29th
Three Twenty-three Year Olds
The other day Phileena was reading through some of the several hundred pages of letters we wrote (real letters, pre-e-mail) for the 2+ years we were dating and engaged while I lived in India. She came across this one dated February 1, 1995
“I’m 23 years old and I would say God has given me a fairly good life. I grew up in wholesome Middle America, went to a nice Christian high school, played sports, went to a nice college and met a wonderful girl. Studied overseas and now am working with a mission in South India.
Now let me tell you the story of 2 other 23 year old men—coming from completely different backgrounds but the 3 worlds all collide in Calcutta.
The 2nd 23 year old man is from France—his name is Phillip. When he was in school he advanced quickly through his studies and finished by the age of 16. In France there is mandatory army service for one year—as a 16 year old boy he served in the French army for 11 months and then began to learn English. At age 17 he began traveling and now he’s been traveling for 6 years solid. Spending 7 months in each country he visits and in each country gets a job to support his drug habit. Now he’s in Calcutta staying at the Salvation Army Guesthouse and stays on the top bunk of hid bed. He stays up late and sleeps in—rolling joints as soon as he finishes smoking his last one. When he can get his hands on some opium he puts it in a pipe and smokes that too… he doesn’t really know when he’ll leave the city and he doesn’t really know where he’ll go next—just sits around getting high. He believes he’s chasing his dreams; he needs drugs to fill the void. He’s so pounded by his hash that his teeth are grey and he looks like he’s in his 30’s.
The 3rd 23 year old man is an Indian. I’ve only known him for 4 days and don’t know his name, his background—nothing. He’s a Hindu and as I write this his cold, dead body is wrapped in a newly woven white sheet and is resting in a small room in Mother Teresa’s House for the Dying. Four days ago I met him—he was one of the most undernourished human beings I’ve ever seen in my life—a skeleton with tight dark skin pulled over him. His face resembled a skull and his eyes looked bigger than average because there was no loose skin around them or fat I his cheeks. I would have guessed his age at 60—bald, tired, and dying. But he was really 23. His is very demanding and seemingly very selfish. He had been in the Home for quite some time—so I hear—and was always very vocal and very active. He never ate what was served to the rest of the patients but always demanded something special. And then, totally unexpected to everyone, he died. It shocked everyone; he had seemed ‘strong’ for someone his size… But his body had enough.
All 3 of us are 23 years old. An American, an Indian, and a Frenchman. All in Calcutta for different reasons. All part of God’s world. Whey was I the one given freedom? Peace? Love? Why wasn’t I the one strung out on drugs? The one starving to the point of death? Why was I given a woman that can’t be described with mere words? A woman that embodies the essence of beauty and purity in every way?
The world is so unfair—so cruel… the poverty is so destructive—both the physical and spiritual poverty. But I’ve been given wealth—material, emotional, and spiritual. Now I can see why I’m supposed to give it back to the Master. I need to share the goodness because there are those who need it but don’t have it… don’t even has access to it.
May I always strive to be a servant—to be broken and obedient.”
