Going to Bangladesh was not my idea. As an expatriate living and working in South Korea, I already spent my days navigating cultural differences and chipping away at language barriers. But, since I had also recently become co-leader of the missions team at church, when it came time for our biannual trip to Bangladesh, I was informed it was “my turn.” And, just for good measure, I was “in charge.”
I admit, I didn’t welcome this news with unrestrained joy.
Still, I supported the aims of the trip. Our destination in Bangladesh was a small, experimental community created for widows and orphans. It’s a place where small groups of children are matched with widows and provided with homes, space, and structure to form new families out of their losses. Our church in Korea sponsored all the children who lived there and sent teams twice a year to help construct new houses.
I didn’t exactly volunteer, but it wasn’t long before I was glad to be going, even if most of my time was spent considering the practicalities of the trip. This is, after all, the necessary lot of the group leader: be preoccupied with safety so everyone feels protected and cared for. Take care of the mundane so others can focus on forming and strengthening relationships.
So I made lists and inventoried supplies, counted people, priced the plane tickets, organized immunizations, and double-checked everything. I confirmed visa requirements, scheduled an embassy run, and added up fees. I provided group members with prayer concerns and suggested ways to prepare their hearts for our time in Bangladesh, even as I counted, double-checked, and ran through the lists time after time.
For me, our trip was quantifiable, defined by the math, and I knew from the outset it was a numbers game.
Thirteen team members, 3 different nationalities, 3 minors, 13 visas with 3 different fees, 2 trips to the embassy in Seoul.
Thirteen bus tickets to the airport at 5 a.m., 12 checked bags (20 kilo maximum), 13 carry-ons, 25 orange luggage tags, 2 airlines, and one 5-hour layover in Hong Kong.
Thirteen people waiting for bags in Dhaka, 3 vehicles (9 people in the van, 4 in truck one, and 25 bags in truck two), and 2 nights in Dhaka. (Count the exchanged money. Write it down. Double-check.)
Too many hours on the road from Dhaka to the guesthouse, only 12 heads lining up outside the vans after lunch, 6 seconds of panic (and then I remember to count myself).
Thirty-three meals over 11 days, 7 cups of tea per person per day, 2 tea shops (with cookies).
Forty-five minutes from the guesthouse to the little gated village, 2 new houses under construction with 3 more planned.
Four buckets for watering bricks, 2 pumps, hundreds of red, sandy bricks. Two shovels for scooping sand, 7 trays for carrying, 1 ragged and giggly bucket brigade dumping sand for a 2-foot high foundation.
Two soccer balls (1 perpetually in the pond), 2 sky-blue swings (always in use). Fifty children (formerly orphans), 19 little ones (newly arrived), 9 mothers (protected and protecting).
One village, 1 church, and 1 Sunday-morning service with many singers.
I can’t pin down the moment the sums shifted, because the lists and counting never stopped. Maybe it occurred when—for just a moment—nothing required my immediate attention and I got a turn on a swing. Maybe it was when the local builder—who didn’t much care for women but respected hard work—gave me a nod. Maybe it’s the night I got a bit more sleep.
But somewhere among the miles and headcounts and stacks of bricks, the numbers drew in a breath of unseasonably cool air, and the equation expanded enough to allow light between the pen strokes and iterations, enough to allow a rearrangement of vision. I couldn’t suddenly transfer all of my concerns or neglect the necessary tasks, but this exchange of center and margin reminded me that, while it was my job to keep track of the heads, someone greater was keeping track of the hairs . . . someone who didn’t want me to lose the touch of his hand in mine even if habit compelled me to count the fingers first.
You see, it was a numbers game . . . but also a paradox. Because when I finally added it all up—the nationalities, the miles, the currencies, the minutes that ticked by, the many hands, many futures and possibilities, the bricks and the heartbeats—when I added it all up, it totaled just one.
One heart. One bold hope. One perfect Savior. And one family.
My family.
Very well-written piece, descriptive in every paragraph — waiting for the next (but I had to read the next).
This should be an encouragement to others that works like these are possible and profitable no matter the cost.