Care

About a year ago I visited the Missionaries of Charity in the slums of Kolkata, India. Even though I wasn’t allowed to take pictures inside the facility, the experience is etched in my mind and is one I will never forget. The Missionaries of Charity is a worldwide organization but most folks associate it with Kolkata, India and Sister Teresa. Last week as I gave another narrated photo journey presentation of my journey to India, I briefly flashed through the only two pictures I have of their original Kolkata facility. Photography is understandably not permitted inside the facility so both photos were both exterior shots. Partly because of that I may never be able to adequately convey what I experienced within those walls. I am not sure any pictures could do justice to what I experienced.This original Missionaries of Charity organization was founded by Sister Teresa of Albania in 1952 and the facility was donated by the city of Calcutta. (the city’s name back then) It is in the bowels of Kolkata and is within sight of the famous Kali Temple built in 1855 to honor the Hindu goddess of destruction. Because of the nature of the facility, the general public and especially tourists aren’t allowed. My friend Diganta works with the poor in the city and was given approval to escort me to experience firsthand the wonderful work that the Sisters and other volunteers from around the world perform.The Missionaries of Charity organization has grown to 450 facilities worldwide with many millions of dollars in annual donations and thousands of volunteers. Because of the rapt attention and resulting donation levels that Mother Teresa drew with her 1979 Nobel Peace Prize award, I expected a major modern US style medical institution. I wasn’t prepared for the dank concrete building that housed the dying. I saw no medical care although there may be some. The dying of Kolkata are “warehoused” (please excuse the seemingly harsh term) on rows of simple cots lining three tiers of six foot wide concrete platforms. The lowest level was lined with 18 emaciated men, each on a simple cot. They were placed on that level because their death was thought to be imminent and their lifeless bodies could quickly be moved out. I have never before been in that type of hospice-type atmosphere. The realities of life, and more importantly death, were overwhelming. It was not at all like anything I saw in the Viet Nam war. There are no diversions or distractions in this environment and my mind and spirit were hyper-focused on those poor souls. Perhaps that is why images of care are seared in my memory. What I saw and more importantly felt went beyond care and could only even then be still inadequately termed compassion. I saw volunteers from Europe, Africa, the Americas, Australia, and other parts of Asia lovingly join the native Indians. They cradling heads and limp bodies in their arms and bosoms to mop a fevered brow or to give a cool possibly last drink of water. I will never forget the silent eye contact that when language failed soaked up what I could only term supernatural love and compassion. I read a lot about care and caring and how we can give and muster support for folks in need. Sometimes I lose sight of the fact that the heart of everything I hold sacred is our personal love and compassion. It all became indelibly etched into my being that sweltering day in Kolkata. It took me back to roots thousands of years old. There are folks here today in each of our lives that may not be near death but are desperate for someone to share true love and compassion. Will we rise to our calling?