Excerpt from Church

 After weeks of evasion, I'd finally come to the decision to return to the Nepali church once more, much to Bischetaa's excitement. This marks my third visit, each the same, ending with my own tragedy—the thoughtless memories of childhood religion. So I sat there among my peers and my kids, zoning in and out of each hymn, each prayer. However, there is a type of magic, something in the air of that church that each Nepali inhales and soon becomes high on. Each hymn, each promise, each prayer, follows with dancing on the carpet—one woman in particular, the only person standing among the devout followers groveling to their God. She spun with elegance, wordlessly introducing the world surrounding her to her personality, heavily inspired by her Nepali heritage, nothing more than singers and criers backing her up. Those tears; some come loudly, others streaming neatly down strangers' faces. There's yelling from one person, two people, somehow blending into the song, as though it was made for them. Meant to be. I gave out once again. I woke my mind to the main reason I decided to return in the first place. The full circle moment I heard about earlier that week and had so desired to witness. The Samaritan's Purse Christmas Shoeboxes were to be distributed that day. These were what I grew up hearing stories about, packing and organizing, taking pictures of—and I wanted to experience this, I felt so lucky I was able to in my time of being here. The kids were placed into four sections, split between genders and specific ages and the boxes were opened, revealing the gifts, the shoeboxes. I witnessed Bischetaa and Bischest receive them as well and I thought to myself, how come? Are they not richer than these kids? It made me realize how long I had been here, how ignorant I was to the different financials of each country. Nepal is still struggling. Its people are still in debt. Bijata's family may be better off than other families at that church, but I would say more than 90% of people individually in my country are better off than each person, each family, in Nepal. The process followed as so: after a name was called, Baba Kashi, Bijata's father-in-law, the church's priest, would be handed a box and give it to the child who walked up to the name caller. They seemed excited at the mention of their name, nervous when their priest handed them the box, shy even as most kids are, and once they turned around to face their friends, they grinned the biggest grin. There was a second of hesitation between the adults, as half of the kids had not received anything. This scared me, I dreaded this, I was terrified half of the kids would go home happy while the rest would need to wait. Thankfully, that was not the case, the rest of the kids received what they deserved and I was happy for them. Each box was taped shut and I thought I was witnessing only the handing out of the boxes, that they were supposed to open them when they returned home. Thankfully, I was proven wrong once again, when someone with a microphone counted down in Nepali and the kids ripped the tape off their boxes, opening their boxes. And the room really did mimic Christmas morning. The childlike wonder, the excitement, the playing with the toys the second they were unveiled. The laughter, the chatter, the show and tell of their items to their friends, to their parents. It was so beautiful, and I do not think I have ever experienced true happiness until such a moment, and I do not believe anyone ever will until such a moment. A small child dressed in blue looked around behind her at the excitement, confused, perhaps overwhelmed, overstimulated, leaving her box untaped. I walked up to her and sat in front of her asking if I could help, associating my words with gestures in order to tell she could understand. She head tilted her Nepali yes and I started on the tape (which thankfully came off easily and I wasn't fumbling, having the moment taken from me) and I asked if she wanted to finish. She nodded once more and ripped the tape off. I opened the box for her, but her tiny hands rested on it as though to say she were helping, to say it was her box, and I watched her tiny light up as she sorted through the doll, the flip flops, the harmonica, et cetera. She chose the note from the family first and handed it to me and I was inclined to read it aloud to her, but she wouldn't comprehend anyway. Earlier, I'd wanted to hand out a box, but this scene here made it worthwhile that I hadn't. I don't know that little girl, she will never see me again, but her little blue dress and her grumpy face lightening into what it did will be seen by me for quite a while.

It is such a small church and such a large country. How come these children are only some of the many children living in poverty who get gifts? That seems cruel. But that is the issue with life—you cannot please everybody. There is no such thing as eternal happiness and no such thing as fairness. Unfortunately, you have to take what you have. Thankfully, there is still faith in humanity, still love and companionship between others because of these shoeboxes. Though so few, they still exist, and because of these children, willing to sacrifice their gifts and trade with friends in order to make them happy. Thank goodness for kindness. Thank goodness for humanity.