Adventcha

Ad-VEN-cha: a quest involving a degree of risk with commensurate anxiety, often into unfamiliar environments where the outcome is uncertain. (Wickedpedia)

How I got started on this “advencha” relates to a commitment I made last year to return to New Theological College to teach Christian Ethics. “Been there, done that,” says I. So this one shouldn’t be a biggie.

Bzzzz! Wrong!

Just because Jim Herrick and Zach have ferried me to Logan International numerous times, just because I have used e-tickets before, just because I can sit for hours in those narrow seats, I am not immune from the vagaries of international mobility.

Just because I know exactly how much of a belt buckle I can wear through the scanner without prompting that dreaded “here-comes-the-wand” beep, just because I can get in a three mile walk in the concourse holding pen, just because I can make it to the European terminal without having to visit the onboard water closet, I am not a bit unnerved when I am told I’ll be on standby for an earlier flight to Newark that is scheduled to leave later than the later flight I signed up for, but that, as an international traveler I will have priority and they will keep a keen eye for transferring my checked bag. Somehow all these extra assurances evaporate whatever assurance I have.

I’ve done the non-stop Newark to Delhi once before in these aluminum tubes with sticks on each side, sucking up fuel in two engines definitely on steroids. This time it’s not so bad as I catch more and longer catnaps, able to tune out the cranky baby and the guy in 36B who coughs when all is still like a barking banshee.

Delhi – on time, no less, at 8:40 p.m. Through customs by 9:10– yes! Next stop – baggage carousel. One bag is mine,to which I had tied orange flagging tape to make it leap to the eye amid all its black cousins. I should meet my contact before ten.

Wait – until the last new bags come onto the carousel.

Wait - until they have gone around several laps.

Notice people grouping at one end. Ah! Bags that the carousel boys rescued from the endless karma cycle for bad bags and set out on the floor. No orange flagging visible anywhere.

Notice people at a counter, waving hands at clerks and filling out papers. “What’s this queue for?” I ask a young woman. “Our bags didn’t come with us! Here—fill out the form. They’ll get them to us later.” Continental Airlines may have mastered the non-stop to India, but the baggage seems to have a mind of its own.

I can check off the color and type of bag mine matches. I can describe what’s in the bag. "Address for bag to be delivered to." Dehradun—a well-known city of some hundreds of thousands. I have nothing written in my trusty date book as to the street and number of the college. I know it begins with Sa—and is a long name. I try to get the mental photo from my mental files, but the image is indistinct. I just put down New Theological College. Everyone in Dehradun should know where that is, right? The young man reviews everything. Then says to get it stamped at the kiosk over there—which looks a football field away, given the size-appearance of the officials. I make the hike. Get the rubber stamp (literally) and come back to hand it in. They give me a number to call if I have questions. Somehow this doesn’t smell so good. I head out, hoping my contact hasn’t decided I missed the flight and gone home to wife and kids. I don’t have his cell number!!! He is a former student—John Varghese. There are surely at least 3 million John Vargheses in Delhi alone. “Please God, I need help and I need it now….”

I head through the last checkpoint. Scores of signs with names scrawled on them greet me. No time to scan each one. No sign of John. I decide to go back and look at the faces holding the signs one by one when a hand grabs my arm. Being the only tall white guy in the arena pays off for once—it’s John. (Thank you, Jesus!) I explain the delay. He suggests we call the number I was given. My cell phone is out of juice, so he does the honors. Good, I am too tired to decipher Indian English anyway. He gets through! He gives them the street address of the college. I can relax. My clothes and course notes will come through intact I pray.

John and Martin Daniels (the driver) and I chat as we squeeze through the late evening Delhi traffic, breathing smog from a thousand curbside trash fires. John now has a month old son—his first-born. Martin has two young boys. I hope I’ll see them in the morning....

No way. We are not staying at the NTC Delhi guest house this time. No one does any more. Why? The Hindu neighbors don’t like these Christians bringing in foreigners all hours of the day and night—it’s a residential block of apartments. The front room office has been moved to the back bedroom so it cannot be seen when the front door opens. No sense waving the flag in front of these bulls of Bashan. Bad things happen in Delhi every day. Veiled threats have been expressed!

Here’s the YWCA. Basic one-bed hostel rooms. But super clean and very secure. I’ll gladly take it. I arrange for a wakeup call at 5:30 and for a boxed breakfast included in the fee - about $10. (All this is arranged by the NTC crew here – I need only send a check to Uncle George—if I wish—at the end of my trip!)

I wake at 3 a.m. to the sound of a cantor. I look out the window. Next door is the dome of a Sikh shrine, spacious, showy, and well lit. He has a beautiful voice I note despite my heavy eyelids.

I decide it would be prudent to open the day with an Appeal to Heaven. I need God to speak to me.

Now I don’t usually believe in the “close your eyes and see where your Bible opens” method of spiritual guidance. But, what the—oops! not the phrase I want—I riffle the pages of my deck-o-cards-size New Testament. Page 56 comes forth with the opening sentence as follows. “It will be like a man who was about to go on a trip….” Wow! This could be for me!

Jesus is giving his parable of the talents. You recall how the Fortune 500 guy gave money to three of his men to invest in the market while he was away. One more than doubled the money. Another saw his profits go tenfold. While one poor loser hid it under his mattress for fear of losing everything. (Must have been a day-trader in penny stocks.) So this is a blessing to me—I’m investing time on a long trip for the Master. Or is it? It’s all risky. Which guy will I end up being in this story? That’s the trouble with parables—the Rabbi has to explain everything or you can go terribly wrong. O well. I’m an optimist, I’ll expect that the worst is behind me. I pray the luggage comes through even though I am about to board a train that will take me six hours farther from Indira Ghandi International Airport where the luggage will hopefully arrive.

End of the line—Dehra Dun. Sweet. Like a home away for me. And here comes Adi to escort me from the train to the college mini-van. “Where’s your bags?” “Didn’t make it.” His nod says this happens from time to time. "You are not the first nor the last."

On the five mile ride (dodging cows and dogs that belong to no one) to the college we stop at a “Corner Store.” Adi gets me a razor to get me by. I can use bar soap to shave with for a day or two. I have one change of underwear, so I can wash something by hand every day and dry it on the line. I’m good.

Through the college gate. Up the drive to the guest house. There’s my private room and bath. The previous occupant seems to have gone to another continent with the key, but that’s a blip I can ignore. Now I can relax at last.

Bzzz! Wrong!

My date book—my brain—is not in my back pocket where I have worn it (or one like it) for over 40 years. I search the ten items in the carry-on three times. It’s not there each time.

“Adi! I must have left my datebook on the train! Can we retrieve it?” It has my phone numbers, my appointments, and lots of data essential to me if “something happens.”

Everyone agrees. It is HOPELESS. The train boys will quickly sweep everything into dustbins to ready the train for its soon return to Delhi. My brains are in a black hole of trash headed for the crematorium.

“It will be like a man who was…on a journey….”

So this is how the parable ends for me? “Lord, if it be possible….”

But realistically, I resign myself to the reality. I have lost an extension of my intellect, a wing of my inner library. Something is different this fifth trip to minister in India.

A colleague listens to my saga. “It may be that the Enemy is not happy you are here,” he suggests. “There have been others suffering setbacks recently, too.” (Job's comforter?)

“Good!” says I. “Let him be unhappy—I’m glad. Our God works all things for good because we are called by and for His purposes!”

Our God reigns!

Now, if only I can get some sleep….