Journey to Judah
By Eileen Hinkle Rife
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Maggie awoke from a deep sleep to notice the stranger beside her staring at her. Blushing, she coughed and shifted in her seat.
“Please make sure your tray table is stowed, your seat is in an upright position, and your seatbelt securely fastened. We are beginning our descent into Mumbai,” the British flight attendant announced over the intercom.
Maggie fumbled to obey the attendant’s directive as the passenger beside her spoke.
“You were sleeping so long, I thought I might check your pulse,” the handsome man mused. “But just as I reached for your wrist, you woke up. Hi, my name is Gavin…Gavin Munsfield.” The congenial young man reached for Maggie’s hand. His square jaw was etched with five o’clock shadow and his eyes laced with fatigue, yet he smiled with a warmth Maggie had not felt for days.
Still groggy, Maggie rubbed her eyes, then reached to shake his hand. “Uh, yes, uh…nice to meet you. I’m Maggie Osteder.”
“Please remain seated until the seatbelt sign goes off. Then you may move about the cabin and retrieve your baggage from the overhead compartments,” the voice interrupted. “Thank you for flying British Airways. We hope you enjoyed your flight.”
As Maggie pulled her purse from under the seat, Gavin continued, “So is this your last stop or do you have a long layover here? In Mumbai, I mean.”
“Long layover,” Maggie replied, somewhat irritated by the man’s incessant chatter and intrusion into her private affairs. She was single—attractive at that—five foot three with copper-colored hair that cascaded down her back in soft waves, hazel eyes, and fair skin. A slip of a girl, yet possessing strength that belied her physique. She had been warned to beware of men who might take advantage of her. Gavin seemed harmless enough, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
“Ah, excuse me,” Maggie insisted, stretching for the overhead bin in the jumble of exiting passengers. She felt pain shoot up her right leg and realized someone had just stepped on her foot. She hoped this was not a foreshadowing of misfortune ahead. She had already endured a four-hour layover in London, misplaced luggage, and a nosy passenger trying to wheedle his way into her business. All she wanted was to get off the plane, enjoy a hot cup of coffee, if such a thing existed in Mumbai, and arrive in Chennai in one piece.
Maggie had waited ten years for this day. Now, at age twenty-five, she was finally on her way to India.
“Perhaps I’ll see you again,” the towering man quipped, disturbing Maggie’s reminiscence.”
“Excuse me?”
“Who knows? We may run into each other again,” Gavin persisted as he gathered his camera and backpack and headed for the exit.
Maggie shook her head. Who IS he, anyway? Brushing her hair back and straightening her blouse, Maggie stepped off the plane and into the Mumbai terminal, an entire world apart from anything she had ever encountered.
The balmy air of an early February morn ruffled her bangs as she walked through the door to the airport lounge. Less than impressive surroundings greeted her. Her bladder screamed to be emptied, but the missionaries had warned her not to use the facilities. One step into the bathroom explained why. Smudged walls and filthy toilets looked as if they had never been scrubbed, even though cleaning ladies slept on collapsed cardboard boxes. Maggie quickly stepped toward the door, tripping over an Indian woman on her way out. The haggard woman briefly stirred, groaning and muttering something in her sleep.
Maggie found a seat in the lobby and settled in for the wait. She thought back over the recent flight and the man she’d met.
She couldn’t help but think he was trying to take advantage of a young girl far away from home and all alone. She’d seen his kind before. Guys who think they’re doing you a favor by asking you out. Didn’t he realize that she’d been running from those guys for the past ten years? While all the other girls in the college dorm were planning their dream weddings, Maggie had one passion: to serve God in India. Some called her crazy; some thought she’d never do it; others thought she just didn’t like guys. The truth was, she had never met a guy who shared her love for India, so she never allowed herself the luxury of getting attached to anyone. She had worked hard to stay focused and here she was. Sure, she’d like a husband and family, but if she ever did get married, God was going to have to drop him in her lap.
Maggie’s eyes drooped and her head nodded. It was going to be arduous sitting up in a hard back chair with tattered cushion, chunks of it ripped out, leaving gaping holes not very comfortable to sit on.
“Announcing the departure of Flight 618 to Chennai: all passengers departing to Chennai please board through gate B3,” an Indian man announced over the intercom. Startled awake, Maggie collected her things and walked to the plane. Insecticide mingled with exotic spices bombarded her nostrils upon entering. She could almost feel the heat rising from the foods the sari-clad attendants prepared. With approximately three hours to Chennai, nestled on the East Coast by the Bay of Bengal, Maggie decided to pull out her Bible to occupy time. Flipping through the pages, she turned to the book of Ruth. Her ladies’ Bible study group had just completed a study on Ruth before she left for India. Somehow, she felt a strange kinship with this Moabite maiden on journey to Judah. Although their circumstances were drastically different, Maggie considered herself a lady in waiting like Ruth. Waiting upon God for His best in all things—timing, direction, fulfillment—and if that included the provision of a Boaz someday, she was willing.
~~
Chennai, the fourth largest city in India and capital of Tamil Nadu, proved quite different from the place Maggie was originally assigned to serve—Andhra Pradesh. She had visited the villages far from civilization with only three buildings of whitewashed cinderblock, grass huts, and a few hours of electricity daily. At first the thought of going there had been difficult, but after two years of deputation describing her future home and ministry, Maggie had adjusted to the idea.
Then only two weeks before she was scheduled to arrive in Andhra, God blocked the door, actually closed it. “There is no housing available,” the national missionaries explained. “And besides, it is not safe for a white woman here.” On the list went, which all sounded like meager excuses in Maggie’s mind. But no matter how much she argued the point, one thing was clear—the door was closed! Now what, Lord? Maggie agonized.
The now what? turned out to be Chennai, working with a veteran missionary couple, the Weavers, in the school, clinic, and church plant. Even though she could not understand God’s change of plans, she forged ahead.
As soon as Maggie got off the plane, the Weavers hung a large garland of pungent jasmine around her neck and escorted her to the van. The breakneck ride to their home was nothing short of memorable. Black and yellow auto-rickshaws, “autos” the Indians called them, powered by Petrol, puttered along the sun-baked earthen road. Vans, motorcycles, oxen, cows, and street dogs intermingled on the roadway. With no lanes, everyone drove wherever and however they pleased, never fully coming to a stop, merely yielding occasionally to avoid collision. Maggie had to laugh out loud when she saw a sign which read, Drive Slow, Avoid Death. Constant honking. Constant noise. Yet Maggie sensed a strange security. She was confident these people knew what they were doing.
Along the road, they passed fruit and vegetable stands, ladies doing laundry in the river, others weaving baskets or jasmine garlands. Everywhere she looked there was color mingled with poverty. Heaps of buffalo dung were carefully stacked into a pyramid to dry in the sun and later be used as fuel in nearby huts. A lady sweeping the dirt from her dirt floor amused Maggie. People everywhere—walking, going who knows where. The dizzying scene made Maggie’s exhausted mind whirl. She rested her head back for a moment and in spite of the constant jostling due to the pot-hole laden roads, Maggie was soon asleep.
Maggie woke up the next morning on a cot in a plain room with a marble floor and white plaster walls. Sun streamed through a single window adorned with a sheer white curtain. On the nightstand sat a cup of steaming chai, with a liberal dose of cream and sugar, inviting her to sip. She remembered reading in preparation for her trip that Indians religiously drink a cup of tea in the morning and afternoon, a custom borrowed from their days under British rule.
She hoisted herself up on one elbow and reached for the spicy concoction which filled the room with an aroma of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, cloves, and cardamom. As she did, she noticed a lovely, green salwar kameez trimmed in gold draped across the foot of her bed. Excited, she jumped up, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, as her head began to swim and the room dance. Lowering herself to the bed, she pulled on the baggy trousers and slung the knee-length tunic over her head. The garment was comfortable, yet the smooth cool feel of the material sweeping over her bare skin made her feel elegant.
Just then Mrs. Weaver knocked on the door. “Would you like something to eat? I have some curd and dahl, a type of chutney, and chapathi waiting at the breakfast table.”
Joining Mr. Weaver in the kitchen, Maggie and Mrs. Weaver scooped up dahl with their chapathi. Mrs. Weaver jabbered on about life and ministry in India, speaking as much with her hands as with her mouth. She was a short, buxom woman in her early 60’s, vivacious, with pudgy red face and smiley eyes to match her personality. Mr. Weaver, graying at the temples, yet muscular from years of physical labor at the compound, inhaled his curd in silence as if it were his last meal. Maggie marveled at how much he resembled Paul Newman. Already she felt comfortable with this couple, even though Mrs. Weaver could be candid at times. Uncomfortably so. She knew the woman to be straight-forward as they had communicated often through email while Maggie prepared for India. Mrs. Weaver was not one to beat around the bush about anything.
“Maggie, I must be honest with you,” Mrs. Weaver said. “Your ministry here will be more effective if you are married.”
Somewhat taken back, Maggie did not know how to respond. She had worked so hard to put marriage out of her mind since God seemingly had not provided a single soul who shared her heart for India. She had resigned herself to be content serving as a single gal and drawing as many adorable, brown-eyed children as possible to herself and to Jesus. Now, Mrs. Weaver was telling her she should have a husband.
Mrs. Weaver continued. “I believe I have the perfect match for you. He is a doctor, due to arrive any day now to work in the clinic. He, too, is single and needs a wife. The people here know him since he grew up in India but left at the age of seventeen to attend college and medical school.”
Maggie hardly knew how to process this new information. With a nervous laugh, she responded, “Look, Mrs. Weaver, I appreciate your concern for me. I know this is a culture of arranged marriages, but I don’t know …I certainly didn’t come here to look for a husband. I’m perfectly content as I am. Already I feel drawn to these lovely people with their thick dark hair, large eyes, and toothy smiles. God has definitely given me a peace about my status. I don’t need a husband, but if God has something else in mind, I’m open.”
“Good,” Mrs. Weaver beamed, clapping her chubby hands together and rising to clear the table. “You’ll meet him soon. Give him a chance, Maggie, will you?”
Maggie nodded in approval, but was skeptical. This was a life curve she had not expected. If this was a God-gift, it certainly was happening fast. He never ceased to amaze her with His surprises and provision. Over the next few weeks, God kept bringing to mind the Scripture verse in Psalm 84:11…”no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.”
Maggie wondered if this was one of those good things God wanted to give her. The Lord knew her heart—a heart largely hidden from the rest of the world. Her journal revealed all, the long nights of loneliness when she watched friends—other couples walking arm-in-arm to their cozy homes, enjoying an evening together behind closed doors. How her empty heart ached on those rainy nights as the drops hit her windowpane and the tears splashed her journal page. Yet with each knife twist, God had called her closer to Himself, reassuring her that He would be her husband, her provider, protector, her relentless lover. God had already shown His faithfulness in so many amazing ways! How could she not trust Him now? The God who was so dear to her. She must once again place this new development, the thought of a potential mate, in His capable hands.
~~
The open-air jeep bounced through potholes and dips in the road as Maggie and the Weavers passed village after village. A golden-haired Macaque, a type of monkey, leaped from one coconut tree to another. Banyans, East Indian fig trees, full of birds lined the road. Water buffalo grazed on what meager grass was available in this dry land. Today, they traveled an hour south to the clinic, nestled on the outskirts of a remote village area. Maggie knew she would meet the doctor soon. She didn’t even know his name. Sweat formed in tiny droplets around her mouth and on her forehead. She willed herself to stay calm, yet a thousand questions nagged her mind. What would he look like? What would he BE like? Was he from a good family? So many questions.
Coming to a stop, Mr. Weaver parked the jeep, got out, and walked the ladies to the clinic constructed of whitewashed cinderblock. Inside the door, Maggie’s gasp caused the doctor to look up from his desk. “Ah, Miss Osteder, so good to see you again,” Gavin said, rising from his seat and walking toward Maggie.
Mrs. Weaver looked confused. “I don’t understand. Have you two already met?”
“On the plane,” Maggie interjected. “We met on the way to Mumbai, but I had no idea your young doctor was Gavin Munsfield.”
“Yes, I’m generally full of surprises,” Gavin’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.
“Although you appear to have a few of your own, Miss Osteder. But then, we never really had a chance to talk, did we? Well, let me show you around the clinic. This is your first time out to the villages, I take it.”
“Yes,” Maggie replied, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Like a puppy she trailed behind Gavin and the Weavers as he pointed out the examining room, divided by three homemade curtains; the recovery room which housed ten cots, three of which cradled sleeping patients; and the office which contained a hefty oak desk, metal filing cabinet for patient records, a wooden supply cabinet with glass doors, a simple cot in one corner and a futon in the other, a small refrige, and a hotplate with shelves for canned goods positioned above. Proud of his work, Gavin rambled on about his medical successes with the villagers. Maggie wasn’t even sure she liked the guy. He came off as rather irritating.
Mrs. Weaver looked back to make sure Maggie was okay. “Maggie, your first bit of ministry will begin tomorrow, here at the clinic as a matter of fact.”
Why am I not surprised! Maggie smiled and nodded, hoping her face did not mirror her thoughts.
“Gavin is coming into Chennai this evening, so you can ride with him out to the clinic tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Weaver stated matter-of-factly as Mr. Weaver nodded in agreement.
“All right,” Maggie complied. Maggie knew where this was all headed, but decided to jump on for the ride and see what God had in mind.
~~
The morning presented another gorgeous day, pushing into the low 80’s for a perfect temperature. As Gavin had promised he was at Maggie’s door at 8:00 o’clock sharp with fresh coconut juice in hand. “Here, drink this,” Gavin coaxed. “It will keep your intestines happy.” Maggie had never drunk coconut juice, let alone right out of the coconut. The taste took some getting used to, but when she learned that the nectar was especially good for warding off harmful parasites, she drank it right down, using the straw inserted in a hole tapped in the top of the coconut by a machete.
“So, Maggie, tell me your story. What brought you to India?” Gavin asked during the drive to the villages.
Maggie couldn’t help but notice his wrinkled shirt and disheveled brunette hair tumbling over his forehead. His unkempt appearance both irritated and excited her, the later feeling baffling her.
Maggie reiterated the calling she believed God had placed on her life at age fifteen, then questioned Gavin. “And what about you? What led you back to India after being away for the past ten years?”
“Ah, Mrs. Weaver has briefed you, I see. Well, I left to study, as you probably know, but I always planned on returning. India’s my home. I grew up here, born to missionary parents who are both dead now,” Gavin explained.
“No girlfriends in this mix?” Eager to know, but somewhat embarrassed, Maggie looked down and smoothed her kameez.
“As a matter of fact, there is someone. I met her in medical school. She’s a nurse. You know how it goes—boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy proposes to girl. We plan to marry in six months out in L.A., then return here to serve together.”
Maggie’s face fell. She wondered why Mrs. Weaver did not know this bit of pertinent information. Maggie felt confused and bewildered.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, Gavin looked over at Maggie. “Are you all right? You got quiet all of a sudden.”
“I’m okay. Just still dazed from the trip, I suppose. Jetlag, you know. Just takes time,” Maggie said, excusing her silence.
After a day of assisting Gavin, holding children, and filling out paperwork, Maggie dropped onto her bed exhausted, more from the new revelation about Gavin than from the long day. She did not have the will to confront Mrs. Weaver just now, although she realized she would have to unveil the topic in the morning. Mrs. Weaver had to know about Gavin’s plans.
At breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Weaver scurried about the kitchen clanging pots and pans and assembling mango slices, eggs, curd and chapathi on the table. Maggie took a deep breath and jumped in, explaining to Mrs. Weaver what she had discovered about Gavin the day before.
“What are you telling me, Maggie?” Mrs. Weaver looked puzzled when Maggie shared the news.
“I’m telling you that Gavin is engaged to be married, to a girl in the States. In six months, no less. I don’t understand how you could not have known this,” Maggie paced the marble floor in frustration. “I’m trying to be understanding here, Mrs. Weaver, but I really think you’ve overstepped your bounds on this one. We barely know each other, but you’ve opened the door to my heart and thrown in a torch. I’m burnt and hurt. Gavin must never know about this. I hope you’ll just let this drop. Please, don’t do me any favors by trying to match me up with the perfect suitor. I know you mean well, but please, just let it be.” Maggie fled from the kitchen to mask the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
A befuddled Mrs. Weaver was left standing in the middle of the room as rice bubbled on the cook stove. Scratching her head, she muttered to herself, “Boy, I really messed up this time. But how?” Gavin’s cousin had sent her a letter only a month ago telling her he was available. She never told Mrs. Weaver he was engaged.
Three weeks passed. Maggie, still numb from the revelation about Gavin’s fiancée, tried to put the whole thing out of her mind and occupy her days with the ministry to which God had called her. She felt as if someone had poured lemon in her milk, souring her taste for what she once delighted in. Worse yet, the more she worked with Gavin at the clinic, the more she realized how much they shared in common. The same heartbeat, the same passion for ministry, the same dreams, goals, and plans. The same love for so many hurting, sick, and lost people. Nevertheless, she fought the impulse to give in to her feelings for Gavin. He belonged to someone else and that was all there was to it. She would simply have to move on with her life and ministry.
~~
A week later when Maggie stepped out of the van and walked into the clinic, she noticed Gavin sitting at his desk gripping a piece of paper. His head was down and his eyes were closed, so she thought he was praying, but then she realized he’d been crying. She moved in closer, wanting to say something, but knew she hadn’t known him long enough to earn the right to intrude on an obviously private moment.
The thought that Gavin might be in pain broke Maggie’s heart. As much as she wanted Gavin to notice her, she was angry at whatever triggered his sadness. She wanted so desperately to comfort him, but knew it was not her place, not just yet anyway. God would have to do that.
As she stepped forward, she cleared her throat signaling Gavin to look up. On impulse, he opened the desk drawer and shoved the paper inside.
“Maggie, I didn’t notice you come in.” Gavin drew himself up, stretched and wiped his hands on his pants. “Ready for the day?”
“Uh, yeah, where do we begin?” Maggie pretended not to notice Gavin’s obviously distraught appearance.
Gavin lifted his head, then wiped his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. With resolve, Gavin collected himself and replied, “Well, on this gorgeous Indian day a multitude of people await treatment. Just like Jesus, we will touch their sick bodies and pray for healing. So, Maggie Osteder, let’s begin. I know you’re still learning the language so are limited. Just be ready to retrieve supplies and hand me equipment when needed. Sound doable?”
Maggie nodded. “Sure. Whatever you need.”
Gavin then instructed Maggie to pull charts from the file cabinet and follow him out to the front of the clinic where mothers carried weeping babies, ravaged by malnutrition and disease. Elderly men and women, eaten away by leprosy, hobbled on bandaged nubs. Children with less serious ailments and more energy to spend darted in and out of line. Maggie stood surveying the sight. An overwhelming flood of emotion swept over her as she realized she would only be able to help these ailing people as God granted her strength.
Maggie eyed Gavin as he unscrewed medicine bottles, prepared syringes, sorted through bandages, and spoke with the people in the Tamil language. How at home he looked! Whatever was troubling him didn’t seem to daunt his determination to serve the Indian people.