It was dark inside. We had just stepped out of the sunlight into a small one room brick house. There was no electricity, no lights of any kind. As our eyes began to adjust we could see rice sacks scattered around like rugs trying to cover the dirt floor. There were no chairs, just a bed in the corner to sit on.
A woman sat on the floor clutching a small baby to her chest rocking her back and forth as the little one coughed and wheezed. Her husband scurried about the room looking for some cups as he prepared chai over a small mound of hot coals. He reached his hands, covered with dirt and callouses into a tub and retrieved some cups from the dirty brown water. He wiped his hands around in the cups in a gesture of trying to clean them for us and then poured the hot liquid. I smiled and sipped the chai.
The woman’s dark skinned face was etched with worry as she told me of her child’s illness and showed me the medicine bottles that had taken their last rupees. Despite their sacrifices the child was not getting better. I told them about the God who loved them, who died for them and who answered prayer. After a few moments the woman stepped across the small room and laid her little girl in my arms. As she looked at me I could see sparks of hope trying to flicker in her eyes. Hope that this God I spoke of would help her baby live.