My friend, Marti, has been an inspiration to me since I met her in late 2000/early 2001. She worked as a coordinator/trainer and writer for Caleb Project for many years and now works for Pioneers doing much the same thing. She trained our team, along with another team, in ethnographic research and was pretty much my mentor, encourager, strategist and counselor as I walked through the process of co-leading the team as the Research Coordinator while we were in India and then as the primary writer once we were home.

Marti’s detail-oriented mind and incredible ability to focus make her the perfect person to edit reports, prayer guides and video scripts. But it’s in her creativity, incredible writing talent and deep love for Jesus and His Kingdom workers on the front lines that we can see her heart and passions.

She’s written a book about women missionaries on the field, the challenges they face, they opportunities they have and the incredible impact they make on the world in which they serve. Its a unique book in many ways. You need to check it out.

I have been blessed in so many ways to know a great many women who serve, or have served, overseas. Their unique perspective on life, ministry and the culture in which they serve challenged me to be more intentional in my own life. I will be forever grateful for their investment in me. Their impact can best be seen, I think, in my own ministry. The taught me to be a lifelong learner, a lover of people and an observer of culture, all without ever losing my own identity and uniqueness. Marti is one of those influential women. In honor of her, and her book, I thought I’d give you a glimpse through my eyes of my favorite place I have lived overseas.

I cannot think of Marti and not think of India, nor India and not think of Marti. The two are forever connected. And I have incredible memories of both. Sometimes I dream moving to India someday. However, as a woman, I think it was probably the hardest place I lived. The "eve-teasing," the constant attempts to feel me up on crowded buses and trains, the butt slaps by strangers and the lewd looks were difficult. I learned the elbow jab and toe stomp (for the bus rides) with the best of ’em, ride the women’s car on the trains and I worked hard to develop a thick skin for the rest. I also faced challenges with disrespect from rickshaw drivers and merchants who wanted to "re-negotiate" the price halfway through our transaction simply because I was a woman, or a foreigner, or both. I had one rickshaw driver pull over in the middle of a bridge crossing the Yamuna river and change the fare. I balked, of course, and told him absolutely not. When he refused to move until I agreed, I got out and started to walk — without paying him. It didn’t matter to me that there wasn’t another rickshaw "stop" for… miles, probably, or that I had absolutely no idea how to get to my friend’s home. I was not going to be bullied out of a fair deal agreed upon by the driver simply because he thought an American woman could be. The driver quickly gave in when he realized he either got the agreed-to fare, or no fare at all. I got back in and we finished our ride. That was empowering. As a woman I’d not experienced such a victory over obvious discrimination. And it felt good! 🙂

Two things I remember most about India are the smells and the temple bells. It’s odd how smells can take you right back to a significant memory with vivid clarity. Last month I walked out of my office building on my way home for the evening and was assaulted with the most intense smell. It wasn’t Nashville’s normal smell. You didn’t know that places, states, cities, countries all have unique smells of their own, did you. They really do. Nashville — Tennessee really — smells like wet grass and green growing things. At least it did until this drought. But the smell that smacked me in the face that evening wasn’t Nashville; it was the oily smoky mixture of burning trash, oils and spices of India. It smelled like India. I was instantly transported back to Delhi and half-expected to see a cow standing in the middle of the street stubbornly refusing to move despite a cacophony of honking horns, making drivers swerve or take a detour to get where they want to go. Wild! How does Nashville go from smelling like wet grass to smelling like India? I puzzled over that for days, until my boss mentioned that the current jet stream and wind patterns had pushed all the smoke from the fires in Georgia north all the way into Nashville. Smoke. The smell of something burning. But where the smells of oil and spices came from I will never know. Marti commented once that she ended up throwing all her clothes away after coming home from India. The smell is so pungent and pervasive that it is impossible to wash out of your clothes, no matter how hard you try. I will never forget that smell, and oddly enough, I grew to love it. When I smelled it last month my heart literally ached for Delhi.

There was a Lakshmi temple right behind our flat in Delhi. Every morning about 5 am or so the priests would come out and ring a huge lattice work of bells, to wake the gods and get their attention. I don’t remember exactly how long they rang them, just that it usually felt like an eternity. My room opened up into the street in front of the temple, which was really more of an alley; the concrete buildings on either side of it couldn’t have been more than ten feet apart. It looked more like a courtyard than a street. The priests rang their bells out on the street three floors down but pretty much right outside my window and the sound echoed up and down the alley, reverberating between the concrete walls. That sound quickly became my own call to worship. A call to pray for all those who would enter the temple that day, praying to the gods for peace, prosperity, safety and answers. I knew their efforts were in vain, that those little "gods" couldn’t truly satisfy, and my fervent prayer became that God, the One True God, would thwart those "gods’" efforts to keep His beloved creation in bondage to their service; that He would stir the heart of every person who entered that temple, that he would unmask and uncover the deep dissatisfaction they felt, so they would become desperately aware of the intense hunger of their souls. I prayed that that intense hunger would drive them to search for the only One who can truly satisfy. Every morning, when the bells rang, I got on my face before my God and begged Him to sweep across the city and make Himself known to these wonderfully beautiful, dynamic passionate people in a powerful and undeniable way.

The smells and the bells. And the beautiful amazing women I met and with whom I forged relationships; the beauty of the culture and the myriad of bridges to the gospel within it. These are the things I cherish about India. They made all the frustration, "eve teasing", sleepless nights and personal struggles worth it. India is forever tattooed on, and embedded in my heart. And I owe this blessing to all the mission-focused women like Marti who invested in me and gave me the gifts of their wisdom and encouragement. I think I’m the luckiest woman alive.