After much waiting and confusion - two things I am beginning to understand as the standards of everything in India - at long last our luggage is crammed into one car and tied to the roof of another jeep-like vehicle. Amazingly, all eleven of us - plus the driver - are expected to fit into this one vehicle. We do - the driver plus three of us in the front seat, four more in the back seat, and four in the rear cargo hatchback area.

We make for quite a sight, even in this chaos - eleven white Americans squeezed into a car. We zoom down the main road of Bhubaneswar, which is dirt peppered with potholes, narrowly missing bicycles, pedestrians, cows and mopeds. Our driver, like all the others around him, merely lays on his horn continuously - I assume to warn those in his path that it will be their fault if they are struck, having been given adequate warning.

After check-in and a too-short respite at the hotel, we pile back into vehicles - this time we have the luxury of two, so there are only three to a seat. Another careening ride down the bumping roads and a drive across a curious toll bridge on which there is much exchange of Hindi and then money, more waiting, and the gate is finally hand lifted by the guard. Night has fallen, as we lurch along and then, without warning, turn into the ashram.

In a second, the cars have stopped and 110 children are lined around the drive in a semi-circle, waving and chanting "Welcome" over and over. I climb out and they are all around us, touching our feet in blessing. I am overwhelmed and unsure what to do, blindly following behind Papa and Caroline, who are moving into the ashram. The children are shy at first, obviously excited to see us but reticent, following a few feet around us. One little girl, about seven years old, summons her courage and touches my arm, then takes my hand. "Hello," she says softly, looking up at me and just as quickly dropping her eyes, giggling. As soon as she does this, the crowd of surrounding children shed their reserve and instantly move in close, putting their hands out for me to shake. I do, over and over and over. There is a never-ending supply of hands raising in front of me, and as I grasp each one I bend down to look in their eyes and smile widely at them; in fact I can't keep the smile from my face. They are precious, so sweet and beautiful - and they are overjoyed, almost beyond belief, that we have traveled halfway around the world just to see them. "Hello" we tell each other over and over, as the throng of us slowly makes our way into the compound. It is almost surreal, and happening so quickly. I don't have time to look around, to see the new wing The Miracle Foundation has built or get any sense of where I'm at in the darkness. There's just the children, all around, and my feet moving forward until we're in a courtyard.

The children, as one, leave our sides and begin climbing a staircase in an orderly fashion. We follow with the dozen or so staff, removing our shoes at the top of the stairs and entering the prayer room. The children are already lined up and sitting on rugs on the floor. We are escorted to the front of the room where we, too, sit cross-legged. Papa walks to his brand-new podium and microphone and speaks, alternating between Orian and English. He welcomes us, calls us friends and Caroline his "daughter." We are each introduced one at a time, and the girls bring us each a bouquet and touch our feet. Then the prayers begin.

The children start with a simple chant - "om....om..." their small voices resonating deeply. Finally things slow down enough for me to begin to take it all in, to look at the kids clearly and in light, to start to feel my heart slow down. The chanting gives way to a song, the children's voices rising lyrically and filling the room. A soothing peace fills me, and I breathe out deeply. This is why we're here, and there's never been anything more worth it. The past 40 hours fall away as if they were nothing. The kids are healthy, clean, smiling, well-fed and beautiful. There is no need for sadness or pity for these children, because I have never been in the presence of such peace and happiness.

In the prayer room, the slow, soft song gives way to a faster one, and we are all clapping along. I scan the room, looking for Santosh - the child I have been sponsoring - but I do not see him. Soon the singing winds down and Papa prays. He tells us how there are many religions, all represented and respected, in the ashram. Here, there are Hindus, Christians, Buddhists, Muslims and Jews. We pray, Papa says, to God and Allah and Jesus and Mohammed. In the Hindu belief, all paths to enlightenment are valid, all paths are equally full of truth. The meaning of life is to love all. The purpose of life is to serve all. It's a simple prayer, reminding me that life need not be complicated unless we make it so.

Then the prayers are over, and Papa invites Caroline and any of the other volunteers to speak to the children. As she stands and begins to talk, he insists she go to the podium and use the microphone - a contraption he is clearly proud of. We tell the children how happy we are to be there, how much we and so many others back home love them and how they are a blessing to us. They surround us again, pushing to clasp our hands. One little girl, Dina, holds her fist up with index and pinky fingers pointing out, like a UT longhorn sign. She takes my hand and presses my fingers against hers. Then, our thumbs come down to meet, our wrists turn and we're shaking hands. I'm delighted - it's a secret handshake! At once all the kids want to do it, and I do the handshake over and over again.

Finally the staff leads us back downstairs to the courtyard, just the adults, where we are served snacks and chai, and talk with Papa. Only briefly, though, because he knows we are exhausted. Tonight will be a short visit, and we'll receive more updates tomorrow.

But I still have not seen Santosh. Caroline asks Papa, and he sends a worker off to find him. Soon he appears, shyly trudging forward. He barely looks at me as Papa explains that I am here as his sponsor. I shake Santosh's hand, tell him hellow and how happy I am to see him, and ask for a picture together. He is reticent, very bashful, and runs off as soon as the photo is done. I think he is too shy to interact with me, and I won't see much of him. But I am wrong. He is not used to the attention, perhaps overwhelmed by it, and the fact that someone has come from America just to visit him. That concept is almost incomprehensible to these children - I think in a way they're not sure we're real; can't believe that so many clean, rich Americans all the way around the world care so much about them. Moments later, Santosh is back, at my side and smiling uncertainly up at me. I hug him, pat his back. He remains by my side, never leaving it again except once more - he darts off and returns wearing a baseball cap that was sent him, proud to show it off to where it came from. He presses against my side, claiming his spot, as other children crowd around.

It's time for us to leave for the evening, and a goodbye parade occurs much like the welcome one. This welcome and goodbye ritual will occur every time we arrive and leave, I will find. I bend down again to shake hands - "Good night," they proudly say in English. I tell them, "See you tomorrow," and some of the braver kids repeat, "Tomorrow!" Santosh is still at my side. I tell him goodbye again as I climb in the car, touching hands out the windows. The kids are so excited I wonder how they'll ever sleep tonight - or how I will, even as tired as I am. Santosh grins at me again and touches the bill of his cap. We give a final wave and are out the gates. I take a deep breath. I am simply overwhelmed, thinking that this has been so much more everything - more exhilirating and uplifting, than I had ever imagined it to be. I think of them touching my feet, taking a blessing from me as Caroline had explained; and I hope that I can somehow let them know in the next 10 days that it is I who is receiving blessings from them.