Blue Carpet

The six of us sat on the blue carpeted floor of a tin-roofed building the size of a long living room. The dark brick walls led to open doors. Outside, on the far end of a brick lined court yard, red flowers in clay pots accepted the falling rain. Inside, Amanda enjoyed her orange soda which proudly proclaimed that it contained no fruit.

The building was a church. On one end was an inexpensive drum set, a podium, a cross on the wall, and a basket full of brightly colored tambourines with streamers. The other end had a white board and a smaller podium. The room had no chairs. Early each Saturday morning the building is filled with over a hundred children. Later it is filled with adults. The aging pastor who started the church six years ago was born a Hindu but became a Christian seventeen years ago. At the church’s beginning it had only 16 people. Every week they boast of more baptisms.

The six sitting on the floor include Amanda and me; our Guide, Chabbi; his brother; the pastor; and some other guy who bought us all soda. None the church staff spoke English and our guide interpreted for us. “Pray for us,” Chabbi said. The church is located in a heavily Buddhist area. As we walked to the church from Bouda Stupa, we passed shop after shop that smelled of smelting metal. “Idol makers,” Chabbi said.

The teachings of Buddha, as I understand them, talk about freeing one’s mind of cares through meditation and prayer. Here, people don’t seem to be doing that. It seems as if they participate in simple idol worship. The religious touch the charms and prostrate themselves before the stupa in hopes that they will reach nirvana. It really is kind of sad.

Bouda Stupa is the most impressive we have seen so far. It is hidden from the road behind a row of businesses. As we took a path through the buildings it appeared in all it’s grandeur.

The trip was actually for another purpose. After teaching a class on the history of Praise and Worship and eating Daal Bhat (beans and rice), Amanda and I needed to buy pegs for the guitar (it’s missing two, and I want to put new strings on it) and get songbooks for the church. Chabbi was the one available. We never made it to the music store for pegs.

Maranatha Christian Bookstore and Stationary is in a 100 sq ft room on the second floor off of a road of endless businesses and shops. If you didn’t know where it was, there is no way you would find it. Three of the walls were covered with book titles. Most of them in Nepali. One wall had some tapes and CDs. I picked up a CD of Nepali Praise and Worship. One of the guys sitting at the desk in the middle of the store told me I could get his CD that he recorded. “See, that’s me,” he said pointing to the cover.