To Mother's House We Go
The story goes like this: Mother Teresa was of the Order of Loreto, teaching school in Calcutta. She received an unmistakable series of visions from God telling her to begin a new order, based in India, to serve the poorest of the poor. She detailed these visions in letters to the bishop, who revealed those letters to the public only after her death. The visions were so specific, that they even included what colors the order's saris should be. She had to confront the Church's resistance to forming new religious communities, and to receive permission from the Archbishop of Calcutta to serve the poor openly on the streets. She had to figure out how to live and work on the streets, without the safety and comfort of the convent. And she was to be on her own.

Upon reading some of these letters, the "visions" are better described as conversations between a personal God and his daughter. Such a direction was pretty revolutionary: not dissimilar to God's visiting a young unmarried girl named Mary, to whom God communicated He was choosing to carry, deliver and raise the Messiah.

Mother Teresa was not alone for long. Within a year, she found more help than she anticipated. Many seemed to have been waiting for her example to open their own floodgates of charity and compassion. Young women came to volunteer their services and later became the core of her Missionaries of Charity. Others offered food, clothing, use of buildings, medical supplies and money. As support and assistance mushroomed, more and more services became possible to huge numbers of suffering people. And there you have it: the birth of the Missionaries of Charity, an official order as of 1950.

The "headquarters" of sorts is called The Mother House. This is where the directing sister (Mother Teresa) and many of the sisters live. This is where the sisters celebrate Mass and manage their Calcutta operations. It is also the launching pad and gathering place for all volunteers working in the many MOC homes all over the city and the outskirts. Here's where the story begins for me, a humble volunteer in a strange country.

Welcome to Fantasy Island
The welcome/orientation for Missionaries of Charity was mostly a list of do's and don'ts, which is appreciated. Some of them are common sense (Be sensitive to and aware of your health; wear gloves as appropriate) and some of them are known only to the street-wise (If a woman beggar asks you to buy her powdered milk for her baby, be sure and empty the powder into another container. Otherwise, she'll go around the corner with the original canister/packaging and sell it to someone else for money).

After orientation, I was invited to attend Mass. I've attended Catholic Mass before, and mostly I experienced it to be quite sterile, mostly rote ritual. All participants remove their shoes upon entering the chapel, which is actually just a plain room with many written quotes from Mother Teresa, and of course pictures of her and of the Pope. Four priests were readying themselves for the service and the sisters began filing in. I noticed two things right away: a large painting of Jesus on the cross with the words "I Thirst" written below, and a large marble block of sorts nearly in the middle of the room, with flowers, lighted candles and a big rosary atop it. The next moments were a daze for me: I inspected the marble block closer to discover this was not just a marble block; it was the casket of Mother Teresa herself. The headstone, on which one might expect fanciful words describing her character and an eloquent litany of her many accomplishments, simply said "Mother Teresa, MC, 1910-1997. 'Love one another as I have loved you.' St. John 15:2." Then I heard singing: it was the sisters. I turned around and there they were, all of them in the familiar Missionary of Charity white saris with blue stripes; saris I'd seen in pictures but never in person. The sisters were so small! And together, gathered in community to praise God, they were . . . beautiful. "Lose yourself in me and you will find yourself, and you will live, yes you will live in my love" went the song, the words floating lingering among the participants. It hit me all in one overwhelming moment: these saris spoke simplicity, serenity, humility. The sisters sang with no accompanying instruments, and clearly none of the sisters had had any formal vocal training. And yet their soft, simple voices rose to communicate with their Lord. These women, their clean white/blue saris, the fragrance of the flowers, the casket, the big painting of Jesus dying and "I Thirst" . . . my face felt hot and my eyes welled up with tears. I was moved, and those tears were tears of a connection. For the first time in a long time I felt at home with Jesus, and my tears conveyed how happy I was to be there, to feel as if resting in a warm embrace.

Move Over, Kofi Annan
Volunteers for MOC are from no place in particular, but hail from everywhere. Germans, Argentinians, Japanese, Irish, Americans, French, Canadians, Chileans and Australians make up a veritable United Nations of volunteers. As I mentioned in my last dispatch, volunteers lead a relatively simple life and as such can make good friendships pretty quickly.

My posse consists of about 8-10 people with whom I consistently work alongside and spend a significant amount of time. Susan is an Australian, the mother of three grown children, and the wife of an adoring husband. Due to complications during a routine surgery many years ago, Susan died. "No bright lights or anything," she explains. Her second chance is calling her to utilize her nursing skills to serve the poor who have the least access to proper health care, much less loving health care. Susan has become my surrogate mother, and is one of the most dear, kind-hearted souls you'd ever meet. Susan is a constant source of encouragement and gentleness, and watching her in action treating those in the homes is a sight to see. She's efficient, unflappable and above all sweet-spirited.

Clare is the brave 18-year old very proper English girl who is spending 9 months traveling the world, including a 4-month tour of duty in Calcutta. She is well beyond her years, displaying astonishing grace and life capabilities that I sure as hell didn't have at 18. Clare volunteers at Shishu Bhavan working with the babies, and in the afternoon teaches English and math to children at the Gandhi School (MC school for poor children). She is one of the people I spend the most time with: I'm teaching her how to speak in a Texas accent. She's got the word "jackass" down pat.

Melanie is a proud Canadian. Do not mistake her for an American, as she will quickly correct you. Mel works with me at Kalighat, and she is the gold standard of volunteers. She is the most hard-working, dedicated, caring and efficient volunteer I know. When I first arrived I watched Melanie, observing what to do and not to do. Mel is often the group instigator for fun activities like playing games or gathering on the roof at the Paragon Hotel for drinks or conversation. When back in Ontario, she works for the regional historical society and acts in a battlefield re-enactment for tourists, with authentic military costumes and everything. I think she recently was promoted to general.

Paul is the newest arrival to Calcutta. He is an Australian, and like all Australians here, he is easy-going and has a delightful sense of humor. Paul arrived without his bags (airline lost them), so he spent three days wearing either the outfit he wore on the plane, or the ill-fitting and very amusing pants he bought on the street. He is a big fan of "The Simpsons." And for some reason he attracts dirt quickly. Paul is an all-around terrific guy and kindly suffers through my impression of an Australian accent.

Carmel, Mags and Rita are the three Irishwomen who are only too happy to lift a pint after a hard day's work. Carmel works mostly at the Howrah Train Station, gathering up the very sick and severely wounded to take to Kalighat or other MC homes. She has an eye for who is in most need of care, who is alone with no family, who has been just plain left behind. Carmel is just "good people": she's 22 and has a great Irish wit. She's very bright and genuinely searches for truth about God by visiting ashrams, going to mass, talking with people. One thing I like about Carmel is how angry she gets with injustice of the poor. Her anger is justified and good . . . and sometimes even amusing, in that she'll be ranting about some Indian man who groped a woman, and then wrap up her comments with simply saying, "That fecker." Irish swap out the "u" from that word, which makes it even funnier for non-Irish to hear.

Mags is a real spitfire and has been in Calcutta on and off for about 10 years. She is the wizened resident who often conducts MC orientations. Make no mistake, she's an Irish Catholic and a sarcastic one at that. Everyone in the volunteer circles knows Mags; her personality is just too big to ignore or forget. She and I enjoy good banter back and forth from time to time, which always produces the biggest smile bursting from her face. Mags has a deep heart for the children of poverty, and sometimes really struggles why bad things happen to the littlest and most innocent of people. So under the tough exterior she has a heart of gold.

Rita spends her time volunteering with handicapped orphans, particularly a darling boy named Robby who is a 3-year old blind boy. Rita just turned 51 and we celebrated her birthday with much fanfare: a surprise party complete with balloons and cake at her favorite Sudder Street restaurant. We even got her a little birthday hat.

Lawrence hails from somewhere outside of London, and is a real free spirit. In addition to being hilarious, Lawrence has the gift of making every person around him feel special. When he's speaking with you, he gives you his full attention. He's as quirky as he is kind: outside his hotel he recently saved a baby rat from the jaws of a street dog. As one naturally does when one saves a baby rat from the jaws of a street dog, Lawrence put the rat in a little box, kept it in his room, and named it "Ratty." Lawrence also plays the guitar, and is a talented guitarist at that.

Fatima is a 21-year old nurse from Buenos Aires, Argentina. First thing you notice about Fatima is that she's drop-dead gorgeous. Then you quickly learn how good-natured and fun-loving she is. Her English is excellent, and when not nursing she is the lead singer of a Pink Floyd cover band. Her boyfriend Pedro joined her in Calcutta recently, and he is just as sweet as she is.

Carolyn is from good old Dallas, Texas. She is officially working with Word Made Flesh as a four-month "servant team" member. I knew Carolyn beforehand: her wonderful sister Charlotte is married to my good friend JJ. Having a friend from home has been such a blessing: the familiarity, the reality-check, the friend-in-need.

The three most frequently asked questions when meeting a volunteer in Calcutta are: 1) Where are you from, 2) How long are you here for, 3) Why did you come. Once you get past those three questions, you're practically family. These people are so dear to me, and I would take a bullet for any one of them any day. We volunteer together, site-see together, eat together and solve the world's problems together. Yes, it's better than the United Nations.

Lost Its Head
Last week marked the Muslim holiday of Id, the feast recognizing Abraham's sacrifice of his son (the sacrifice which, if you remember from Sunday School, was stopped at the last minute by God, who instead provided a perfect goat for sacrifice). Friends and family gather to pray in congregation and for large meals that include meat from goats. Which naturally means the inconvenient demise of said animals. Much to the delight of PETA, I'm sure, the animals are conveniently slaughtered right at home. The morning after the second day of Id, there was an unmistakable stench in the air on the streets. Remains of animals had been pitched in the garbage. I think a fun game for kids during Id would be to comb the streets, gather body parts and assemble your own goat. It would teach kids biology and eye-hand coordination at the same time.

On my way to Mother House one morning, I saw an odd object in my path. Upon further inspection, it was a goat scalp, horns and all. As quickly as I identified the goat scalp a crow swooped in for what was to be his feast. Fifteen feet down the street was yet another goat scalp, this one with a little more substance to it. Just another day in Calcutta, where goat scalps welcome you on the way to Mother's House.