Traveler Films

I hope you will take a few moments to watch this teaser trailer...

Wed, 17 Feb 2010 12:29:00 -0500

I hope you will take a few moments to watch this teaser trailer and a few more to pray for peace in Israel and Palestine. If you are interested in supporting this project in any way, [especially through prayer] you may email me: shepherd@shalomsalaamfilm.com

shalomsalaamfilm.com
twitter.com/shalomsalaam

Music // Amal by Psalters
Editing/Motion Graphics // Shepherd Ahlers

I met the woman in this banner. Her name is Anuradha Koirala....

Tue, 16 Feb 2010 00:34:00 -0500

I met the woman in this banner. Her name is Anuradha Koirala. She is a modern day abolitionist and the founder of Maiti Nepal, an organization that rescues girls from the sex trade in Nepal. One of the goals for our journey and for the film was to bring awareness of the prevalence of sexual slavery and trafficking in places like Nepal.

The stories we heard were harrowing. Unfortunately we could not film any of the survivors or the workers at Maiti Nepal. We were just able to talk to the spokesperson and founder, which was a great enough honor to us. She encouraged us to find stories and tell them any way we could. At this point we are only able to graze the surface of the horrible and dark reality of this perverse trade in human flesh. Bringing justice will not be easy. It takes hard and dangerous work to bring justice for others, and the joining of so many hands to stop the injustice from ever occurring.

But it is exactly the kind of work that our Savior calls us to carry out in his name. It is time for the people of God to get their hands dirty as they wipe away the tears of the oppressed and the enslaved. To hear their cry and not turn away.

“Now no one call me with the name I love the most, now I am pretty. And now I don’t have friends. I am alone in this world which I have not seen because I have not moved out of my room since I arrived here way back in April 14th 2006.” [read the rest of this story on Maiti Nepal]

Click the banner image to support Not For Sale, the organization that is currently supporting Maiti Nepal and doing a huge amount of work to end human trafficking around the world.

Last night was spent with my family recalling the past years...

Fri, 01 Jan 2010 12:41:00 -0500

Last night was spent with my family recalling the past years achievements, and looking forward to new ones for 2010. I wasn’t with my family last year at this time of the new year, making resolutions and laughing about memories. Something else had called me far away. Something on the other side of the world. Something beautiful, and painful.

When it was my turn to share I told them about that new years away from them. I was at a party, and I served the drinks and interviewed the guests. Only our guests were all homeless and all children. There was laughter, but it was bittersweet. There were memories, but painful twisted ones on the part of the children. Can I go back to that? My life right now is so good, and my plans seem so perfect… but there are children dying alone on new years while we enjoy family and friends. Where is justice? Perhaps the God follower can answer. For my part I know that my New Years Resolution must be this:

“Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh?” [Isaiah 58:6-7]

“Jesus said that we are the salt and the light of the world, and I find myself praying that I will not forget why I am doing the good I have set out to do.

It is because He said if we did not take care of the orphans and the widows we were far from his heart. “Let the little children come to me, the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.”

Read Day 12: Blowin’ In The Wind for the rest of the story.

“Today our world cries out all around us. Suffering and...

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 03:17:00 -0500

“Today our world cries out all around us. Suffering and brokenness, hunger and exploitation cling with desperation to worn prayers for rescue. An entire people remain without rights, aching at ever continuing news of the murder and abuse of their loved ones. The Tibetan plight continues…and they are not alone.

Maybe prayers go unanswered most when our voices remain silent and our hands remain still.”

-Patrick Covert

I am nearly finished with an edit of the fourth episode of the series. I had to go back tonight to read the travel blog and reflect on the thoughts and emotions of that time. It is one of my favorite parts of the journey for many reasons. The time we spent with Mr. Buche at the Tibetan refugee camp in Pokhara being not in the least of them.

“Life is a book.” he said as we entered his house and he sat us down to Chai and a plate full of delicious crackers… “Those who stay at home read only one page.”

Read: Day 13. Builder of a Nation.

going to back to Nepal for the rest of the night. Nepal has the...

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 19:10:00 -0500

going to back to Nepal for the rest of the night.

Nepal has the greatest potential for hydro power of any country in the world, but half the time the entire country is in a blackout. Why?

Made for an official presentation to the World Bank Oct 28th....

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 12:17:00 -0500

Made for an official presentation to the World Bank Oct 28th. Edge Outreach trains ordinary people to do extraordinary work, bringing hope and pure water to developing nations around the globe.

Credit goes to John Lefan for equipment and assistance.

edgeoutreach.com

I have begun adding some of the stunning photos from the Nepal...

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 10:19:00 -0500

I have begun adding some of the stunning photos from the Nepal trip to the Traveler Films Flickr page. Enjoy a preview of the final slideshow here.

(excerpt from the travel journal) I have been home 3 weeks....

Fri, 06 Feb 2009 13:36:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

I have been home 3 weeks. I feel like I should have lots to say but I feel very little inspiration to write this. I suppose it is part of the journey to return home and find yourself falling into routine because it is there. It is a difficult line to walk, I have so much stuff and I do so little with it all, and most the time it is what distracts me. I get caught up in stuff.

So what would happen to me if I was without stuff? That has been part of the exercise of this trip. Why we took the journey. We want to figure out a small part of what it means to live out the life that Jesus has for us. His words have been drawn out like echoes to our souls this trip. It at times has been very humbling to see just how far we are from understanding the true weight of an unconditional love and an unconditional life.

I have spent some time going through the footage and recalling the stories, and I am blown away by the memories – feeling unworthy of the weight of them.

On the final day in Nepal, we went to Monkey temple. On the drive back from that place we were silent. That there was so little that we could do, that the people would continue to throw coins and rice at idols, and the poor will continue to beg, and we will return to America and do nothing; I believe that was in all our thoughts that day.

But we had one more meeting.

We asked our taxi driver take us to the place where we would meet Bikash, someone we were told we needed to meet with before leaving. We arrived quiet and tired but when we met Bikash we were met with enthusiasm and love. I can’t discribe it but he was just different from so many of the Nepalese. He wasn’t just friendly, he overwhelmed us with an atmosphere of hope and joy. He could speak english very well and he was talkitive in a way that made you want to listen to him.

I didn’t know what to expect as we drove to his church. We had not been to any churches since coming to Nepal. As we pulled into the small courtyard of the building I knew this church was like none I had ever been to before. There were kids in casts, men in wheelchairs, people just sitting on the church steps. They were smiling as we got out of the car. Once again I fought a wave of hope from these people that threatened to make me one of them.

We listened to Bikash tell his families story. His father was the pastor of the little congregation, and was confined to a wheelchair. It was the focus of the church to take care of the sick and the disabled.
He spoke animatedly and with each story of God’s provision and healing we were disarmed and our hearts rose.

Bikash was not going to merely tell us of the churches work. He packed us back in our sardine tin taxi and drove us far from the city. We then had to walk down into the valley. We began to meet people who had been blessed by the church. They greeted Bikash and us heartely. My heart was continuing to swell with hope as I fought away thoughts of the journey home.
We were led to the leprosy village where we were once again greeted with smiles and “namaste”, some of these smiles were disfigured but all of them were the truest expressions of joy.

I wish I remembered everything Bikash told us in detail, but he told us of the people being forgotten and outcasts. They were sent to the valley and until recently it was very hard to reach. The church has taken over where the government abandoned them and cares for them when the rest of their world rejects them. Karma. It means they must have done something to deserve their punishment. There is little compassion.

But as we left that valley of leprosy effected people and their families, and the church that cares for them, we were lifted from our solemn state. We knew this was the church Christ asks us all to be, his face on this earth.

I wish I could go back.

Shepherd / hope-filled follower of Jesus

(excerpt from the travel journal) The mornings are cold in...

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 13:30:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

The mornings are cold in Nepal. Wrapped in my sleeping bag I can feel the cold only on my face. Right outside our window Thamel, the tourist area of Kathmandu, is already awake with street-side chatter and vehicles honking. It is always hard to get out of bed but the noise helps me wake up. Today is the 8^th, my Birthday… and our last day in Nepal, I think to myself. We pack up and then climb to the ‘Rooftop Restaurant’ of our guesthouse for breakfast. Amidst munching on eggs and toast, and sipping fresh squeezed orange juice and Nepali tea, we call a contact here and learn we won’t be able to meet today. Our morning is now open. There is no time to make plans with another contact so we move to plan B which is visiting the famed Monkey Temple or Swayambunath Stupa to get some religious footage. On our way to withdraw some money at an ATM and get a taxi we come across three women with little babies; they thrust empty bottles in our faces and ask us to buy milk for their little ones. We have been told about this act. It may be just an act, but is rakes at our hearts. We keep walking, they walk with us. We withdraw the money, they wait outside for us. We tell them no and so sorry.

After half heartedly haggling with the taxi driver over the fare we jump in his tin can of a car and grind our way up the mountain, or hill as they call it here. At the gate we are surprised to learn that a one hundred fifty Rupee fee is required for each to enter the temple, we pay it. Tourism has completely taken over here. Sellers of souvenirs babble for our attention as kaki monkeys watch us warily. Suit clad Nepalese businessmen pose in front of a statue for a photo. Westerners and Nepalese alike throw coins at a gilded statue of Buddha which sits on a pedestal in a shallow pool of water. As we move towards a broad stone staircase leading up to the main temple area I glimpse the ragged forms of three women sitting on the steps. Closer examination reveals a small baby cradled in each woman’s arms. I stall at the foot of the stairs. A white woman next to me swats a way a salesman like a fly; he quietly walks away. I notice a monkey nearby; I think he is staring at me. DAaaahhhh!! Whatever! OK! I will walk up the stairs.

Thankfully an old Nepalese couple is giving the ladies money as I walk by.

Atop the stairs I see more statues, more prayer wheals, more monkeys, and more white tourists. I think I am about ready to go. The old Nepalese couple are gently tossing rice at each little shrine and statue they pass by. The tourists look on, take pictures, and sniff back their winter colds.

“Let’s get out of here.” I tell Patrick. “I’ve seen enough.”

We climb back down the steps, only this time we are caught by the beggars’ gauntlet half way down. They greet us in both Nepalese and Tibetan motioning for food or money… mostly money. We try to ask them their names and if they are from Tibet. I am not really sure of their answer; mostly we get needy mumblings, suppressed smiles, and silence. After trying to talk with them a while we settle on giving them some of the granola bars we brought with us. They seem to realize that they won’t get much else out of us and quietly move on. Back down at the base we are now surrounded again by businessmen laughing, taking pictures, and tossing money to the gilded statue. This is so broken, I think to myself frustratedly. They are literally throwing money at an idol while the hungry and poor sit not paces away! Then it hits me: I do the same. We do the same.

How do I attend a $10 movie when a homeless man is freezing under a bridge? How can I spend over $400 for a gaming system for Christmas when my neighbor is being evicted? How do I pass up my hurting friend to catch the next episode of LOST? These are just as real and deceiving as a gilded statue. It is up to you how far you go with this analogy; but as for me, when I get the chance to choose between the idol of entertainment and the uncomfortable plight of the poor. I hope, by the help of Jesus, I choose the poor.

That morning was probably the most hopeless I felt during this entire trip. But what happened in the second half of the day was the sunlight after the storm. We were able to see that God was indeed at work through his Church and how beautifuly that played out in the lives of the cast aside. But that is for another post.

Caleb/convicted money thrower

(excerpt from the travel journal) I’m furious. I’m sick. My...

Wed, 07 Jan 2009 13:23:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

I’m furious. I’m sick. My stomach’s churning. I can feel my heart pounding. Exhaustion weighs so heavy on my shoulders, on my spirit. There’s no way you can read this with the passion I feel right now. No way you can know.

So much hurt. I’m hurting. We ate with another street kid. Just another street kid. Just another street kid I walked past. Just another street kid sniffing glue, dendrite. Just another filthy pair of child hands with a crumpled, filthy paper bag pressed tight against his filthy face.

But my pounding heart turned my steps. Deep sorrow clung to my legs like a stubborn beggar. He was probably sniffing to forget the hunger, to ward off the cold.

Retracing my steps, he was already coming my direction. I give a “Namaste” and a smile and he’s already begging. “Food?” He wants Nepali chicken dal bhat. I’m eager to go with him to find a meal. My heart set to fleeting rest.

But as he shovels his dirty, street-smudged face, a sickness swells inside. Just another meal for just another street kid. This is so wrong. This is messed up. By tonight he’ll be sniffing again. Inhaling the toxic air to get through another night. Anger swells at this egregious, blatant injustice. So wrong. This is wrong. For my brother or your son, we’d not sleep, not eat again until he was rescued from these filthy streets.

I’m furious this isn’t ending. Who’s doing anything? Is anyone doing anything? Does anyone care?

And I’m sick. I’m furious. Because I know how easy it will be for me to go back and just live my easy life. So comfortable. I’ll be busy, so busy. School, work, projects, friends. I’ll be eating in my school cafeteria again. So far from the street kids and beggars. So far. Sick, because I know how easy it will be to forget. To just go on.

“It’s too much to think about. You’re emotionally exhausted. You can’t fix everything. You’ve got to press on so you can help him someday. You can’t fix everything.”

Is that what you say? I can’t help but wonder if that’s what you’re thinking. Is that what you’re thinking? Because maybe there’s a voice inside trying to make myself feel better with thoughts like that.

Well it doesn’t.

Enough.

I can’t do everything. Will I do anything, about anything? Anything? Anything? Anything?

I don’t know what to say. Part of me just wants to forget for a while. To sleep.

But should I ever forget, I pray that one forgetful day as I eat some warm meal in some warm restaurant, I catch a glimpse of his face in some puddle of my mind, and I feel completely sick. And I can’t finish.

Maybe if you’d stared into his eyes. Watched him eat. Seen the smile stretch across his face as he talked about dendrite. Stared deep into his eyes. Maybe then you’d feel the same.

There’s no way you can know.

And forgive me. Forgive me if you do. His face is just one of millions. Maybe you’ve eaten with him. Held him. Stared into his eyes. Then maybe you know.

Maybe then.

I can’t sleep.

Patrick

(excerpt from the travel journal) Tiring hope renewed, we’re...

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 13:15:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Tiring hope renewed, we’re off again. Once more our ascending journey mirrors our emotion. We’ve heard of a remnant, a refugee people, living nestled away amongst the thick green, hills which fade away in softening folds of gray.

A day earlier we met several street vendors. Carefully unwrapping their hand-made jewelry wrapped neatly in dark red cloth, we were compelled to listen, their gentle manner and smiling faces winning our audience. As we gazed over endless designs of beads and bracelets, long shadows gave way to deepening darkness, and word of an outcast people was brought to light. We heard only the beginning but wanted to know more, and soon excited plans were underway to visit their village. Packing their crafts with as much care as their presentation, our time together came to an end. Finishing last, the oldest woman, her kind round face adorned with deep lines of wisdom, noted that she was like my mother, deep lines turning to gentle smile. Everyone agreed, and now I have a mother in Nepal. …You can sleep a little easier tonight mom and dad, there’s a mom right here looking after me.

…So hope drew us to the hills again.

Already waiting for us when we arrive, we are warmly ushered into the home of Mr. Buche, one of around 600 people here at this Tibetan refugee settlement. We’re overwhelmed by his hospitality and gracious welcome into his home. Steaming cups of tia begin our conversation and we soon are drawn deep into the history of Tibet and its people. A teacher by profession, Mr. Buche’s stories capture our attention, revealing the longings of a people without home.

His story begins in the early days in Tibet. Life was easy then, people lived in community and used the barter system. Peace laid their heads to rest in the evening. But the rich land and natural resources proved irresistible for Tibet’s hulking neighbor and struggle ensued. Resistance of the small nation could not remain definite, and finally China’s brute force prevailed. Those who could escape now live as refugees in settlement camps, living without citizenship and possessing few rights. He described how as a refugee he could not own land, could not travel abroad with ease, and could not engage in many jobs. Moreover, the refugees own hardship is only intensified as even in 2008 protesters of Chinese occupation were beaten, tortured, imprisoned… even killed by their unwavering captors. Deep sadness set in as we heard how many children were left orphans as their parents went away for the protest in the morning and simply never returned… An unsettlingly common remembrance for the Tibetan refugee.

With personal story continuing, we heard of his family’s night flight as a young child and his eventual schooling in India. Finding inspiration in a newspaper quotation, his life course was set…
“A teacher is the builder of a nation…” The builder of a nation. An ambitious yet fitting vocation for a young man caught in the midst of national unrest brought on by a colonial appetite.

For the last 30 years, Mr. Buche has lived out this very task. Though one man, the plea of an entire people teem as his voice and passion raise for home.

The builder of a nation.

“The Spirit of the Lord is one me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor,” (Luke 4:18…)

Here at the beginning of Jesus’ ministry, he sets forth the outline for the rest of his life, an outline for what this new kingdom looks like fleshed out on earth. He looks for and calls out a peculiar people, a people not of right birth, or right class, or even of right religious ritual. Instead he crafts a people who do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with their God. A people genuinely concerned about their neighbor regardless of how different from themselves. A people burdened by suffering and passionately committed to righting wrongs. A people who care for the outcast, oppressed, and hungry…who take care of widows and orphans. A people who extend invitation to the stranger and take in the hurting. A whole people of holistic redemption. The builder of a nation.

As we left, we are overwhelmed once again as we are gifted with beautiful, light scarves. Sometimes given as gifts to holy men, this ‘katha’ is a symbol bestowed to honor a guest…and for us, to remember, to never forget our Tibetan neighbors and family…

Today our world cries out all around us. Suffering and brokenness, hunger and exploitation cling with desperation to worn prayers for rescue. An entire people remain without rights, aching at ever continuing news of the murder and abuse of their loved ones. The Tibetan plight continues…and they are not alone.

Maybe prayers go unanswered most when our voices remain silent and our hands remain still.

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
       to loose the chains of injustice
       and untie the cords of the yoke,
       to set the oppressed free
       and break every yoke?
    Is it not to share your food with the hungry
       and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
       when you see the naked, to clothe him,
       and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
    Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
       and your healing will quickly appear;
       then your righteousness will go before you,
       and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.
    Then you will call, and the LORD will answer;
       you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.
       “If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
       with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
     and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
       and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
       then your light will rise in the darkness,
       and your night will become like the noonday.
     The LORD will guide you always;
       he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
       and will strengthen your frame.
       You will be like a well-watered garden,
       like a spring whose waters never fail.

Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
       and will raise up the age-old foundations;
       you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
       Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.”
(Isaiah 58)

The builder of a nation. Oh to live this gracious calling.

Tashi delek

Patrick/ trying to speak

Author’s Note: The history between Tibet and China is admittedly more complex and lengthy than the one described above. Rather than an exhaustive chronicle, this post represents the story of one man and an intricate global conflict as viewed through his eyes. However, this first person perspective often offers a depth of insight that no textbook can offer.

(excerpt from the travel journal) The stench of the streets...

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 13:09:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

The stench of the streets cover their clothes and bodies. They live on the streets, most nights they sleep in the Hindu temples for shelter, and they are smiling.
There are about 11 of them altogether crowded into the little restaurant. Tonight is New Years Eve and we are all here. The children all sit and talk excitedly in Nepalese, and wait.
Kushal begins to take orders for Momo and Chow-mien; the kids are grateful and surprisingly quiet as they get their food and drinks. We get 2 liters of Coke and I can hardly keep up with their demands for more. They are the forgotten children, but tonight they have names. They eat quickly, but they serve each other. A few of the kids are brothers, all are boys. I am overwhelmed by the scene only when I step back from it. They cannot go to school, they have no protection or shelter. They tell us of sniffing glue to kill the emptiness that is their enemy. They sometimes drink. The youngest is probably only 2 years old. When Kushal asks him how he came to live on the streets he replies: “I came!”
The restaurant is a small place on “freak street”, and it is smaller than my bedroom back home, and with lower ceilings. The owner is kept busy making all the food for the hungry children and his young son works hard to serve the honored guests for tonight.
I order Chow-mien. It is served in a bowl made entirely of dried leaves, and it is delicious. For a time I forget who I am back “home”. Here I am a friend to these precious kids, and I am here to tell their story.
The owner seems bewildered by the scene when we first arrive, but after he observes his customers for a while, he just smiles. A light has come to this place on this night.
As Kushal translates the stories of each of the children we are saddened. They seem to be happy, but their circumstances are some of the bleakest I have encountered, and they are just children.

The boy in the picture told his story for us. He is 13. His eye is swollen because of asthema made worse by the dust of the streets and constant fighting with the other kids. He lived at an orphanage for a while, but they got new children and kicked him and the older children out. He doesn’t have a mother or father to take care of him, and he cannot go to school. He wants to study but now he is too old and cannot pay for it.
I want to take care of him, to give him a chance again, but for now this is all we can do.

As I write this I sit in a much nicer restaurant in Pokhara, far from the children we spent that New Years Eve with. Bob Dylan’s voice is coming through the speakers telling me that the answer to these questions I have is blowin’ in the wind… and I wonder if that is so, or if I am not looking hard enough.
Jesus said that we are the salt and the light of the world, and I find myself praying that I will not forget why I am doing the good I have set out to do. It is because He said if we did not take care of the orphans and the widows we were far from his heart. “Let the little children come to me, the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.”
If this is true than we were serving the princes of that very kingdom, children who need hope. They take refuge now in the houses of idols, gods that never existed, nor care for them. Where is the body of the living God who loves them and made them? Christ called us to be that very body, and be that light that dispels the darkness. I don’t think this is easy, or reason for boasting. In fact I find it at times I sense a dichotomy exposed between that which I believe, and that which I live.

As we say goodbye to the children and head back to our hotel we are quiet. The beauty in the children is contrasted sharply by the ugliness of their situation. Can we make a difference? Is our story and theirs intersecting for a reason bigger than we can see right now?
We watch a movie on our laptop and fall asleep wishing there was an easier way to bridge the sharp divide between our life and theirs. Outside our hotel the New Years celebrations are loud and last late into the night. The thoughts of the children rest uneasy on our minds.
This is true religion. To take care of the orphan and the widows in their distress.
I can still hear their chorus of “Namaste!” as I met them.

Shepherd/ a white stranger

(excerpt from the travel journal) It was almost as if I was...

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 13:02:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

It was almost as if I was sprouting wings as we drove out of the Kathmandu valley. The smog and incessant honking was wearing me down to where I could hardly breathe. Buildings began to crowd in less and color and people began to appear through the ever widening gaps between them. Each sari-clad wife washing clothes, each child at play, each little rice terrace garden was a breath of fresh air as we flew to the hills and forests.

Clatter and bump our little minibus goes around the looping dirt road, dodging oversize trucks with messages like “Slow Drive – Long Life” painted on their bumpers. Between sailing through white dust-clouds we get a glimpse of gardens, houses, and people below. Our minibus lands right at the foot of a stone staircase. We are here to visit a Leprosy Hospital that we are told is at the top of these steps. I feel my thighs burn and breath is short but I push on urgently; we are an hour and a half late for our appointment and they should be closing in just a half hour. My fears are allayed when at the top we are greeted warmly and told we will be able to film anything we would like. I wonder what we will find. The face of Jesus, I hope.

“Where can we meet some of the leprosy affected people?” I ask after touring the kitchen and bio-gas producing facility.

“Yes, next we can visit the mens’ ward.” our guide offers.

We enter into a sanctuary of sorts where men can gain dignity and heath. The fatherly faces that greet us lay aside every ting of fear or reservation. They have purpose and the future is bright. Toothy grins and greetings of “Namaste” find us there as we touch the face of Jesus. “Tell me, how long are the patients usually here?” I ask.

“Maybe six months; it depends on how severe the case. They are able to stay free of charge and receive all the necessary medications and therapy. Some times they return here because their sores come back.” I am told, “Now maybe we can visit the womens’ ward.”

Entering the women’s ward was warm and filled with smiles, shy wrinkles and laughter! Pain exists but holiness prevails. Mothers and grandmothers knit with beautiful gnarled hands and chat back and forth. Kate, an American girl working here with United Mission to Nepal who is traveling with us for the
day, connects well with the women. She speaks in Nepalese asking the women their names. I just smile and absorb theirs. In each person a hope of wholeness exists that leaves me more full and whole through interaction with it. Pain exists but hope and holiness prevail.

As we prepare to leave I notice a large sign in Nepalese script and ask our guide what it means.
“It means, ‘Forest of Joy’” he replies, “That is the name of our facility here.”
They could not have picked a better name.

Even though I will descend back into the Kathmandu valley, I will keep my eyes on the hills and always remember the faces, joy and hope that I encountered there.

I will remember that pain exists but, hope and holiness prevail.

Caleb/uplifted traveler

(excerpt from the travel journal) …Many other events have...

Fri, 02 Jan 2009 12:50:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

…Many other events have transpired in the last few days. So many that it’s sometimes difficult to process everything, even more so to describe. In view of this continuing process, this specific post doesn’t describe our journey itinerary but rather creates a snapshot of our journey experience…

A businessman sits casually across from his guest, confident words packaged neatly in a thin plastic coating. Leaning forward, elbows resting on knees, his posture mirrors his manner, engaging yet demanding. He talks too much.
He looks and sounds like the typical middle-aged, American businessman, meeting a few potential clients in the most Western coffee shop we’ve seen. I feel out of place here.

Smooth words puff like unwelcomed smoke from an unwelcomed smoker…evident in the juxtaposition of his own posture to his guest’s, back pressed against her chair across the table, slouched. She brightens noticeably at the joining of another guest, a relieving pause from the seller’s pitch. A sense of rescue accompanies her soft kiss on his cheek.

I couldn’t hear very well and honestly didn’t mean to listen or notice, only his vice bumped into me, like a clumsy passerby on a crowded street, above the festive background music and warm chatter. And in all fairness, I don’t know him or anything about him. Only I couldn’t help feel a sense of discomfort at his crowding words and polished agreement…just too quick to incorporate his guests’ remark into his continuing pitch. Couldn’t help but feel on guard against his shrewd smile. Maybe you’ve felt it when it seems that friendliness is but a thin, crackled mask for the coming sale. There is a hearing that precedes, transcends sound.

As the pitch seemed to fall on wet kindling, reluctant responses gave way to rambling conversation. Again, I couldn’t and didn’t particularly care to hear, but his volume continued to take up more than his share of table space. Part of me wondered if he wouldn’t soon turn to me and try to sell something…
Trying to distance myself from their chatting, one question lifted my head and pulled me in, “so how old’s your son?” one of the guests asks. Maybe it wasn’t even the question so much as the response that captured my attention.
…For once, silence. A struggling face, “…maybe seven or eight…six…” And the conversation rambles on. But I’m completely astounded, left in disbelief. Incredulous. Maybe I heard the question wrong. A deep unsettledness says maybe I didn’t.

Disgust washed by deep sadness follows his answer. How easy it is to see how obviously he’s missed it, traded once passionate, now faded family life to be wed to a corporate ladder…relationship with a son exchanged for contacts in the next big deal. How very obvious and so deeply saddening. The warmth of a family for another dollar. Real love and meaning for facades of contentedness and fleeting comfort. Wholeness for emptiness.

So painfully clear.

…Another wealthy man, young, approaches Jesus and asks what he has to do to gain eternal life.
Responding to Jesus’ quote of several ancient commandments, the young man tells that he has been faithful to these. Perhaps he’s comforted and is left with confidence. Astonishingly, Jesus continues.
Boasting smiles washing from the young man’s face. “You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor. Then come follow me.” Saddened, the wealthy young man turns and fades into the gathering crowd. (paraphrase, Luke 18)

Wholeness for emptiness.

Though I’m middle-class in my comfortable society, as a member of the world’s community, I am unimaginably wealthy. So wealthy that I flush clean water down my toilet and throw away food I don’t enjoy. And yes, I’m asking, struggling, trying, but this process sometimes reveals a reluctance. Could I sell everything if asked? Am I asked, called, pleaded to sell everything? Does the way of Jesus counter
my wealth?

How can it not?

Wholeness for emptiness. How easy it is to see the speck in another.

Patrick/ an awakening rich young man

(excerpt from the travel journal) In the dark of a planned...

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:42:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

In the dark of a planned city wide power outage we walked… Kathmandu is full of people, living out their lives selling souvenirs to tourists, gear to trekkers, food to their own people, and everything in between to everyone. During the day we could see temples and huge hills and narrow streets, now those streets feel even narrower as we sidestep taxis and motorcycles and dogs… and one rather unexpected donkey that I nearly walked into in the fading light.

Our new guide is named Kushal. He is a friendly and well spoken young man we met as we searched for a camera store. He is about our age and promises to help us find our way around. He is eager to help and we feel like we have known him for a long time after having only been with him for a few hours. Kushal takes us to a cafe in a place called ‘freak street’, a street known for hippies who still love Nepal for its permissive drug policies. It is a nice place, with candles lighting the small garden style restaurant. We settle on “Tia” or Chai as we are familiar with it and some flat bread. The aroma is delicious. We ask our new friend about himself and his life, and he goes on to share much of his life story. We feel good about his honesty and openness toward us, as well as his value of friendship over material. As we eye our surroundings we hear a loud shriek in the tree above us, and look up in time to see a rat about the size of a tomcat fighting with another rat of near equal size. Our friend calls to the waiter and tells him about the guest, to which the waiter replies chuckling “catch it and throw it back.”
We only hear the rats once more as we finish our meal, and they seemed to have found some common ground. We pay for our small meal and leave to return to our hotel. On our way we go to the many shops looking for a couple jackets and a sleeping bag. It seems to take Patrick a long time to settle on anything, which frustrates me. I decided to sit and talk with Kushal. He tells me the story of how the elephant headed god in Hinduism came to be. He says he is Hindu, but most of the time he is not sure, “there may be no God” he says, “or there may be one”. “In Hinduism” he says “you speak to one god and anger another.” He laughs and rolls his eyes. We finally settle on something to buy and part with our new friend at our hotel. We get his email address and phone number and he tells us to call him soon.

As we go to the roof of the hotel for our evening meal Patrick explains his hesitance to buy the relatively cheap gear from the local shops in our tourist district. It is the issue of “fair-trade”.
The shop owners acknowledged the reason for such low prices was because the items were counterfeit… Though we have no idea how such items are made, we cannot shake the fact that we have no idea if the clothes we wear and purchase were made by children or oppressed workers in slave like conditions. Are the clothes cheap because the workers who make them are underpaid for their work? We talked for hours about what our response to this issue should be over our Nepalese meal. Rice and Lentil soup with black tea. I think the Nepalese life is beginning to take a hold.

After only the second day in Kathmandu I know for sure I will not be the same in so many ways when I return home. So many questions, such a short life, and yet perhaps we should be more like the Nepalese. To have a more peaceful outlook on life.

“Shanti, Shanti”
(Peace, Peace)

Shepherd/“wildlife” enthusiast

(excerpt from the travel journal) The bittersweet aroma of...

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:31:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

The bittersweet aroma of exhaust, dusty roads, refuse, and just a tinge of incense press in around us as we bump along in Nepali traffic. By patting his leg our Rickshaw driver assures us that three people in a maybe-two-person space is no problem. We give each other a considering look, shrug, and climb aboard. With Patrick on my lap and Shepherd manning the camera we take in the story of the streets of Kathmandu. I wonder at some of the faces we pass by. The lady selling vegetables on the corner, she sits with a dozen more women jut like her, selling food to feed their children. A seller of trekking equipment stands outside his shop; most, if not all, of his wears are counterfeit, manufactured in China and sold to trekkers and tourists for cheap. Incense takes the aroma foreground, heralding a Hindu temple with its red dust and pagoda dragons. As we climb down from our buggy I notice a small dirty boy who sits above a white dog. He sees that he has caught my eye and quickly begins to plead for money for food. I know that it is illegal to give to street children or beggars in Nepal, at least I think I heard that. I have five Rupies in my pocket (about 7 cents) and think about discreetly giving it to him by dropping it on him as we pass by. But, I know that won’t really do him any good… that amount is even insulting in a way. If I give him more money he may make a scene and then I will have a dozen other beggars to turn away or give to till my money is spent.

What should I do? What can I do? I decide to play it safe and by the law. I turn and ignore. “That dog with him looks pretty well fed”, I tell myself. “Maybe the boy as food enough if even the dog can eat.”
Can that be right? How do I love mercy, act justly and walk with God if I withhold from those who ask. “Give to the one who asks of you”, Jesus says. When does that NOT apply? These are the questions I am daily struggling with here. I know that the situation is complicated, but where and how do I draw lines? How do I love my neighbor if the cost is so high?
God, give me the ability to pay the cost with wisdom and love. Make me like Jesus in every way you will. Save me from myself. My eyes are on you Jesus.

Caleb Meeks/full of questions

(excerpt from the travel journal) Silently we sail over a...

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 12:26:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Silently we sail over a sleeping world, wrapped in a blanket of white and patches of lingering darkness. Here there is a quiet that carries and soothes, a harmony played around us as we descend. Within this quiet is such a real sense of newness, of hope, of morning…a warm sense of the world and its people clinging to hope in the midst of wrongs and brokenness…a feeling that leaves me foolish enough to believe something can be done, that I can be a part of bringing right and wholeness, a deep penetrating belief that hope remains. Hope, at first barely visible in burnt orange strokes against a dark canvas, now a vibrant diffusion of pink and gold, bringing light to the entire sky, giving word to the world of morning. Yes, hope remains.

And there is something so very sacred in this state of liminality, this in-betweeness of night and day, as the world waits for word to continue or cease, to bring light or dark, order or chaos. For me too, my soul must decide what music it will play, the score from which it will be directed. This morning, a voice deep within calls me to sing the song of a better man, to be more fully human, more in tune with the Way of Good News.

So may we join the harbinger’s song, informing the world of redemption and wholeness. May we bestow dignity in small gestures of putting others before ourselves. May we bring understanding and grace to counter the voice of fear and skepticism of our neighbor… may we join this Way, with lives lived out in the melody of Jesus.

Come, morning come.

Patrick, morning poet/ one who believes in a better way

(excerpt from the travel journal) London. At what is 1:02 AM...

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 12:08:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

London. At what is 1:02 AM at home I am sitting in a dining room waiting for Caleb and Patrick. I have been up for a couple hours now and I am waiting for tea and my first English continental breakfast. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I intend to capture that on my camera. Here is one instance where the time change of 6 hours is an advantage.
London is different than I expected. Having come from New York City I almost expected a similar vibe. So London is fairly busy, but friendlier and more tasteful by far. I love it and I think I could stay here.

But this is only a stop on the way. There still lies about 50 hours of travel before we at long last reach our destination. This project and trip has become more and more about the journey and I think I am becoming more or less glad for that. I find it challenging to have so little control over our travel and the story we set out to tell. That is good, it is stretching me. So far God has kept us healthy, and brought us the right people on our way. It is exhilarating to be in new places and experience new things, and I am thankful for the opportunity to do so.

I am amazed by the journey at this point, having nearly seen this dream die at the gate. We are on our way, and we have managed to push through what has been one of the greatest challenges we have ever faced. God has stretched us. We have no idea what is coming next, but I am not afraid. I am certain He intends to use whatever circumstances and challenges to shape us and grow us into mature followers of His gospel.

Shepherd/morning dweller/connoisseur of cheap food

(excerpt from the travel journal) Times Square on Christmas...

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 19:08:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Times Square on Christmas Eve; the cacophony and flash of skyscraper video-billboards cram their messages into the minds of the continuous flows of human beings. Limousines and beggars, fights and kisses, Rolex hawkers and faceless strangers milling bye, and three men standing under an overpass away from the drizzle trying to buy tickets to Nepal.

“The airline won’t take any of the credit cards you have given me. I don’t know why this is not working.” says a travel agent, sacrificing much of his Christmas Eve to help us get flights.

“…I don’t know what else to do.” I reply.

For the umpteenth time I felt nearly sure that we will not be going to Nepal. Huddling against that marble wall we have exhausted every possible avenue we can think of. After over one hundred and one hours of trying, we have come to the end. And then, somehow, there at the end, in a matter of seconds, the tide shifts. With some unforeseen travel agent magic we had purchased the tickets, we were going to Nepal, a way had been made.
To celebrate we went and got Gyros with a man named Davis who we had met randomly on the street while we were buying tickets. After we ate the Gyros, Davis asked if he could pray for us and our journey. We all four held hands on a sidewalk in Times Square as the crowd rushed past on their way and Davis blessed us. God works through his body and we are blessed to be a part of that body. Praise him for the great things he has done and for a way being made where there is no other!

There will be more mess-ups and mix-ups to come but we will continue to press on.

“The LORD gives strength to his people; the LORD blesses his people with peace.”
-Psalm 29:11

Caleb/Blessed Follower,Possessor of an Indian Visa

(excerpt from the travel journal) Day 3: Dec 23rd 2008 The...

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 13:23:00 -0500

(excerpt from the travel journal)

Day 3: Dec 23rd 2008

The last 12 hours have been the craziest 12 hours of our lives. I think we all are frayed to the point of exhaustion. And yet and yet. There is a ray of hope.
The past twelve hours I think each one of us has felt more or less like this trip was a failure.
The past twelve hours I am pretty sure we have each doubted the strength of God’s commitment to us… (as though He might owe us anything.)
The past twelve hours we have looked for the miraculous as much as possible and every door has slammed on us… It seemed.

“O ye of little faith.”

Perhaps to me if God gave us an outright no I could in my mind count this trip, not as a failure in God’s big picture, but as a lesson, or God’s testing us out of a greater love. Nothing felt like a greater disappointment than to see our trip and plans cut so short at the gate of exit.

At this point each time we found tickets (that didn’t require an India visa, as we had exhausted our options there) we had the flight book up, or the price too high, or we would have to travel separately, or they were too late. Honestly we were ready to admit defeat. We discussed the implications of this many times, and spent hours in fervent Prayer late into the night. I am certain we were being fervently prayed for as well. While it is hard to think of another trip more fraught with difficulty in these days, we recognized that many servants of God have had far worse traveling difficulties. Specifically Paul was shipwrecked, and imprisoned, and yet he still persisted, and trusted God.
So we decided not to give up. We will wait and see what God does…

Day 4: Dec 24th 2008

Since we are a day behind we are going to catch you up on Christmas morning with the miracle of Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas to all our beloved friends and family!

Shepherd Ahlers/filmmaker, tired writer