied, sometimes productive and always well fed. Of course at this stage, they think up a lot of their own ideas.



 watercolor by Kavi

 Bake Sale

Rachael and Kavi, along with their two good friends, Jack and Emily, did a total of three bake sales in front of Modern Store, (our local friendly grocer in Ooty). Not for a “good” cause. Except for Rachael, who is saving up for a horse.  (She says " any donations are welcome!")  

Eight hours of baking resulted in delicious scones, muffins, chocolate cake, cookies and other treats. Jack did the spreadsheet and figured out how much the ingredients of each item cost, and how much they should charge and finally how much profit they made. The whole endeavor was an entrepreneurial experiment, which they enjoyed immensely.

                                                                                                         
                                                                                   
They met hundreds of people, both local and tourist, Indians and foreigners. Many stayed to chat as they munched their goods. “Hey, what are you white kids doing selling cookies?” one New Zealander wanted to know. Another tourist took a bite of their cheese muffins and threw it away in front of them. Market research. A teacher complained about their high prices. Some came, bought, went away and came back for more. Over all? A success. They actually made money, and had a blast doing it.

It was good to see the kids emerge from the sanctity and shelter of Hebron school, and mix and mingle with the crowds of people streaming toward the botanical gardens. The community holds so much variety and color. Its easy to live segregated in Hebron school, safe and a little bored. But venturing out into town and offering something for sale, actually makes them a part of the local community, not just a “white kid visiting.”

Greg and I were musing about the beauty of the small town. We don't know. Maybe our kids could do the same experiment in front of Kroger in Peachtree City, Atlanta. I doubt it. And yet here, our local grocery store welcomed the kids, and even took a bit of pride in the bake stand outside their front door. We could just let them run with their idea and encourage their creativity and hard work. It it good to feel at home.

Kavi's Art

Last term in school Kavi produced some good water colors. I'll be sending the pictures to a company to get them made into greeting cards.



more watercolor



a mixed media, ink, bleach, water color and glue





We also painted her room together.    Blue ragged over white. It looks like clouds on a summer day. Kavi, our artist.

Morgan's Power Points

Morgan is discovering technology a rapid rate right now. Strolling around the house in a newly acquired mohawk (compliments of his dad), with earphones hooked up to his PSP, he went through a craze of making power points on every person in the family.                                                   

Where is Abbi these days?

Usually, she is helping me in the kitchen or reading books in her bedroom. She and Rachael do a lot of riding.  Naturally neat and tidy, she helps to organize and label my storage and cupboards, which is a huge improvement in my somewhat relaxed housekeeping.

Drama Queens

I haven't written for a while, but even while "resting," life seems very full.  A flurry of guests, a badly sprained ankle, a little work on launching our Freedom Firm jewlery business, (Ruhamah),  and most of all the mad dash of Drama Week at Hebron at the end of last term keeps us all moving along at a steady clip.  

Every Year at Hebron School, standards (grades) 7, 9, 11 and 13 all stage plays during Drama Week. Its a big event, and the children spend the full six weeks of the first half term in a whirlwind of preparation, practice, props and late nights. Each play is performed twice in October, once for the students, and once for the parents. This year, all three of our girls were in the plays. Kavi, in standard 11, Rachael in standard. 9 and Abbi in standard 7.

Kavi played the role of Annie Besant in The Match Girls. An excellent play, it follows the historical account of 18^th century working conditions in a match factory in Industrial England. Annie Besant, a human rights activist, helps impoverished factory women to win a court case for better wages and conditions in the factory. While teachers and parents felt the play was about human rights, Kavi and her classmates describe the play as, " more about relationships and a close glimpse of the tragic lives of people in the factory." I giggled when Kavi marched around the stage flaunting Freedom Firm brochures. She played the character with all the flair, passion and compassion of the real Annie Besant. The play was highly acclaimed in the Hebron Awards ceremony, and Kavi received a "special mention.” One of Kavi's great delights is drama, and she was in her element.

Rachael was cast as “James” for James and the Giant Peach. With over 200 lines, Rachael remembered all of her lines, and all her classmate's too. I saw her mouthing lines for friends when they got stage fright.  Although she made an unusually pretty boy, she was apparently convincing in her role. With her long hair all tucked up into a newspaper boy's hat, and boyish clothes, she fooled a watching parent who wondered who the “new boy” was. The play was hilarious, enhanced by the giant caterpillar and the giant grasshopper, two notoriously humorous boys in the class. Rachael's performance received an “highly commended.”

Abbi's class performed Annie. Abbi was one of the orphan girls. She was initially very disappointed with the small part she landed. “Seven lines, mom,” she wailed. “Well,” I said, “you better make your seven lines count.” And boy did she ever. She sang, danced and shouted her lines across the stage with all the confidence in the world. A teacher at Hebron (who directed Kavi's play) thought Abbi was the third best actress in the play. She received a "director's commendation," during the awards. My guess is, she'll get a part with more lines when she gets to Standard 9!

Abbi's class won the "Best Play" award for Hebron, and was chosen to compete against several other schools in Ooty.  I heard the plays presented were all fantastic, and the age ranged all the way up to standard 12.  Unbelievably, Hebron won!  We were all surprised that such a young and inexperienced class could win against the older classes.  Abbi's best friend, Mikaela Parks won "Best Actress."  Abbi couldn't be more thrilled.  They make a great pair, and of course they apply their acting ability to many spheres of life, keeping their teachers and parents amused, delighted, and most definitely on the edge of their seats.

Greg and I love the dramas. There is nothing like the thrill of watching your child rise to the challenge of the stage, work hard at the practice and then enjoy every moment of acting. You see new dimensions in their personality that you never see revealed by any other facet of school life.   Its fascinating to watch year after year their growth in conveying  the emotions of their character, eliciting emotion in the audience,  becoming more subtle and learning to balance overly dramatic tendencies.  Then there is the close camaraderie with their fellow players, the team work and more than anything the joy and excitement of performance. Its all a huge rush, and as parents, we get to watch and marvel at their unadulterated FUN.

I can't remember school being fun. So Greg and I shake our heads in wonder and disbelief when we see our kids reveling in these events. How good is God, to give them (and us) such pure delight?