A Theological College Senior Picnic

Remember the Sunday School picnics of yesteryear? How about the freshman college outing? Or, if you graduated Wheaton College (as Ellie and I and our three bairns did) the Senior Sneak?

Well, please do come with me for the annual senior-faculty picnic in beautiful North India.

It’s 8:30 a.m. and we are streaming through the Iron Gate by the guardhouse of New Theological College, heading toward three buses waiting on the paved apron at the edge of the road.

(BTW this college is named, not for anything “new,” but for its original benefactor—Luther W. New, Jr., who made an unexpected fortune when minerals were discovered on his land in South Carolina. This wealth changed his humble lifestyle not one whit, so that his widow, Janie Fountain New, driving their old Chevy to the day she died, gave maybe a million to get this place off the ground. She was a down-home southern lady who came for the original dedication ceremonies here, featuring World Vision’s founder, Dr. Ted Engstrom, Uncle George, et aliis. When brought to the mic during the proceedings the officiant made the mistake of asking her, spontaneously, how she felt about the marvelous occasion. She replied, to the astonishment of all attending, that she was as happy as a mosquito at a nudist colony! I know this account is reliable for it came to me from the mouth of Dr. Timothy Tennent of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary.)

Sorry for the digression!

Back to the bus.

Here come the men students, in casual clothes for the most part—even a few baseball caps. And here are the women students in their ubiquitous saris—same as they wear for church, for class, for shopping, for working in the gardens, for sleep for all I know. Each seems to have just one outfit as far as my two weeks observation goes.

The day is beautiful, though boring this time of year. The sun comes over the mountains into a cloudless sky every single day, runs its arcing course through the heavens, past a few wisps of cloud, until the going down of the same as a red ball sinking through the distant haze. No wind, no storms, no rain, no nuttin. Just a benign 80 degrees every day. Life’s tough.

I am invited to ride with head of the college, Simon Samuel, his wife Mercy, their two small children and a domestic. It’s a mini-mini van about the size of the cargo end of my Expedition, with the two women and two kids in the one back seat, Simon driving, and I in the shotgun seat (which is on the left side of the vehicle here in left-driving India.)

Skirting the north edge of the city of Dehra Dun, trees soon surround us—not dense as they are in New England, but spaced some thirty feet apart with grasses between. The kids squeal, “Monkey, monkey!” They are all aglow to see these cousins of Darwin—macaques. To me they are nasty little creatures. Somehow I have never really liked monkeys. Don’t trust ‘em, I guess. They have a bad reputation. You see, one will jump out in front of you, startling you into a second’s hesitation. Then his compatriots will snatch your stuff in a twinkling of an eye. Simon relates how some did this to a few of the girls one year. The troop moved off a few yards and the head monk reached into the shopping bags and started tossing snacks to all his henchmen!

They are all over the roadside, the little beggars. Big ones are the size of a cocker spaniel. Small fry cling to Mom’s back, just inches from the roadway. Simon tells me that Hindus leave food along the road for them.

Now we go past a checkpoint where our bus friends are paying the tariff for all. We park in the shade of the trees and walk through the cow-discouraging turnstile (which is bent and no longer turns so you had better not be fat unless you are tall enough to just let your legs go through the gate.

A beautiful rushing river runs through sluiceways with terraced edges so bathers can walk down into the waist-deep waters. I look around for the picnic tables and benches. Oops! This is India. Mats are unrolled and spread on the dried up grass. I will be on my butt all day. Along with everyone else.

First it’s game time. Two lines of guys and girls. The task is for each serially to run to the post where a faculty person stands and tell him the next book in the Bible, then run back and tag the next person. I am amazed that this is a great treat and feat for these seniors, who horse around and cheer and jump at each advantage their team makes.

Soon the guys decide to swim. They must have a change with them, for they go in in trousers and T-shirts. Balls appear adding to the fun of keep-away. Some are not going. It’s going to get ugly, I know it. Bodies are snatched, stripped of glasses and wallets, and tossed into the rushing waters. A few of the younger faculty fall victim. (Simon tells me later that another rule will go into the books for picnics—no faculty hazing!)

Meanwhile I am lounging on the hard ground getting better acquainted with Mrs. Principal and one of my students who has brought his wife and baby boy along. She is from Milwaukee, with Irish-fair freckled skin. Her husband, John Timothy, used to be a gang member in an Indian city whose name escapes me. She looks 15 to me. I think that was about how Jesus’ mother looked – without the freckles, I mean. I ask how her mother handles the first grandson being 9000 miles away. Does she shop and send stuff every once in a while. “No—every week we get a package of clothes or toys!”

I have a long conversation with John Timothy. I’ll relate the tale in a later blog.

At noon lunch is ready. We walk toward the natural section of the river, where a propane heater has been boiling river water. (It really is a fast-flowing clean-looking river some 20 feet wide and maybe a foot deep. Simon has taken his son upstream a bit to wash him off. There he met some cowherds. O great, I think! Cows upstream! They warn him not to proceed as there are elephants further upstream. O really, really great! Elephants upstream!

People queue up with a plate to be filled with rice, curry sauce, some yogurt and chip-style chapattis. I’m so glad Simon suggested earlier I bring some stuff to eat and they would provide some tangerines and an apple for me. I have my bottled water from the guesthouse filter system.

Watch it! Some monkeys are in the trees! Guys throw sticks at them. Even a tennis ball. This keeps them from any lightening quick raids on our lunches.

Now it’s time to go back to the main field for a “time of reflection” on times at NTC. My old bones are glad to be vertical for a while—and in more shade. (Yes dear, I did put on sun block as Dr. Goldberg directed me.)

This time is to last an hour or so. I find a banyan tree with a large exposed steroid pumping root that I can squat on. It’s like sitting on an iron rail. So when the testimonies start I go over to the friendly mat again.

Simon is on his feet. “What was your time like at NTC? Any good changes in your life? Any complaints you may have that we can learn from?”

Silence. Repeat the welcome to reflect and share.

Silence.

Finally one guy gives a humorous account of his first year and how green he was and how some took him under his wing. All in Hindi. So I get only a fragment whispered into my English ear. Four other men follow, two in English. The Principal next gives a long congratulations, including an apologetic for “decisions we have to take as faculty.” The tone is one of mutual respect. No women stand to speak. But that is the culture mostly. Actually they are bold at heart. These women will get into homes in remote villages where a man could not find a welcome. They will have fruitful ministries.

Now it’s time for a half-hour of games—badminton (no courts or nets here) and cricket-with-no-wicket. Mostly folks stand around talking. Then a plastic cup of tea.

I am asked to close in prayer. The buses move out.

As we pile in the car Simon spies a large black-headed monkey. He explains that this bigger monkey species leaves people alone yet terrorizes the macaques. The government is training them to hang around the parks to drive the macaques away.

They have a ways to go!

Hanging about talking all day. Kinda nice. But next day my joints will remind me that I am not used to sitting on mats for 6 hours.

Senior picnic, India style.

Pretty basic.

Pretty nice.