8
in other words
november5
2015
Small Town, Big World: This Little Light of Mine
By Britt Bensen Steele
When we were in India, there
was something both unique and amazing
about the people. I think because their
lives and characteristics were so different
from mine, I noticed so many details.
I noticed their dark hair and
smooth skin, their white teeth and
brightly colored clothing, and how it took
such a trained eye to see the difference
between the rich and the poor because
everyone dressed about the same and
rode the bus.
One thing that really made them
stand out to me was this constant and
sincere desire to connect. They would
come up to me and just start talking.
We just don’t do that here. Not with
strangers. Not here: just walk up and
say, without any agenda,
“where you from?” out of
pure curiosity?
But in India, they
did this, often. Most of the
time there was nothing to be
gained, no sale to be made.
Nothing. They simply
wanted to connect. I learned
from some of the locals, that
this was just the way they
did things. It wasn’t because
I was white or western,
because they would do that
with an unknown Indian as
well.
Their questioning
was pretty much the same. It went
like this: “Where you from?” “You
married? “ “Where your husband?” You
have children?” They wanted to know
details about my family. They weren’t
interested in what I did for a living or
why I was in India. They didn’t want to
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know where I went to school
or where I worked. They
wanted to know who I loved.
Even as we traveled
by van three times a week to
the “farm” where we offered
clinic to the locals, the same
thing would happen—without
words—with the people on
the buses—especially with the
women. They would smile
and just look at us for as long
as vehicles were side by side.
They would wave, offer their
hands in prayer position, laugh
with one another and do it all
over again. They were quite
beautiful, and most of them worked 12+
hours per day… 6 days per week. They
were tired. They were hard working.
They were living in homes with dirt
floors and leaky roofs. And they were
filled with light.
I wonder sometimes about how
we “do it,” how we move so darn fast
and how so few of us seldom lock
eyes to ask “about the family” (in a
sincere way, not a “time to make the
donuts” sort of way)… I wonder about
priorities and making a difference. I
know what makes a difference: It’s
presence. It is your presence that is
your greatest contribution to your
community, your people, your home.
It’s the light in your eyes connecting
to the light in my eyes that reminds us
that we are all the same beneath our
superficial differences.
I know the light that shines forth
from my eyes. This little light of
mine? It’s yours too.
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