I was eleven and told everyone I’d be starting an orphanage in India. Who’d believe an eleven-year-old? Skeptics added coals to my fire.

Excuse me, did you have a question for this answer?

Grandma is as sweet as pie; as calm as a lalabai…

He’s the crying Lord and with painful compassion, keeps tears in His wineskin for healing the nations…

Our land is crying, smothered with heavy darkness; how long do we live in fear?

My little boat was far from home across a vast ocean. Helpless? Yes! Unhappy? Not at all! Life hung in limbo, perched precariously somewhere between dreams and truth. Life was picking up speed and taking me with it.

I sent the story draft again and again to Anna’s sisters who were top-notch school teachers. Her sisters meticulously read my story and edited it methodically —like proper teachers grading an exam. They admitted reading it was not easy; tapping into buried feelings took them to an emotional place that was difficult to visit too often or stay in too long. Buried heartache emerged after years. I understood. Reading about one you loved so deeply, but lost… hurts.

And so, after all the wonderful sacrificial love, and the tenderness and brokenness which I’ve described exhibited in my dad, this live gig recording reveals the truth; he was also, undoubtedly human.

Parents are always on stage; they are the star in their children’s lives. They are the heroes.

Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live. (Norman Cousins)