5:40 AM local time.  On a bus in Coimbatore, on our way to a tribal pastors conference.  The drive is 4-5 hours to go 60 miles into the jungle, so I have time to catch up on yesterday’s happenings. 
 
We started the day yesterday (Sunday the 22nd) in Chennai.  The crusade had been the night before, and I stayed up late writing the blog.  Our plan for Sunday was to attend the church that had sponsored the crusade the night before, located across the alley from the children’s home.
 
After 4 or 5 hours sleep, I arose, made coffee (of course) and went to the beach for my quiet time.  I sat on the beach near the ruins of a Hindu temple set on a rocky point.  Indians strolled past along the shore in the gathering light, on their way to work.  Fisherman in painted wooden boats were already plying the waters 600 yards from shore, silhouetted against the dawn. 
 
I read Psalm 55, with particular focus on v. 22:

Cast your burden upon the Lord, and He will sustain you.  He will never permit the righteous to be moved.
 
He has promised to carry our load, so that we can work for His kingdom purposes.  Things that once seemed impossible become possible in Him.  I am reminded of the terse but powerful description I once read of the stages of God’s work in prayer:  1) impossible; 2) improbable; 3) done.  Again and again He renews our strength, whether we are traveling at an improbable pace across India, or getting up to go to work in Fort Collins.  He is life, our very breath itself.  “In Him we live and move and have our being.” Acts 17:28.
 
We piled onto our van to retrace our steps back to the church.  It was a glorious, sunny Sunday morning, the kind of morning that brings back memories of Sunday mornings past—the clearness of the morning air, the sunshine, the anticipation of seeing friends and worshipping the Lord.  I thought of my family and friends, and longed to be with them again.  It was not a sadness, more just a deep appreciation for Sundays and everything they mean in our local body.  I want to remember the feeling and never again take for granted the time we spend together. 
 
The congregation was already assembled when we arrived.   We walked through the yard where the crusade had been held the night before, took off our shoes (no shoes allowed in church) and entered a small concrete building.  The building was clean and attractive with colorful cloth; a sparkly red Christmas bell was tied to the bars of the window near where I sat.  I admit that during the service I was occasionally looking out the window, breathing in the cool air and enjoying the Sunday morning feel of bright sunlight filtering through the jungle trees. 
 
The congregation sat on the floor, women on one side, dressed in their Sunday saris with scarves on their head, men on the other.  Small children sat with the women, remarkably quiet and attentive. At the front, a keyboard player, two black loudspeakers, and the pastor we had met the night before behind the podium. 
 
Out of respect, they had arranged blue plastic chairs for us in the back of the building.  We were the only ones sitting in chairs,  I felt a little self-conscious and wished I could sit on the floor, but appreciated the gesture and I know some of the team cannot sit on the floor very easily, so it was just as well. 
 
We were a bit late, though this does not seem to be a big deal in India.  The Indians talk about “IST” – “Indian Stretchable time.”  I am not sure if this is an official designation, like our “daylight savings time,” or a joke (just kidding, it is a joke).   When Indians agree to be somewhere or start something, the starting time is really more of an approximation, and it is ok to arrive late or early.  There are limits, though.  I am told that if you do not arrive within 3 hours of the designated start time, you are considered a ‘no show.’  At first, this IST concept was hard for me as a westerner, but I am getting in the groove- things are kind of soft and flexible here, which is groovy with me. 
 
One of the pastors on our team approached the podium and gave an outstanding sermon on freedom from fear – “This year, no fear.”  Fear is an issue for all of us, but believers here have a lot to be afraid of—the struggles of daily survival in third world conditions, rejection by society, friends and family, persecution (even unto death), and all of the spiritual fears arising from life in a society that worships idols and is firmly in the grasp of the enemy. 
 
Our pastor gave a passionate and encouraging sermon on how God’s perfect love casts out fear, and lead the congregation through the steps of repenting of the fear as sin, rebuking it in the name of Christ, and receiving God’s perfect love that casts out all fear.  I recalled my morning devotions—“cast your burdens upon the Lord”—and realized that it was in line with his message.     
 
The congregation was very responsive, hungry for God’s word, often rising to their knees, clapping, and praising God.  At the climax of  the sermon, during prayer, the image that sticks in my mind is the entire congregation hands in the air, praying our loud in a rising crescendo of prayer and praise, with waves in response to the pastors’ rebuking of various fears—of ancestral spirits, of sickness, of death, persecution.  I have never seen a congregation so eager to participate and to receive God’s grace. 
 
After an hour of down time at the hotel (I went for a run and swim on the beach), we set off for the airport again and flew to Coimbatore, India, which is in the vicinity of the third children’s home.  Though still distinctly Indian, the cities seem to be getting more modern as we make our trek.  We checked into the hotel, convinced a reluctant hotel staff to open the restaurant so we could get dinner, and then loaded into the van to visit the childrens’ home.
 
This home was much like the others—dark alleys, a sudden stop and a doorway framed with light.  Smiling kids lined up to meet us, extended hands, and the traditional Christian greeting, “praise the Lord.”  Our Indian guide reports that this greeting developed several years ago when Christians were disappearing at an alarming rate.  Its meaning is essentially, “praise the Lord, you are still alive.”  Now, everyone in the organization from the director to children in the homes greet each other in this way.
 
It was late—after 9:00, and the kids had been kept up to greet us.  We were all ushered into brightly painted rooms with a tile floor (the homes are all finished in a similar fashion).  The sleepy eyed kids, dressed in their pajamas (three of the little ones had matching blue outfits with “Little My” of Moomintroll fame on the front) lined up for photos. 
 
The kids, all boys at this home, range in age from 4 to 11.  All have been rescued from slave markets.   These particular children had been rescued prior to abuse, praise be to God.  One young man had been very ill, near death, and the director said that a great deal of medical care had been expended to nurse him back to health.  He is recovered, one of  the smiling faces now posing with our team.    
 
Flashing cameras.  A prayer over the kids and the home’s director.  Then, after a few precious moments of visiting, we were encouraged to return to the van, presumably because our presence could attract unwanted attention to the home that could be detrimental to the children.  

As, we returned to the hotel through the crowded streets, several of the team fell sound asleep in the van and had to be awakened to go up their rooms.  We set our alarms for 3:00 am – tomorrow, a tribal pastors’ conference, 5 hours into the mountains.