Leadership and Crisis by Bobby Jindal

my parents couldn’t have cared less about the car’s condition. They were concerned about me. They had visited the accident scene on the way to the hospital, seen the blood, and feared the worst. Now, after the initial shock of the accident had worn off, my mom stood by the bed and asked me a question that put me in a painful spot: “Which God do you have to thank for your safety, Bobby?”
    Growing up I was taught to pray and believe in an all-powerful God who created the universe and was present and active in our daily lives. My parents were, and remain to this day, devout Hindus. There was no Hindu temple in Baton Rouge at the time, but we had a prayer altar in our home. My younger brother Nikesh and I would say our prayers there every night—it didn’t matter how tired we were. We prayed, as kids are apt to, “Dear God, if you will just give me an A in history, I’ll be good to my little brother,” or, “If you will just give me one more toy, I won’t ask you for anything else.” To us, God was like Santa Claus. I believed in and respected God, but prayer was a transaction—“I’ll be good and you’ll give me what I want.”
    But the values I learned from my Hindu parents ran deep: honesty, respect for elders, hard work, modesty, reverence, the importance of family—traditional Hindu values that meshed quite well with
Louisiana’s traditional Bible Belt beliefs. I never felt culturally different from your typical Baton Rouge kid.
    My parents naturally assumed I would remain a Hindu and pass the faith on to the next generation. By the time of the accident, however, my mom and dad knew I was investigating Christianity. And now, here I was, a dutiful son, about to offer an answer that would cause considerable pain to my family.
    The path that brought me to that point spiritually was unique in many ways. One day, riding the bus to middle school, my best friend Kent sat down next to me. Kent was the kind of kid who got picked first for baseball and football. And in addition to being a great athlete, he was a cool guy. Everyone wanted to be his best friend, but he was my best friend. On this particular day he said something that struck me as very odd.
    “Bobby,” he said, “I sure do feel sorry for you.”
    I had no idea what he was talking about. He could see my confusion, so he continued. “I feel sorry for you because when my family and I go to heaven, I’m going to miss you when you’re not there.” Billy Graham he was not.
    I was a pre-teen at the time, and I thought he was crazy. Who would ever say such an odd thing? I quickly changed the subject, but the conversation jolted me for a few days. Then I forgot about it, until Christmas.
    In addition to his other fine qualities, Kent was one of those thoughtful, generous people who bought the best gifts for his friends. So when it was time to open his Christmas present, I ripped off the paper in great anticipation. My heart quickly sank when I opened the box and found a book inside.

    “This can’t be the real gift,” I thought. I actually remember flipping through the pages to see if there was any money inside, and being utterly disappointed that there was none. The more I studied the “gift,” the more my disappointment grew. It was not even an interesting book; it was a Bible. The practicality I inherited from my dad kicked in: Who spends good money buying somebody a Bible? And, Why buy a Bible when you can get one free in any hotel room? Sure, you might get in trouble for stealing towels. But the Bible? No way.
    I was even more disappointed when I noticed that on the front cover in gold letters were the words: “Bobby Jindal.” “Great!” I thought. “I can’t even return it or give it to somebody else.”
    My journey to Christianity accelerated at the end of my sophomore year in high school when my grandfather died suddenly of a stroke. I had spent happy days visiting him in India, riding on his shoulders as a young boy, and even though