Dysfunctional Mothers – Audio Story

Era, a new mother, asked, “What makes a good mother?” It was a hard question and took me a minute of thought before it became clear. But instead of answering, I said, “I’ll get back to you.”

Wanting to be absolutely sure about my observations, I sought clarification by questioning Kirti, my eldest daughter. “What makes a good mother?” Kirti loves to explain with visions and dreams, so she got right into it:

“One day when my three kids were all still very young, they were screaming and noisy and fighting and happily driving me out of my mind. I was ready to tear my hair out.”

Kirti paused. “Have I already told you this?”

“NO, please continue.”

“So, in order to control my three rascals, I shoved them into their room and yelled in a most unmotherly way, ‘Go to sleep!’ I slammed the door, fell to the floor, crumpled into a foetal position and cried. A few pitiful sobs later I came to my senses, realizing I was the tantrum-throwing-toddler. My kids were dutifully sleeping—or at least silent.

My sobbing changed its tune and turned into a soulful cry: ‘God how can I be such a dysfunctional mother?’ You’ll never believe what happened next.

I looked up and there before my eyes was God, looking quite improper. He was dancing! The only way to describe it is wholly undignified. As I watched, God appeared to be teasing me, saying, “I can become even more undignified than this!”

It was crazy! He was having such a good time! It was God’s reckless joy in the purest form I’d ever experienced. And suddenly, I understood: There was nothing I could do to rock God’s boat. I called on God and he was right there, rejoicing over me. God was going to have a good time no matter what state I was in. He wasn’t judging me, He was rejoicing over me. He was loving me. That was His answer to a dysfunctional mother.”

“Yep,” I said, “that’s the answer. LOVE. Thanks for clarifying.”

I decided it was time to disclose a motherhood lapse of my own.

My son, Asher, was about 7 when he told me, “My heart hurts sometimes.” I didn’t think twice about his statement, though there was every reason for concern. I was a busy, worn-out Mom, barely mustering enough strength to accomplish everything necessary to get by on a daily basis. I didn’t have time to think. Or listen.

Why hadn’t I listened to Asher? I was born with a heart condition which ended up in open heart surgery when I was 7. Furthermore, Asher’s birth turned into an emergency when his foetal heart-beat was weakening. I was rushed into the operation theatre. When he was delivered, he was not breathing, and was rushed out of the room to be resuscitated. Years later, the doctor confided that she suspected Asher may develop heart problems. Knowing that, I still wasn’t listening when Asher said his heart hurt. “Hearts hurting” sounded like a child’s ploy for attention.

When Asher was a baby I listened to every cry, and watched his little chest rise and fall in gentle sleep. I anticipated his needs. But once kids reach the age of speaking, they’re masters at getting their needs met by their parents. Likewise, parents listening skills go downhill.

When Asher said his heart hurt, I didn’t even listen. I was so overwhelmed with motherly duties, I neglected my children. How does that even make sense?

Months later our family travelled to England, where we were invited to attend a conference. There was food and tents with activities for all ages. My husband and I went one way, while our kids chose a children’s worship tent.

Afterwards, I asked Asher what he thought of the meeting.

“It was really good. We had a lot of fun and learned some silly songs.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah, it was. And afterwards, they asked if any of us wanted prayer. So, I went up to be prayed for. I told them my heart hurts.” Now I was listening.

“They prayed for me and I was healed.”

I was stabbed with guilt and remorse. I had listened when Asher first told me, but didn’t act on it. There’s only one thing to do with guilt: Give it to God with an apology. I did just that.

Instead of showing me His uninhibited dancing, God chose another way to “dance” with me. He ignored my negligence and healed Asher. For my sake, and because he is Asher’s Dad.

It was Love.

Yes, the picture was very clear, all the answers were in place.

Which brings us back to Era’s question, “What makes a good mother?”

It is clearly Love, LOVE, and MORE LOVE. That is the way to pull all the wrongs together to come out with a right.

Babies, gorgeous, loveable, and adorable, are born out of love, and have superpowers to squeeze out every bit of Mom and Dad’s sympathy and protective instincts to make themselves understood. As for God, who revels in wild, uninhibited, dancing, He already saw parent’s hands-deep in poopy diapers, experiencing wild tantrums. Our boats tend to rock, but dysfunctional mothers can’t rock His boat; He flips the problem and calms the storm.

Cayden and his Crumbs

Lullaby for Era

Love wells up and overflows, for nine whole months, as baby grows. Barely able to endure, anticipation… a boy? A girl?
What mystery will be revealed? A miracle to be unveiled…
The cry of love is heard across the earth in every birth.
He crowns our heads with hand-picked pearls, precious gems, diadems. The crown he wore—he chose… ‘twas made of thorns from which he bled. Love wells up and over flows for nine whole months as baby grows.

God’s plan was to fill parents with love, even though they might not have a clue about raising children. Still, God endows us with everything we need, expecting us to be good parents.

The Sun Came Searching
By Kim Balke

The sun came searching
for lost little me
stuck in anxiety’s thorny brambles.
A parent, flashlight in hand,
pushed back with light
the fog and uncertain grays
all the way to the mountains.

Now a warming stroll awaits me
along familiar paths
making them dear and new again.
The ducks in the pond quack agreement
while eagle eyes take in
child’s play – running, climbing,
laughter swinging in the air.
Even the first pussy willows sun themselves
content as cats in a picture window.

I imagine I take off my socks and shoes,
watch the worry boats float down the river
as Jesus washes my feet.

Centennial Beach wanderings, Tsawwassen, BC, Jan. 22/22

Click here for the audio version of the story

When we moved from the mountains to the plains with our boys, the only school was the government-run Hindi-medium school. It was a daily 4 km walk to the village. Once they were out of our sight, our boys tended to detour through a neighbour’s guava orchard on the way there and on the way back. We heard complaints later on when it became habitual.

A few hundred children attended the school, and the tiny village road would be filled up with students walking and cycling. Our boys were singled out because their English was good. We helped them learn by speaking English with them. Once in a while the English teacher would take a break and command one of our boys to take the class.

Bhavesh was a very nice boy, very obedient, and very willing. He always did his best. Bhavesh was one of those guys who wouldn’t hurt a fly. One day, his English teacher asked him a question during class. He stood and answered the question in full, fluent English. A dark shadow crossed the face of Sir, the teacher, his eyes glued to Bhavesh in a threatening manner. Bhavesh, alarmed at the rage in his teacher’s eyes, began to wonder what was going on. Had he said something wrong?

Unfortunately, this was a regular occurrence. Sir would ask the class questions, expecting to get wrong answers. He would then be able to show off his English prowess by correcting them. He usually avoided asking our boys questions because they knew the answers. However, on this day, he asked Bhavesh a question. Perhaps it was because Bhavesh was timid, quiet, and shy, that Sir decided he was an easy target.

In this case, Sir was wrong. Very wrong. Bhavesh answering the question properly and fluently isn’t what incensed Sir. What got his goat was that he couldn’t understand Bhavesh’s English. It was better than his.

His voice was raised and blasting like a trumpet, “So, you want to run the class? You want to take the stage and be the show-off? You think you are so smart? I’ll show you what I think about you!”

Sir whirled around and strutted towards the corner of the classroom where he kept his 6 foot long, 3-inch-wide cane. There was no question now for Bhavesh what would happen next. He’d seen him use the cane on others. Bhavesh reacted without a second thought, and in that spilt-second, he ran out the door full speed with Sir only a few meters behind him. Bhavesh raced home, without the guava orchard detour. Bhavesh was terrified. He kept looking over his shoulder to see how much distance separated him from his teacher and it was never enough. Both student and teacher covered those 4 km in record time.

Before Bhavesh could get all the way home, he had to pass the pre-primary school where I was. One of my teachers saw him in the distance racing towards us, about 500 meters away. She ran into my class and said, “Bhavesh’s coming with his teacher hot on his heels and carrying a big stick!”

I ran outside. As soon as I reached the school gate Bhavesh ran in, looking over his shoulder. Panic-stricken, he cried, “Save me! My teacher’s coming!”

Sir arrived waving his cane, puffy and red-faced from the run. Bhavesh immediately jumped behind me, and I spread my arms out to shield him. To no avail, I tried to reason with Sir; and then sent Bhavesh into the shelter of the primary school. I whispered to the other teacher to run for Uncle Yip. She took off across the field toward home.

Yip arrived, and in time was able to calm the teacher. Sir just needed time, and his breath back, in order to think straight, and be able to leave peacefully. And that is what happened. Yip took Bhavesh home, gave him chai and biscuits, calmed his fear, and eventually, everyone had a good laugh.

Ranjit was another one of our boys studying at the same school. When he was young, like the rest of the boys, he just wanted to have a good time. He was not particularly studious, but always showed an interest in working with his hands. He wanted to learn about machines and how things work. And he loved driving the tractor. Ranjit, along with the other boys, walked the 4 km to school.

One day, Ranjit had a seizure. But that wasn’t the end. He continued having so many seizures that we could no longer send him to school, fearing he would hurt himself or end up lying in a ditch, unknown to us. In those days we were very poor. We didn’t have money for expensive medical care, which was greatly needed.

Yip decided to take Ranjit to a good hospital 4 hours away. He’d have to travel by motorcycle. Another boy sat at the back to hold Ranjit on. Only a miracle could have allowed them to go and come back, safely and uneventfully. While at the hospital, Yip explained how we cared for destitute children. He confessed that we didn’t have the funds for MRI or scans or whatever medical treatment would be needed. They gave Ranjit a large concession and we managed to have the tests done.

The outcome? A brain tumour. We had no money for such an expensive operation. Ranjit was a strong kid, but this was an overwhelming challenge. Not only was he having seizures due to a brain tumour, but was already undergoing treatment from us for tuberculosis and leprosy.

On the motorbike home, Ranjit had time to think about his situation. So did Yip, especially when the motorbike ran out of petrol at midnight. The boys walked as Yip pushed the bike 5 km to the nearest village, where it was left. Then they hiked another 5 km back home.

When Yip and I discussed Ranjit’s situation, we couldn’t find an answer. The only thing we could do was to ask God for healing. We just couldn’t see another way out.

We called our 50-plus boys together in the sitting room (which served as the boy’s bedroom), and asked who wanted to pray for Ranjit. Everyone came. We began to pray, anointing him with oil for healing in the name of Jesus. All of us were in different stages of faith; some strong, some weak, some non-existent. But everyone prayed, our voices getting louder as we pleaded for Ranjit. And then we were silent. “Ranjit,” asked Yip, “how do you feel?”

“Fine,” he said. “I’m healed.”

Yip and I looked at each other in question, and then turned back to Ranjit.

“I’m healed,” he said. “I’m not going to take anymore medicines.” For Ranjit, the issue was settled. It was final, and a celebration ensued.

We never forced medicine on him, and he never came for medicine. He never had another check-up, and he never had another seizure. He was fully healed of tuberculosis and leprosy.

It’s now been 40 years, and he has remained in good health. He is a driver and mechanic, working in the mountains. He’s claims God healed him, but will never initiate the story of this miracle. He never talks about it. In Ranjit’s humble way, he doesn’t find it amazing. He’s always taken the whole thing casually, understanding that God, who calls himself Father, would obviously do that for his children. Why would it be extraordinary?

Bhavesh was there when Ranjit was healed and witnessed the love, the mercy and the power of God. Bhavesh became a lay pastor and lives by faith. He hosts meetings in his house, prays for the sick, and seeks out anyone needing help or prayer. His heart is to help, because he loves to serve. He’s seen that God can be trusted.

Limitless Love 

I sat down and gave Savitri a cup of chai.

“Savitri,” tell me a story about yourself. Tell me about your village. Tell me about you.”

Since my surgery, Savitri has been cleaning my house regularly. It’s an income for her, but there is compassion when she looks at me; she sees someone needing help and offers wholeheartedly.

“I’m from Kalapur. It’s quite a small village, 134 houses. There were only about 50 houses when I grew up. My father was a mason and worked in wood, brick, and stone.

Our house is stone. He died about 4 years ago. He had a brain tumour and stomach cancer. He was a good man, but he had a very bad habit. He drank. A lot.”

She paused and took a breath.

“Kalapur, where my mother still lives, is about 7-9 hours by bus. It’s about 190 kilometres away, and the steep mountain roads make the travelling very slow.”

“Tell me a story,” I prodded.

“My grandmother likes to tell the story of when I got lost. I was about 4 years old. A cloth seller came to the village. Mother had gone to the market. Dadi (Grandmother) was at home with me. The other villagers had gathered around the cloth seller to see what fabrics they might buy. Suddenly, Dadi noticed that I wasn’t around.

By then the cloth seller started asking when the bus would be leaving Kalapur. When he learned the bus was about to leave, he packed his wares at top speed, grabbed his bags and ran towards the village, disappearing around the first hill.

Dadi began yelling, “Savitri is missing, help! Find Savitri!” She was frantic. The crowd of neighbours began looking here and there without any luck. It was then that fear gripped Dadi’s heart, for a new bridge was being constructed, and new houses in the village were also popping up. Child sacrifice was illegal, but still practiced in the village. Children were sacrificed to dedicate new constructions.”

Savitri’s tone was becoming more agitated and angry.

“So, when Dadi noticed that the cloth seller had just run off and disappeared, she ran around recruiting the whole neighbourhood to search for me. She was terrified lest he kidnapped me for a sacrifice. The neighbors looked everywhere, combing through the house without success, until one man decided to search again.

He found me snuggled up, sound asleep underneath a thick quilt. Dadi was embarrassed, but happy.”

“Oh! What a great story!” I clapped my hands together, wanting more. “What about being a ‘Garhwali?’” I knew mountain people are proud of who they are.

Savitri smiled. “Growing up in the Himalayas carries an enchantment. If you live in the mountains, it’s easy to fall in love with the beauty around you, and the weather— as harsh as it gets—you grow to feel like you are rooted in this part of the world. So, we treat each other with respect for what it takes to live there, and enjoy each season. Garhwali’s are proud people. It is true. Many are poor and have basic educations, but times are changing and now people leave the hills to attend colleges and have careers. But that didn’t happen in my time. In those days, 8th class was like finishing school—girls were ready to be brides. I was also in that category.

Girls had to be strong. Thirty years ago, a man searched out a bride as though he was buying a mule (which are very valuable in the mountains). They look at her biceps, and how strong she is, how much she can carry on her back. She must be able to carry water, climb trees to chop wood, walk miles in the mountains, and birth children. The villagers had hard lives, and the men needed working wives. It was practical.

I was lucky. I didn’t marry a villager. Because I was different than my brothers and sisters in what I believed, my parents married me to a Christian, even though they were Hindus. I was still 15 when I married, and didn’t know anything about Christians. I was happy to marry a Christian. He seemed kind. It turned out that he was very kind. We’d go to church, and there I learned about Jesus, and how he loves us so much. I was very excited to know that God loves us, and we can meet him anywhere, not just in a temple or by doing pooja. We can talk with him all through the day. So, I took baptism. My family never objected, but were happy for me to believe as I wanted to. My husband has always treated me well and with love and respect.

“Even so, we had a very difficult start to our marriage. The whole village always comes to a marriage, so all of Kalapur was there, and many from Mussoorie, which is where my husband’s family lived. It was good, all went well, until early the next morning.

“It was our duty to house all the guests. People were stuffed into our house, relatives’ houses, friend’s houses, and where ever a space was found. Early in the morning, we learned the sad news. My husband’s brother’s family had taken in many guests. They had a 3-months-old son. Attempting to keep tradition and hospitality up to the standard, they ended up sleeping with about 10 people in their large double bed. Their new baby, also in the bed, had been suffocated.

For years, that sister-in-law hated me. She couldn’t bear to be with me or talk to me. It made me very sad. I knew it wasn’t my fault and I felt sorry for her. Our marriage began with a grief that continued for years. Now, she has finally gotten over it. And I, understand her grief.

When I was 16, I gave birth to a son, Ranjeet. Ranjeet was 2 when we had a second son, Raju. Raju lived for two days before he was rushed from the hospital where I was staying with him, to be admitted in a speciality hospital with infant emergency care. They claimed that his stomach was full of dirty water and punched holes in it to drain it. I couldn’t bear to think of him with holes poked in him. It was too late. He never got the oxygen he needed. I wasn’t with him and I can’t believe they made holes in his stomach.”

Savitri looked down as tears ran down her cheeks.

“I cry whenever I remember how he was whisked away from me. It was very hard for me and his father. We spent a lot of time crying. Even now, we still cry. Raju would be fifteen this year. His two-year-old brother used to ask me, ‘Where is my new brother? Why can’t I see him?’ It is such a painful memory.”

The memory was 15 years old, but her pain was still fresh. Savitri wiped her cheeks and sniffed. “Now I have a daughter. I’d like another daughter. My younger brother’s wife always talked about killing her in-laws. Instead, she killed herself. We could never understand what my brother saw in her. She had two small children, a son and a daughter. My husband and I talk about taking them in.”

Savitri’s home is small, just a couple of rooms. She and her husband live with her mother-in-law. The poor seem to carry the biggest burdens, and yet own the biggest hearts. Their love is strong, having been tested by what it means to live in the harsh, but beautiful mountains. It compliments their proud character.

Sleep in Peace

1. Her Win, Her Choice

Sheva was very competitive and a good athlete. She could pretty much do whatever she put her hands to— or her feet. At school, she was preparing to participate with her team in the various events. Sheva admired and looked up to her brother, Asher. She took all his advice. He was captain of the boy’s team.

When Sheva’s coach discovered there was no one to run hurdles, she turned to her. “You have to do it, Sheva, you CAN do it.” Sheva had never attempted hurdles before. She lined up at the start with the others, her feet poised in racing position. At the sound of the gun, she shot down the lane. In her bird-like fashion, she flew across every hurdle and, like Sheva does, came in first!

The next race, the 800-meter run, was her forte, and she’d been practicing daily. The 800 required endurance, skill, patience, practice and lots of stamina. She was ready. I sat beside Asher in the stands where parents and teachers cheered the students on. What I didn’t know, was that Asher had advised his sister about this race; advice that was given casually to her without a lot of detail. Whatever Asher advised, Sheva took seriously.

The gun went off.

The students began to run as a herd, and soon looked like stampeding horses. With each student racing to win, the herd pace increased until we were all sitting on the edge of our seats.

Sheva was at the back of the pack, and as the others gained speed, Sheva’s pace decreased. Sheva was last, and a good 1⁄2 lap behind everyone. Asher and I watched, perplexed. It was entirely out of character.

On the final lap, the group was well ahead of Sheva. We shook our heads. Asher said, “She’s lost this one.” We looked back at the field to see Sheva’s legs beginning to pump— faster and faster. She was gaining ground quickly. When she reached the herd, she began passing each runner until only the lead runner was left. She slowed her pace, and crossed the finish line second.

We were confused. She was congratulated by all, except her mother, who said, “Sheva, what was that all about? You really lagged but took off at the end!”

“Yeah, Mom. Asher told me to linger at the back and then make a mad dash.”

I smiled. “Why did you put on your brakes when you reached the lead runner?”

“I didn’t brake.”

“Yes, you did. I saw you.”

“Mom.”

“You did.”

“She really wanted to win. It meant so much to her.”

2. The Woman Who Cried

She had a name as a child; but it was long forgotten. In the village everyone called her “Whore.” She slept where she could, ate what she found, stole, and lied when it benefited. She did what was needed to survive. Her reputation in the village was sealed.

She’d heard of Jesus, and what she heard made her ache for more. It melted her heart and soul. She longed to be near him. One day, squeezing herself into the crowd with her face veiled, she found herself in the rich man’s house. Finding herself face to face with Jesus, she broke down. Clutching her alabaster jar, she fell at his feet.

Her identity, reputation, and sins were exposed. Like a ceaseless fountain, tears cascaded down her worn cheeks. Afraid to look into the face of Jesus, she leaned over his feet and sobbed like a child. She washed his feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. Her alabaster jar contained expensive ointment which she poured over his feet, and the miracle happened. His river of life rushed into her stream; she was drenched in his love and filled with new life.

The crowd was repulsed, claiming she was unworthy to be anywhere near Jesus. But Jesus loved her. Jesus didn’t see a sinful woman. He saw a repentant heart. He saw a woman wise enough to follow and cling to the one who has the power to forgive sins and loves unconditionally. Her ceaseless flood of tears became her fountain of life. She came in a sinner, and left a saint. She won.

3. Two Prisoners Freed

Two weeks after I turned fifteen, a man entered our house with a gun. My mother was the only one home, and he knew that. She was abused and murdered. This evil irrevocably changed the course of our lives. What should have been blessings, became curses. Victories turned to defeat. Love and joy were lost to grief.

I was so sad and depressed I didn’t care whether I lived or died. Suicide was a thought in all our minds. “Living” no longer seemed worth the effort. But, to cause others who were already broken, more grief, suicide was not an option. So, we lived on.

Twenty years on, I was married and had three children. My life was changed by Jesus. I had new joy and reason to live. My past was in the past; no turning back— or so I thought.

Evil showed its ugly face again. I was well, my family and children were fine, but a heavy, black unrelenting blanket of darkness covered me, weighing me down. Without reason, I tried to hide from life again. I wanted a dark corner where I could curl up and die. I felt unable to care for my family. Every possible emotion was at war within me. And then, two guests arrived.

I told Yip I was not interested in talking with them, but I couldn’t get out of hosting them. The man from England was an old friend, but his friend, from Scotland, was unknown to us. I did the needed hosting, and somehow, ended up sharing with the Scottish friend. In a private setting, I somewhat grudgingly told him of the dark hole I’d sunk into.

“Have you ever forgiven the man who murdered your mother?”

I thought, “Of course, I’m a Christian now… Christians forgive.” I told him, “Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “I think you need to do it again. And I believe there is a curse on your family. You pray first, and then I’ll break the curse.”

He came up with this plan so quickly, it all seemed like a bit of hocus-pocus to me. But he also appeared more mature in Christ, more experienced than me, so I decided to go along with it. I didn’t see the harm in doing so.

“Lord,” I prayed, “I forgive the man who murdered my mother.” Simple and to the point. But, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I sensed a change.

Then the Scotsman started praying for me, in the name of Jesus, and through his blood. That too, was to the point. He broke the curse on our family.

When done, there was such a flood of relief in my soul. The blanket of darkness was whooshed off of me and I was flooded with light. In my mind, I imagined the murderer still in his sin, cursed from his deeds, without hope, without Jesus. I literally cried for him. That wasn’t like me at all. I wanted to meet him to tell him that Jesus loved him, forgives him, and can release him, just like he had done for me. I prayed for him ceaselessly for a month. God gave me love for the person who had wounded me. I realized I was no better than him; the only difference being that I had found grace.

I nearly missed my chance when I was draped in my private darkness. Forgiving set me free and offered grace to the one held prisoner by his evil deeds. Yet, grace is like being offered a glass of water… it’s optional. If you’re thirsty, you’ll drink.

4. The Victory of Defeat

He was marked for defeat. Betrayed with a kiss, he was stripped, whipped, crowned with thorns, nailed to a cross, and died. It would have been a thorough defeat, except death could not hold him. Leaving his grave clothes behind, he rose from the dead, forever blazing a trail for us to follow. He taught:

Turn the other cheek.

If asked for your cloak, give your shirt too.

Forgive seventy times seven.

The first shall be last.

Love your neighbour as yourself… Really? Who does that?

Jesus always was a rebel, never went by the norms, broke the mould. How else could he take us to heaven?

“Peep-hole to Heaven” by God

Photographed by:
Simi Sara Thomas

Anshul

We lived in the highest, remotest part of Mussoorie, known as the “Queen of the Hills.” It was quite a walk to the dark side of the mountain. It was the sunless, shady side, full of leeches and scorpions. But it was cheap and we needed “cheap” to house our 25 boys living with us in our 2-bedroom apartment.

Anshul was about sixteen-years-old. He was tall and strong. If it weren’t for his ever- present smile, his appearance would have been intimidating, even a bit scary. Not only did his smile stretch from ear to ear, but it sprouted from deep inside. His eyes were soft, as though you could fall right into them and be cradled. When spoken to, his eyes lit up. And his laugh—like a whisper—sounded like humility.

One day, Anshul took a 12-hour bus ride to see his family. His parents, who had leprosy, lived in the colony allotted to “lepers” on the outskirts of town. Home is home; it was lavished with love.

Daily, his mother and father would go to work. Their income was the earnings they received from begging. If you ask Anshul whether his parents work, he would reply “Oh yes!” For leprosy patients, there is no alternative job. It’s not easy work.

Anshul’s mother was pleased to have him home and spent all their daily earnings providing his favourite foods, fruit and sweets. But what is money for, if not for love? Love was not a thought they struggled with; it was put into action. A few days after his arrival, Anshul went to visit friends and relatives in another colony a couple hours away. That’s when he found Mangat.

Mangat

Mangat lay on a rope bed in a tiny dark mud hut, covered from head to toe with a blanket. Anshul was surprised, “Mangat? What happened?”

He learned from others that Mangat had tuberculosis, and there was little hope. Few of the colony residents dared go near a T.B. patient. Treatments were unsuccessful and there was limited hope. So, Mangat lay in the dark room day after day.

Anshul’s soft heart broke. He couldn’t bear looking at him in such a pitiful, abandoned state. The adrenaline of love took over, and without thinking through anything, he placed all Mangat’s belongings into a steel trunk, and using a sheet, made a sling for the trunk to be carried on his back. Then he turned to Mangat. His hands swept underneath his limp form. He lifted Mangat up with his blanket wrapped around him, and walked out of the colony. His one goal was to get Mangat to Uncle Yip. Uncle Yip would look after him.

Anshul managed to board a bus, and after many hours reached Mussoorie. He carried Mangat and the trunk up the steep paths, a 45-minute hike, and laid him down in front of Uncle Yip. Mangat was soon on a hospital bed in Mussoorie.

Geeta

While Mangat was hospitalized, Geeta, one of our girls in nurses training came home for a holiday. She was smart and beautiful, with large, perfectly shaped brown eyes, sweeping lashes and heavy brows. Her thick, black braid cascaded down past her waist. The day she returned to us, she complained of feeling unwell. The following day she was much worse, so we took her to the hospital. No diagnosis was found, but she was admitted and worsened fast. After 5 days, she could no longer feed herself or lift a finger. Her eyes glazed over. The diagnosis came: tubercular meningitis. In no time it went to her brain. Before the week ended, she died.

Yip built the coffin, found the burial site, filed the official documents, dug the grave, gave the sermon, and comforted us all.

Mangat was still hospitalized in the same building, one floor lower. It was his sixth month of hospitalization. The doctors said he’d be discharged in a week.

Mangat calmly protested, “I want to go home.”

“Yes! You’ll go home,” said Yip “A few more days.”

“I want to go home—now.” Mangat looked at Yip. His eyes were filled with longing and an inexplicable peace.

“I’m ready to go home.” Yip took his hand. It was clear. Mangat had made his choice. Moments later, he was gone. Mangat went home.

Yip built the coffin, found the burial site, filed the official documents, dug the grave, gave the sermon, and comforted us all.

Nitin

Frantic pounding and yelling at the back door woke us in the middle of the night. Startled, Yip jumped out of bed in his underwear and flung the door open. It was our new co-workers, holding their baby, crying, “It’s Nitin, our baby! He’s not breathing!”

We didn’t know what to do, except to fly like the wind to the hospital. Yip jumped into his trousers and then into our jeep. With the gas pedal pressed to the floor, Yip, Nitin, and his parents sped to the mission hospital 40 minutes away.

In the morning, wrapped in his baby blanket, Nitin’s little body was brought home. Death did not stop us from praying. I’m sure God heard our prayers, but Nitin went to heaven.

Yip used a harmonium box for a coffin, found the burial site, filed the official documents, dug the grave, gave the sermon, and comforted us all.

Vinod

Yip and I had just gone to bed when the phone rang.

Yip answered. “Hello?”

“Uncle, it’s Herb. Uncle, something has happened to my brother, Vinod.”

Yip sat up. “What?”

“Vinod was returning from his factory on a bicycle … Uncle, you know he can’t hear in one ear?”

“Yes. I know.”

“He didn’t hear the truck coming up behind him, and the truck didn’t see him. Vinod is dead.” Herb tried to muffle his sobs. “Uncle, I don’t have enough money to bury him, I can’t even get his body from the morgue. I don’t know what to do. Can you come?”

“Herb, I’ll come on the first train I can catch. I will come.”

Thank you, Uncle,” he whispered.

When Yip arrived, he had to fill death documents to get the body from the morgue. It would be a cremation. Wood, oil, and all the needed ritual costs would have to be met, but neither Yip or Herb had any money. Yip managed to get the body to the ghat for cremation, but did not know what to do. He found the priest of the Dom caste, who earn their living through the business of death, and are known as “untouchables.”

The Hindu priest asked, “Who are you, and what do you have to do with this body?”

Yip did his best to explain that he was his caretaker and the boy was an orphan. He told the priest that he had many such boys he was caring for.

Without hesitation, the priest told Yip not to worry. He would take care of every cost, the wood, the ghee, and all the supplies needed for the ritual burning, numbering to about forty items. The priest did all of that, and even promised to take Vinod’s ashes and scatter them in the Ganges. This was proper, as Vinod was a Hindu. Yip invited the Priest to visit and stay with us when he could.

In this case, Yip filed the official documents, was met by a kind Priest who helped with everything for Vinod’s cremation, gave the sermon, and comforted Herb.

Shivam

Shivam was studying in a mission hospital to be a nurse. He was smart and did well in his studies. One evening he and his best friend along with others sat around chatting together. Another student walked in, sat down smugly and pulled a gun from his pocket. He laughed and jokingly pointed the gun at Shivam’s best friend, saying, “bang, bang.” Then he pulled the trigger. A deafening explosion of noise, and Shivam’s friend fell to the floor. Everyone in the room instantly disappeared.

Shivam sprang into action, picked up his friend and ran with him to the hospital. The student who’d fired the gun, was shocked, but more afraid than shocked. When Shivam left the room, that student emptied the bullets from his gun into Shivam’s bag. Then he disappeared.

Once more, the phone rang in the middle of the night. Shivam, now in jail, whispered, “Uncle. Help.” He was crying. “My friend has been shot. He’s dead.”

Yip left immediately for the jail which was a full two days train ride away. It took 2 months, but Yip managed to get Shivam out of jail. The case closed in Shivam’s favour, but Shivam was very broken.

Yip went to court, filed paper after paper, ran here and there, and consoled Shivam.

Sheba

Sheba has always been extremely athletic, talented and popular. Like a magnet, she always had a trail of friends following her. When there was a crisis, she stood up and led the way.

A class-mates’ younger brother had been bitten by a puppy he’d found in the street. Unknowingly, he’d contracted rabies. Now the child was in a very bad state, and his parents were overwrought, unable to find a doctor to treat him. Hospitals would only give the boy a room with bars on it. Too soon, so fast, he died.

Sheba called her classmates and said, “We believe in resurrection. If you want to join us, we’re continuing to pray for life.”

The principal warned Sheba not to pray, or encourage others to pray. She understood what he was saying, but could not find peace in following his caution. Her heart cried, “Seek God.” Sheba and her friends were unafraid and aware that, in some eyes, they were defeated. But, for them, it was a victory. They knew the God of resurrection.

The school year ended and awards were distributed. The athletic achievement award, “Athlete of the Year,” was withheld from Sheba. But Sheba was content, assured she had done what was right. She was satisfied with a higher reward.

Unfathomable Love

It was Friday. A very good Friday, and yet, a very dark day. At mid-day the sky turned black and the heaven’s parted to receive the spirit of Jesus. It had only been a few minutes before, that Jesus cried out, “Father, why have you forsaken me?”

It was his pain, his compassion, his love that made him cry out. Every day since Jesus was born, he was being groomed, trained, readied to save the world and bring redemption, forgiveness and eternal life as a free gift. That was his soul purpose. He knew suffering was the way to reach this goal. He sweat blood while doing so. But he never gave up or gave into the pain.

His last cry was, “It is done.”

Yip

Before I met Yip, and before Yip met Jesus, Yip knew “it was done,” after he heard the voice of Jesus.

One starry night, as Yip watched the lights from the hills in Mussoori, Jesus asked him, “What profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul?”

Yip was silent and completely shocked. He spent sleepless hours thinking, and came up with only one answer. Yip told Jesus; “I’m nothing great, I don’t know why you want me. But if you do, then you can have me.” Forever changed in that moment, Yip gained a new life.

It never would have happened if Jesus had not died. We can only love life, through death. Jesus’ life was love directed at us—a love completed in death.

I Release You

I release your spirit to soar the skies
I release your desires to meet your God on high
I release your dreams to be fulfilled
I release you; I release you
If I could ever give you your heart’s desire – now is the time
If I could ever see your faith as truth – now is the time
If I could ever send you to paradise itself – now is the time
For you I would give up all, for you – now is the time.
Blessed is the name of the Lord, who understands the times
Blessed is the work of the Lord, whose very breath is life
Blessed is the power of God, to give eternal life
Blessed is he who walks in hope, and gives up his life.
I release your spirit to soar the skies…
I release your desires to meet your God on high…
I release your dreams to be fulfilled…
I release you… I release you… I release you…
For you I would give up all, for you … now is the time.

By Frieda McRae
Produced by Chris Hale and Peter Hicks
Accompaniment:
Michael Sethi
Sheva McRae

The Dead End Ends

In the early 1970’s there was an influx of hippies in north India, seeking to “find themselves.” The leaders of this world-wide self-seeking pilgrimage were the Beatles, who came to India to find themselves, but instead, they delved into meditation, yoga, and classical Indian instruments. Their pilgrimage was the evolution of a far-east hippy- culture, an era that Yip and I had participated in and knew first-hand.

In 1976 Yip and I were newly married, running a “Hippy House” on the very top of a mountain, the highest point in Landour, Mussoorie, a small town in the Indian Himalayan foothills. The town is precariously perched on the edges of sheer cliff. Whenever we met travellers, we invited them to stay with us, and during that time we hosted two young men.

Tony, on drugs, thought he was a butterfly and jumped off a roof in Nepal. He broke both ankles and came to recover with us. David, an Australian, was convinced that slitting his wrist was his only option. He also stayed with us after his surgery. They were quite the pair. At Christmas time, as we sang carols, we caught them giggling away together. We asked, “What is so funny?” David replied between gasps and giggles, “We thought ‘Hark’ was the name of the ‘Harold’ angel.”

David initially set off to explore the world and “find himself.” Although he was ready for adventure, the last place he expected to find answers was India, He decided not to follow the usual mob traveller mentality. He said his “good-byes” and headed for Bali, leaving in February, 1976. Now, 44 years later, we finally caught up with David. I asked him to share his story, which is a shortened version of a very captivating journey.

David’s Story:

As a teen I was dissatisfied with life. I was not a particularly good student and struggled just relating to people. Family life included violence and sexual abuse. I was as much a perpetrator as a victim. Later for a brief time, drugs became my escape. I did have one outstanding skill: I was a good runner, and gained many accolades through competition.

Travel was interesting, and a welcome escape from the life I had been living. My confidence was growing and I enjoyed the company of those I met along the way. As I talked with people, I began to think of how I might leave my mark on the world. In Bangkok I met a fellow helping refugees. His cause seemed noble, though I had some doubts about his methods.

The North Western regions of Thailand had been a rest and relaxation location for American troops during the Vietnam war. All fighting forces had been withdrawn in the past six months leaving seemingly endless streets of vacant, gaudily painted nightclub buildings, and a collapsed local economy. It was an eye opener to see the reality of the effects of war that is well known, but not talked about.

Upon arrival in Nong Khai I met a Buddhist monk, who, like so many others, worked tirelessly assisting refugees who flooded into the area. He told me, “You can have anything you want in life but for everything you take, there is something you must give up.” He then gave me a medallion, saying, “Keep it close to you and keep it hidden. It will protect you in times of danger.”

The words still echo loud and clear in my head! Was this the way to the freedom that I so longed for?

After a few days I travelled west, then up to the hill region in the north, but my thoughts were still with the monk and the medallion. Impulsively, I returned to Nong Khai, leaving my belongings in storage to travel light. My intention was to speak to the Monk, and then shore up my plans. When I arrived, the “Maha,” the great one, was not there.

I had not counted on this, but proceeded with my plans. I went to the refugee camp, and was greeted by camp detainees. But impatience got the better of me. I returned to town and mulled over my plans, returning to camp as dusk fell. By then, the atmosphere had changed completely. Instead of the previous warm welcome there was a defined darkness, a sense of anger and agitation in the people. Was I an American deserter? A Russian spy? Before I knew what was happening, I was in custody for breaking curfew.

Determined not to be defeated, I was sure these people would understand my good will gestures, and convinced myself this was just a test of my intentions. However, their intentions of putting me in jail was not in my plans. When the opportunity came, I broke free of my captors and employed my one sure skill – I ran! My adrenaline was fuelled by the shouting and confusion behind me, the wind rushing in my ears, and then, the crack of a rifle. Shots whistled around my ears, and I aspired to do what I excelled at: I ran faster!

Five hours later, still free, I jumped at every shadow, dodging from one hiding spot to another as I desperately tried to silence the barking neighbourhood dogs. In all this I stayed alert enough to find my way through this unfamiliar town. Car headlights turned into the street ahead, and my heart leapt. I knew they were looking for me!

I resigned myself to surrender. (Even then I expected them to understand my good will.) Instead, I was loaded face-down into the back of the truck. I realised my expectations were not going to be met.

Again, I broke away and ran like a wild-man, but failed, and was caught. It crossed my mind to try a third escape, but by this time I was cut and bruised and getting tired of the game. The police were not happy with me, and unwilling to take any more chances. I decided to wait until daylight for any further attempts.

I shared my cell with about 70 others, whose offenses ranged from petty theft to mass murder. It was a small space with no running water and a squalid toilet area. The stifling tropical climate, now approaching its peak, brought infection to my wounds. Within a short time, my movements were restricted. My running skill would be hampered.

An American, Catholic priest came to my rescue after a week. He put up bail—with conditions attached by the police. I was cynical of the priest’s motives, but pleased to accept freedom.

I still wanted to get back to the Monk. Reflecting on my previous encounter with him, I decided his medallion was not something I wanted or needed. If I was going to achieve anything in life, it had to be on my own merit, so I made another visit to the temple to inform him of my decision that I intended to go back home.

The Monk stood, and turning away, pulled his saffron robe firmly around his waist.

“You shall return Home.”

It was said with a horrendous air of finality—in his actions and words. A terrible feeling of dread washed over me. I knew I had failed.

Things unravelled quickly. I became reckless in my actions and stretched the boundaries of my bail conditions so far that bail was revoked. Placed in custody, my case was heard in court, and I was sentenced to serve time at the provincial jail on the edge of town.

I was released at the end of the one-month term. I had plans and went to the police station to collect my belongings, including passport and cash. I was immediately put in custody again outfor overstaying my visa! Back to the holding cell, I realized I was losing control of my destiny. An officer took me aside, quietly explaining it would likely take a few weeks before I could be transported to Bangkok, where I would be put on a plane and be able to fly out of the country. However, if I cared to pay my own airfare, the return costs of an escort, and any incurred costs to make the officer’s trip comfortable, then it might be possible to leave tomorrow. I hated the feeling of being used for a bribe, as well as consuming a large portion of my resources and destroying my plans to assist refugees. I felt morally obliged to stick to my commitment to the refugees. I tried to rationalize; I came to a quick decision.

“I’ve had enough! I’ll go tomorrow!”

I was flabbergasted. In Bangkok there was no plane waiting for me. I would have to wait for it in the Immigration Detention Centre. It was another soul-destroying place. Different than the Thai prison, it was overcrowded with individuals from the four corners of the earth. Some had been locked up for years, given up hope, and remained in utter despair. Each day included endless shouting matches, violent fights and continual expressions of aggression.

At one point there was an open discussion to stage a mass break out. I was losing heart. If only I could undo the past and make different decisions!

When release came, I was granted a seat on the plane to Calcutta, again with the cost of a considerable bribe attached. I just wanted out, and I got out, but the feeling of dread and failure plagued me every waking minute. The teeming millions in Calcutta overwhelmed me. Where on earth could I find peace to just think through my situation?

That evening I fell into a deep sleep, only to wake several hours later gripped by fear and loathing. By daybreak my mind was in turmoil. I had never given any serious consideration to taking my own life, but that is what sprang to mind as my only option. The more I tried to dismiss such thoughts, the more they pressed in, and within half an hour my intentions were locked in. I went into my room, locked the doors, and slashed my wrist.

A wave of blue washed over me. I was convinced this was death. But I was fooled again. Death was supposed to end all pain and suffering, but here I was in another world with no escape! As I lay on my bed waiting for something to happen, I decided to test the state I was in. I unlocked the door, walked out through the lobby and out the door.

Soaked in blood, I wandered down the street. People stared in horror, parting as I came nearer. Somehow, someone took me to the hospital. I lay on the gurney, seemingly for hours, alone. I felt it was time to get help, so I left with the intention of going to the embassy, only to discover there was no embassy in Calcutta.

Given the state I was in, it is beyond me how I managed to buy a plane ticket to Delhi, and, brought a young lad along with me. (It’s still a blur in my memory and will remain a mystery.) Arriving late at night, I had a small satchel, my passport and a small amount of money. Feeling guilty about the lad I’d brought from Calcutta, I gave him all I had left, including my passport, telling him to sell it to raise the fare for his return trip. Torn, I rationalized what I’d done, and the life I’d now fallen into. I also contemplated getting to the embassy for help.

But how on earth could I go home like this and explain it to my family?

Again, I landed in a hospital. After a week or so I was at the embassy, where the staff seemed remarkably calm and understanding. Bill Kelly was the officer who took charge of my case. (Bill had seen it all before!) My heart sank when he explained I would be taken to a Christian household called Dilaram, where I could rest up for a few days while he sorted things for me. I wanted nothing more to do with any religion! I think he sensed my agitation and tried to reassure me. I did not have to get involved in any of their activities if I did not want to. And it would only be a few days.

The days turned into weeks and I was again growing restless. Occasionally I engaged in a discussion with these Christians, thinking I could convince them I knew exactly what I was doing and did not need their religion. Their refusal to argue back was infuriating. I longed to justify myself but nobody gave me half a chance to do so. I wanted Out. I decided to go back to Calcutta, collect what I had left at the hotel. Then I’d return to Delhi for my new passport and continue to the UK. With few dollars to spare, hitch hiking seemed to be the best option.

With a small map, I set off, walking to the outskirts of Delhi. After four hours I began to lose heart again. I had not been offered a single ride and returned to the city train station. A train was scheduled to leave for Calcutta within the hour, but as I slowly moved forward in the queue, and the departure time nearing, something inside me said I would not get on this train tonight. Indeed, when it was my turn to be served, the hatch door came down. The train was fully booked. I wanted to argue, but was dismissed with a cock of the head, and told, “Thursday is the next train.”

Every possible emotion welled up within me. “Surely not! Even now I cannot escape this drama!”

As I turned to leave, I came face to face with David Kitley, one of the leaders from Dilaram House. I am sure that he was as surprised to see me as I him. I explained to him what had just happened. David told me that he and others were headed to Mussoorie, in the Himalayan foothills for a few days, for a short break from Delhi’s heat. One person had dropped out. Would I like to come along?

What were my options? Sure, I was trying to get away from these people, but why not just accept the offer, see a few things I had never seen before, and then get back on my way.

We travelled all night. I woke covered with coal dust from head to foot, including in my mouth and on my teeth. Sitting by an open window behind a hissing engine gives one a different perspective to the romance of steam travel!

Landour, at the top of Mussoorie, was great, but I was very cynical towards the people around me. “How can these so-called Christians reside in such luxury and leave the people they have come to serve in heat and poverty? What hopes do they have for such a lavish lifestyle?”

It just did not seem to make sense. But at the same time a nagging thought began to niggle away at me. “What if the things I am hearing are true? What if God really does lead them and guide them? Enough! Never again!” I figured I just had to wait to get to Calcutta and things would be okay.

Dave Kitley mentioned if I was interested, there was an orthopaedic surgeon at the hospital who might be able to do something about my hand, now lame as a result of mutilating my wrist. I was interested!

Dr Virgin was a Christian doctor from Canada who had returned to visit the work he retired from some 10 years previous. He’d worked with leprosy patients, restoring the use of their hands and other faculties, damaged as a result of the disease. I was struck by his reassuringly calm attitude, as though he encountered my situation many times before. Before I really understood what was happening, I was admitted for surgery. The hospital ensured that I would be there for three weeks of rest. I yearned to get back on the road.

My presence at the hospital became known within the Christian population, and I received a number of visitors. Pearl Bowdish was the antithesis of my image of a missionary. She took me on as “her project,” and I felt trapped. Nevertheless, I began to look forwards to her visits, which included her freshly baked scones and cream. She also brought a small New Testament. “Just read John!” she said.

I had trouble reading a single paragraph in the newspaper, surely, she did not expect me to read all this tiny print and old-fashioned language! (King James was common text at the time.) I tried. I was afraid she might stop coming if I rejected her suggestion, but then I realized that Mark was a much shorter book, and the language seemed a little easier. Anyway, weren’t they the same story? Read one and you’ve read them all? Still, it didn’t make much sense to me.

At the end of three weeks, I was looking forwards to being discharged and getting back on the road to freedom. Imagine my disappointment when I was told that I could be discharged, but Dr. Virgin required me to come to the clinic each week to monitor my progress. I thought, “Surely, I can manage that for myself?” But no, an accommodation had been arranged with a young couple in the community who would give me room and board. Reluctantly, I agreed, but it felt too coincidental. Had I fallen into another trap? Was someone going ahead, laying a path for me to follow?

I have only vague memories of the early days staying with Yip (Ken) and Frieda in the cottage on the peak of the range, but some things are memorable. The beauty of the surroundings as I sat looking down on the village below, or walking the hilltop paths and breathing virgin air. I looked at snow-capped peaks. I watched as eagles soared and wheeled majestically from the valley floor into the clear skies above.

Yip and Frieda always seemed to be busy—going places, doing things, meeting people. I had expected they’d sit me down and give me a good talking to, which would give me the opportunity to explain myself and justify myself. But that opportunity never came. Occasionally I had a discussion of sorts, but I always initiated it, and any objections I raised seemed to melt away with the simple, plain answers I was given. I could not challenge what I was presented with, and in time, all I had left was questions. What was this all about and how on earth it had all come to this? I was broken, lost, and hopelessly out of touch with the world around me. For the first time I dared to think, “What if this were all true? What if there really is a genuine hope for the future?”

This was scary! I had put in such an effort to escape religion and here I was slipping back into it! It felt like too much to embark on another search for the truth. I wanted out. Thoughts plagued me day after day, to the point of feeling ground down. “If only I could just go home, sort things out, and even become a Christian when I get there. I could get on with life.”

Just after my 25th birthday, I lay back on my bed mulling things over, and the penny dropped. If I was going home and considering becoming a Christian there, I can in fact make that decision now. I knew the stories of Jesus from my Catholic upbringing, and now picked up on the fact that His love and forgiveness was not something to be earned. I didn’t understand much more, but I was aware I did not deserve anything. I was just lucky to have survived. The fact that I was even alive was a privilege far beyond my own expectations.

I began to re-plan my life, spending several hours thinking through the situations I would encounter. Clarity descended. I decided in doing this there would be no turning back. No changing plans. Wherever this takes me, that is where I will go.

I slept soundly that night. In the morning I announced my decision to Yip and Frieda. I recall Frieda being very pleased for me and expressed her joy, but Yip was over the moon, almost jumping out of his skin. My immediate thought was he was making too big a deal about it and he should calm down a bit. They both had an incredible testimony of God’s hand in their lives, and knew I had just embarked on a journey that I would never regret.

I was soon involved with families on the mountainside. I attended Bible study groups and Church life. I soaked up everything possible and, nearly soaked my wrist-plaster when Yip and Frieda took me on an adventure hike. We crossed rivers with strong currents. They laughed as they watched me lose my footing and drift downstream holding my plaster above my head.

I spent my days walking up and down the hills. I was falling in love with this magnificent place, but knew the end was coming. Now I did not want to leave. Snow would soon envelope the whole of the district and most of the residents would vacate to the plains. I had to say good-bye to these wonderful people who had made me so welcome.

In Delhi, the Dilaram House welcomed me back into their community. I planned to move on, but the ministry there was extraordinary. I continued to learn so much. I stayed there a further 2 years, during which time I had some wonderful experiences and exceptional adventures. I went places I would never have dreamt of, doing things I considered were out of my league, and most of all, I was learning and growing in the Lord. Even with all this nurturing, I found the hardest thing to grasp was the fact that there is absolutely nothing I can do to earn the love of God.

It was Frieda who first planted the idea of attending Bible College into my mind, and it was a wonderful time of learning, but there was one lingering question. “How on earth did I not hear about this earlier? Why did I have to go through all this just to find out the truth?” And harder to confront, “Why had I worked so hard to deny and avoid allowing God in my life? What was I afraid of?”

College is where I met my wife, Susan. We married the following year. (Susan soon learned that I had absolutely nothing to my name in terms of worldly possessions!) My father assisted me to get established in the workforce, and after a few years and a couple of children, I took the opportunity to do my degree. I worked in construction for the remainder of my working life.

Since Landour, my faith has been the backbone of my whole of my life and I am so thankful for the new beginning granted me. I struggle daily with the Western lifestyle. The waste, excess, and complaints about what people don’t have. There is only one true Gospel, one true life. “Jesus died for my sin, was buried, then arose on the third day. Therefore, turn from your ways and follow Him.” After hitting rock bottom, I know that grace only starts at this point. It’s in his hands. There is no other way.

I still love to run, although now success is measured by making it to the finish line, rather than dodging the law. I have enjoyed my involvement in lots of different activities, but the one thing that possesses me and drives me forward, is the opportunity to know Him and share that knowledge with others. With any other attitude, to me, this life is meaningless.

This is eternal life, that they should know you,
the only true God, and Him whom You sent, Jesus Christ. (John 17:3)

Meet David: David.m.mutton@gmail.com

Song For David

by Frieda and Anoushka Kumar

Lyrics:
Trapped in this dark shadow, no light to show the way,
My heart was an anchor. Then You came.

Far far away from my loving Father,
I had been wandering wayward wild
Fearing only lest his anger
Overtake his sinful child
Overtake his sinful child.

Vein had I fed on the husks around me 
Til’ to myself I came and said,
Plenty have my father servants
Perish I for want of bread.

Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved me
Oh, that a wretch like me was once lost
And how I was found I cannot say
And then, He came.

Trapped in this dark shadow, no light to show the way.
My heart was an anchor. Then You came.

God said, “Blessed are the Poor!” 

Why do we want to be rich?

Our neighbourhood had shared walls. It was tight; no place to walk between houses, and no place for gardens. Parking your car, even turning into your driveway took practise and skill. It was a middle-class neighbourhood, yet everyone employed a maid to clean their houses, except us. Instead, we called the street children in for breakfast. It gave the neighbours something to gossip about.

One morning I walked into the street to climb into our jeep and run some errands. A neighbouring gate opened and out strode a woman who was in her mid-thirties. She looked much older. From her clothing, I knew she was a maid leaving the house she’d cleaned. Her face looked tired and unhappy—she looked as if she was dragging the rest of her body behind her.

As she walked by, I greeted her with a “Hello, what’s your name? How are you?”

“Meena.” And instead of giving me an ordinary, “Fine, thank you,” she dove into a long dialogue about how unwell she was.

Her health had deteriorated over the past few months. When she left Nepal, her mother didn’t think she would ever see her alive again. Her condition was worsening and doctors had given up hope. She was barely able to eat and drink. I was utterly helpless to advise her.

“I don’t know what I can do for you, but if you want, Meena, I can pray for you.”

Her eyes lite up, and she wagged her head, “Yes!”

Then I was embarrassed. “I am just driving into the city for some work. Can you come tomorrow? I need to leave now.”

“Yes, I’ll come tomorrow.” She turned and walked down the road. I got in my car and drove off.

The next day, at the same hour, she came to my house. I was not there. My invitation to her had left my mind. She knocked at our door and my husband answered. He explained I was not at home, and asked, “Can you come back tomorrow?”

Once more, she wagged her head “Yes” and walked back down the road.

When I returned home and learned that she had come again, I felt bad. But she came again on the third day. I invited her inside.

“Meena, would you like a cup of tea? Some cake?”

“No. I can’t eat or drink anything.”

As I sat down beside her on our low cushioned couch, she looked at me and I knew she was wondering what I planned to do. So, I began.

“Meena, do you know anything about Jesus?”

“No. Who’s Jesus?”

I proceeded with a quick 5-minute introduction of who God is and why he came to earth in human form.

“God created the world and was born like a man to help us. He lived for us, and died for us. When he died, he promised his death would bring healing and forgiveness for sin. All we had to do was believe that he was God and what he said was true.

Meena asked seriously, “Can anyone have this healing and how much does it cost?”

“It is free. God died for us to give us healing. It is free for everyone. Shall I pray for your healing?”

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes, but peeked out just a crack, for I caught Meena’s bewildered look. Her eyes were wide opened and she was watching me intently. I took her hands in mine and prayed that God would heal her because of his love for her.

Then I looked at her. She hadn’t stopped staring at me. I smiled and rose from the couch. She stood and headed for the door. As she stepped outside, she said, “How long will it take? When will I get healed?”

“I don’t know, Meena. Just wait and see.” She left.

Three days later there was a knock on the door. I opened it up and Meena stood tall and strong, shining like the sun and her smile went from ear to ear.

“Come in. Would you like some chai?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like some cake?”

“Yes.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Then she went on to tell me how absolutely fine she was and how her family, and the whole neighbourhood could not believe what had happened to her. In fact, it went further than just her being healed. Her husband was an alcoholic and would beat her and her children daily. Because of her miraculous healing, he stopped drinking and totally changed.

Now, I was the surprised one. Whose faith healed Meena? I knew most assuredly that it was not mine. I was obedient; that became Meena’s blessing. It was so true. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 5:3)

Meena was like a child, she had faith like a child. She had the kind of faith that can move mountains. Meena became my spiritual lesson. Yes, if only I could have that wonderful poor in spirit attitude; I would have that child-like faith to move mountains. Meena moved her mountain of illness right off the face of the earth.

Regarding faith, the poor know how to “just” believe; no complications or preconceptions. Child-like faith. I’m jealous. Why doesn’t anyone want to be poor?

Dear God,

I know you’re there. So, let’s be real. We may as well get started.

Do you like that cross? I love it. It’s made out of one nail. I know that must have hurt, but looking at it reminds me of the suffering you went through for me. Me and my sister, Suzy, fight over who owns it. It’s just because we both like it and have become mixed up about whose it really is.

I’ve been thinking about how you don’t (normally) choose to meet us face to face, though you promise that you will, one day, in eternity. That should be fun.

You don’t normally talk in a way that we hear you. We have perfectly good ears, but you choose to rout our social network via our heart—a regular, but unusual medical phenomena. That’s okay. I guess that it’s not okay to tell you “That’s okay.” I can’t give GOD permission on how to design our communication. Sorry for that.

So, I was wondering about “all my days?” You know, all that you have planned for me? I noticed that as I’m aging there is a lot less hair on my head; hairs you’ve numbered. Are you still keeping track? And does it have anything to do with the number of my days? I’m guessing there is some connection. Maybe just age.

You’ve certainly written a few interesting chapters in your book regarding life. The Preacher (in Ecclesiastes chapter 1, verse 2) says, “Vapor of vapours, and futility of futilities, …. all is vanity.” Seems like he’s right. I try my best to get everything done that I need to accomplish in a day, but it seems pointless—futile. I fail. I even skip reading the Bible and talking to you. You already know that.

I mess up on daily exercising. I don’t even do my important physio every day, and I should, because I can’t walk. There are 13 screws in my neck. Honestly, you’d think I’d know that it’s vitally important. I do know it. But I don’t do it. At least not consistently.

Yeah. It’s part of designing us with a conscience. Medical science hasn’t got “conscious” in its body-parts-book yet; it’s not quite figured that one out. Remember that verse? Romans 7:15,16? What a sense of humour you have! I quote you (oh, it’s not you, a disciple is speaking, excuse me):

“I don’t understand myself at all, for I really want to do what is right, but I can’t. I do what I don’t want to—what I hate. I know perfectly well that what I am doing is wrong, and my bad conscience proves that I agree with these laws I am breaking.”

Yep, you nailed me! Sorry! I was just joking.

Ha! And that thought makes me think of a portrait my cousin drew of me; he doesn’t like to draw, so the outcome was such a surprise! He tried hard to do his best. We nearly died laughing. When my husband saw it, that’s exactly what he said, “You nailed her!”

You’ve got to see the picture… here it is.

• 

• 

See what I mean?

Okay, my mind got side-tracked. Just wanted to give you a laugh. I know you laugh. At least that’s what is reported (by an angelic journalist somewhere on a celestial cloud?): “He who sits in heaven laughs…” (Psalm 2:4)

Do you know what, Lord? We founded a school in 1986. Year after year government stipulations stopped us from going past 8th class. It’s taken us 36 years to finally, this 2022, watch Class 12 graduate. A total of 21 students. It was amazing, and we couldn’t have made it happen without you. Thanks.

Just a couple days before the graduation, I was walking by a group of senior boys at school who called out to me. “Hello, ma’am. Good morning, ma’am.” And then I heard one of them say, “Ma’am how are you, now?” I answered with my usual answer of “good, good” and put my thumb in the air. I walked on by. And you know what? Afterwards, I really regretted what I said. I broke the number one first rule of this school. “Living in Love.” That is our school motto from its very beginning.

That student added “now” to “how are you?” He was asking me a personal question, because he was asking out of love. I missed my opportunity. I felt very bad. Sorry Lord. You know, I just love talking to you. I just love being solely me alone with you. It feels natural. Besides, I can’t be anything but natural with you. There isn’t anything you don’t know about me. So, you know I love talking to you.

Lord, there’s a certain situation which is really getting me down, depressed, and plain sad because of what some people are saying behind other’s backs. It feels terrible. Last night I couldn’t even sleep. What do you think, Lord? It wasn’t my fault, but still, I feel guilty and I don’t even know why! If you could only just give me some wisdom on this. I long to hear from you… my heart is listening. Please just give me a word.

Okay, I know this isn’t really how you do things… you prefer speaking through my heart, but I have this Bible app on my phone. If you want, just speak to me this once through this app. Okay God, I’m going to’ scroll now without looking and use my finger to click on a book in the bible. Here goes.

Oh! Don’t know what I choose, but I’ll choose a chapter and then a verse. Let’s see what I got. I hope you did give me a personal word. I need one.

Oh my! God! Wow! That is amazing! You are talking to me, and saying such nice things! That is so kind and sweet of you! Oh… I know, yes, you love me. I got it. You said it. You trust me. I get overwhelmed when you do something like this. Thanks God. I love you too.

… God, please, just one more word? Hearing from you again would just thrill me and encourage me to the ends of the earth. Please! I’ll do the scroll thing again. (And I won’t hold it against you if you don’t talk to me this way again.)

Oh God! How did you know? Yes, the shadows and fears in my life can be too heavy sometimes and drag me down. Those words Lord, are exactly what my heart is saying to you! Did you hear my heart? Did I talk to you through my heart like you designed? I love that! Oh Jesus, please, I have made up my mind and I do want to go to the mountain-top with you, and yes, I want to be your bride. “I do.”

God, if you were to rate me on a one to ten scale on prayer, that is, our talks together, what score would I get? I mean, when I pray like this, is this really what you want? I’m asking you, “Teach me to pray,” because you said to say, “Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name…., “and it might help me to know how I’m doing. I don’t use those big words, like hallowed, Thy, Thou, and art. It’s just not me. And when I talk to you, I go around the world and you’ve got the whole world in your hands! So, my score would be…

A ten? Really? Thanks. Okay, if you say so.

I could just talk to you all day… so I won’t say amen. I’ll play this little song I wrote for you. Well, you wrote the words; they are beautiful. Hope you like it.

Our Song of Songs

I’ve made up my mind.
Until the darkness disappears and the dawn has fully come,
in spite of shadows and fears,
I will go to the mountaintop with you—
the mountain of suffering love
I will go to the mountaintop with you
The mountain of love
Oh, the hill of burning incense, oh yes.
I will come, yes, I will be your bride.
I will be your bride. I am your bride.

I was four.
The mountains were covered in snow. 
I remembered the snow.

It’s easy to avoid thinking about the meaning of life. Covid made me think. I had the virus. Quarantine. It affected me mentally and physically. I’m a sportsman, inactivity doesn’t suit me. It is unthinkable to me. Forced to be sedentary, I had lots of time to ponder. I dug into my past. I reviewed my own mental and emotional scars. There were some big ones.

Six months ago on a Saturday night, movie night, I sat in the hall of the boy’s hostel waiting to watch “Home Alone.” It was just a wacky-crazy movie about a little boy, Kevin, who was home alone. He ends up being the hero by thwarting thieves and making fools of them while he is home alone. In this particular movie, it’s Christmas. That is the very best time of year at Shishya where I live in the hostel. It’s full of love and joy and filled with fun and laughter and song. It’s the absolute best. And that’s why my thoughts unconsciously took a diversion as I watched this movie.

Kevin was angry with his mom throughout the whole movie. He ended up lost in New York City and began to miss his mother. He longed to see her again. At the end of the movie, he is stood in front of an enormous Christmas tree and prayed, “God, I want to see my mother again.” He turned around and she’s standing right there. He throws his arms around her and hugs her.

That was the first time, after so many years, I felt like I needed a hug from my mom. I don’t know why it happened, but when my mom died, we were told, “you need to be strong.” So, hearing that, it made me think and understand “I don’t have anyone,” and now “I need to be strong by myself.”

As Kevin turned around and saw his mother, I saw mine, too. She was right in front me. I was only four years old and living with my family in the mountains. As I lay on the bed with my siblings, the kitchen door flung open and she ran out screaming—completely on fire. From the kitchen she ran through the room and out the front door. I saw her fly past me engulfed in flames… my mother. I tried to run and grab her, but some adults grabbed me. They held me so I couldn’t move.

No, it didn’t help me, but the movie jogged my memory. That scene in the movie, after so many years, made me remember my mom. Before that, I hardly thought of her. It was like my memory-bank had been wiped out. Her memory was buried there, but I didn’t want drag it out. The memory was too painful, too sensitive to recall. I couldn’t share it with anyone.

My dad was sent to jail for seven years, because the police blamed him. I don’t know why they thought he was guilty—just because no one else was there to blame. It seems odd that my memory was jolted from watching an outlandish Hollywood movie. But it happened. By the time I saw the movie, I’d had some time to grow up. Now I wanted that memory. I realized that I missed my mother. It was not a nice memory, but it was my mother. I loved her no matter what. She committed suicide and my dad went to jail for 7 years. I was too little to understand anything then, and now I still don’t understand. But I know that God loves me. No matter what. He gives me his undivided attention, always. I shoved my mother into a locked, dark, depressive memory cupboard. Now I understand I need her, no matter what had happened, no matter why it happened. I want to love my mother unconditionally, like God loves me.

When I pulled my mother out of the cupboard, it somehow freed my father. I still find it hard to talk to him, but I didn’t need him in my homemade jail. I had peace. There was light in my heart, not darkness. Everything was in the open, where it needs to be. That is what I thought about when I was forced to ponder during quarantine. I cried out to God regularly and felt the pain of others whose situations were far worse than mine.

In my pain I needed to reach out to others. Relationships which needed mending were repaired. I learned to trust God for not just the future, but also the past; rather than be scared of it. I needed God daily. And I thanked God daily for all my blessings… even the unseen, unrealized blessings which are many. It’s part of trusting God and knowing that he loves me.

During quarantine, I kept walking—even when the world had stopped. Joy squeezed into places where it hadn’t been invited. I deliberately opened the door to it. When joy forced its way into the locked room of unwanted memories, it unsheathed its double- edged sword and, in an instant, conquered the fear that had left years of dark shadows in my life. The darkness, a heavy depressive darkness, just ran out the door and light flooded in. Light, or joy… or both; I’m not sure. They seemed to be the same thing.

The best lesson I learned was to be happy being “me,” (not the hero, not a sportsman). I am not just a face in the crowd; I am me, Sushil; the best version that God made. In God’s eyes, I am perfect. Can’t get better than that.

Covid and quarantine created opportunities surprise opportunities for me to change my life. I was thankful for a place of safety and food, a place to play sports, and the sunsets at Shishya. Not everyone has such luxuries. And I have friends, I have people who love me, I have God. I don’t need to be strong all by myself.

In the end, the feeling of ecstasy and freedom when you come out of quarantine—was AMAZING.

“I’ve made up my mind. Until the darkness disappears and the dawn has fully come, 
in spite of shadows and fears, I will go to the mountaintop with you—
the mountain of suffering love and the hill of burning incense.”
Song of Songs 4:6

I am ABOUT to explode. There could be quite a mess. On the other hand, it could be an epic explosion that scatters “good stuff” in its aftermath. Perhaps my stories, recordings, thoughts and poems are not extraordinary, but if you want to know ABOUT me, I’m not ordinary. I have regular volcanic eruptions of words and songs. I write. I sing. And if I don’t, I will explode. So, I do.

A well-meaning friend once gave me some advice. “Frieda, you need to understand that it’s you who writes your songs, don’t blame God.” That comment stood out in my memory. I knew it was not totally true because my songs speak to me and tell me things I don’t know. They inspire me. And not only that, I unashamedly declare my songs beautiful because I’m not bragging about myself, but about Him, the Inspiration.

A few months ago Psalm 23 struck a deep chord in my heart. I had to put it to music. It spoke to me. I recorded it to memorialize the valley of death I’d recently walked through. A friend told me, “Your recording is so bad that I just can’t listen to it! It hurts my ears too much!” Okay, that hurt. But I understood.

It was true. It was a poor quality recording. But when I wrote the song I was physically and mentally wounded. I was in distress. The recording cried, exactly as I did. The song was in distress, just as I was.

When I listen to that horrible recording I remember how much I hurt, and hope someone else gains strength from my weakness. I hope people in pain or despair hear the message of HOPE in my song—the hope that expels us from the valley of death. “When I’m weak, He is strong.”

The relationship between me and my website is very competitive. I’m trying to get one story written every week. My website taunts me, saying, “Frieda will never manage that many stories, and further, she is racing against her life’s time-line to write everything wrapped up in her heart.” That’s true, I may not reach my goal. Before I reach the end of my race I want to share as many stories as possible, lest I be rebuked at the gate. “Hey! What are you doing here? Get back to work!”

Anyone can write a blog, it doesn’t make you noteworthy. But to write the “ABOUT” is giving recognition where it belongs: in the portion of my cup God occupies. It’s not ABOUT me.

However, if you’re still curious:

• Female, age 68

• Granny of 11 (couldn’t find a photo with all of them)
• Grew up in Elkhart, Indiana, USA.
• Faced an overload of trauma in my teens, so I…
• Became a hippy and went to India.

• Jesus was waiting for me there.
• And so was another hippy, Yip.

• I married and have 5 married children living in 5 different countries.
• Life changed forever. I stayed in India and we have over hundred children.

That’s me. Frieda. That’s Yip. (Ken)