A loud banging resounded across the atrium. It sounded hollow and sinister at first. My body filled with a dread I didn’t recognize.

“It’s only a drum,” I told myself.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t shake the heavy feeling that filled the cavity of my chest with each bang of the drum.monk.jpg

A barefoot little boy, no older than four, walked sleepily into the atrium. Holding his red robe tightly around his shoulders, he stepped into the temple.

The drum continued to punch the air with a sharp and steady bang. Bang. Bang.

“Hurry!” said Tschering, our new friend. He was one of only a few followers of Jesus among his people, a former lama-in-training. “This is their call to ‘upping.’”

We followed him up the steep stairs into a tower. Inside sat a monk in front of a bass drum. He pounded the drum on the second, almost oblivious to the 4 strangers who had joined him in the small chamber. With each beat of the drum, my eyes blinked. It seemed to shake my body from the inside out. I peered outside at all of the village below, still mostly asleep under the light grey sky. Beyond, the mountains rose high toward the heavens.

The monk beat the drum for another minute, hitting it so hard I wondered how long the drum skein would last. And then he slowed his tempo. A beat every four seconds.

“Now the monks must hurry to the temple,” said Tschering. “It is soon time to begin the chanting. Come, I will show you.”

Our friend led us back down the steep stairs and into the temple.

“Sit,” he motioned toward one of the long rows of cushions. He smiled comfortably, familiar with this world that seemed so foreign to me.

I thought of our temple tour just a few days before. The statue of Buddha, the burning candles, the murals of the gods had merely seemed like a museum to me. But now, the temple was alive with expectation of enlightenment and worship.

The young boy I’d seen a few minutes earlier already sat cross-legged on a cushion several rows over from us. He tucked his shawl under his feet and shivered. He looked so small sitting there. So vulnerable and alone. He reminded me of all the pre-schoolers I knew at home. I remembered a boy I’d babysat often and how he liked to cuddle up next to me when he first woke. Where was this boy’s mother? Who holds him now, kissing away his nightmares, assuring him he is loved? Who tosses him giggling into the air and catches him with a bear hug?

In Tibetan-Buddhist culture, it is compulsory to send at least one son to the monastery to be trained as a monk. Many families also send a daughter to the nunnery. Instead of parents, these kids live with a Lama in flowing robes. I’m not a mother, but I can only imagine how painful it would be to send my young and tender son to a faraway temple. Tears burned at the back of my eyes.

“I was that size when I lived in the monastery in Bangalore,” Tschering said, pointing at the smallest boy. His voice pulled me back to the present. We sat cross-legged, facing the door as another small boy scurried inside.

He stood in the aisle for a moment, fell to his knees, and bowed three times toward the 30-foot tall statue of Buddha and the altar to the Dali Lama. Then he, too, joined the first little boy on the mat.

An older monk, wearing a thick cape of dark red and a gold sash, walked around the temple. He lit candles and peered at the young boys like a school headmaster. He eyed us before opening both doors to the temple. Two hundred boys streamed inside. They ran, like a stampede, like an elementary school rush to recess.

Some looked as old as 15 or 16, others barely out of nursery school. They all stopped to bow before sitting down. From somewhere above us, came a deep-throated hum, almost a buzz.

“That is the lamas,” said Tschering.

“Can we go see?” asked David, who’d joined Paul and me for this trip to Tawang.

“No, it is the secret time,” answered Tschering. “No one is allowed.”

The lamas’ chanting grew louder, deeper. It sounded otherworldly. I wondered how their voices buzzed and groaned at the same time.

The monk headmaster motioned to the boys. Around the room, a few began to join the unseen lamas in their chanting. Their voices sounded high at first. A boys’ choir singing the sounds of vowels. Some of the boys closed their eyes as they chanted, rocking back and forth. But boys will be boys…even in a monastery high in the mountains. One looked ‘round and pulled his shawl over his head. He quickly fell asleep. A few of his friends teased each other, practically wrestling on the mat.

“These boys don’t understand the words they chant,” said Tschering. “And this is almost all they learn in school. They don’t even learn the meaning of the sacred books they recite.”

Buddhists have over 10,000 sacred texts. Tschering told us that in one of those books, Jesus is said to be a god. I prayed that these boys would be curious about the words they recited and that they would find this book. I prayed that as they meditated, they would have visions of God their Father and come to know Him.

I glanced at my watch. “It’s 5:00,” I whispered. “I think we need to go so we don’t miss our ride home.”