For a son, a husband, a father —Terry, whose streams are flooded with the desire to protect, to serve, to honour, love and provide; a father’s heart.

Dad’s Love Song of Life

Life is a love song meant to be sung
Ten thousand years… it still drifts along

A knight in armour watches and waits
Sword unscathed, he takes his place
Love runs deep, honour he keeps

Home, the treasure he guards with his heart
… he loves

He fights against foes who scatter for want
…. he fights
Protects the riches of purpose, not want
turbulent love like a river gorge runs

… powerful source.

In honour he finds his reward
by guarding the song his heart longs for
the children he birthed are those whom he serves

Bends over backward he loves her
Protector of the all, exit the darkness —he stands tall
the love song of life is always alive

It’s part of the fight, the love song of life —never ends …
The love song of life it never dies …its alive.
Love runs deep, honour he keeps

For Knight Terry…

Is the water deep?

(Rats and house miniatures painted by Terry Leon with a magnifying glass)

Everyone has their own Everest to climb, but the truth is, some fall. Like Vicki. A life of chronic illness, trauma, fear, degrading, horrible and tragic memories. Loneliness and humiliation. Vicki had everything stacked against him through no fault of his own. He ended up in a sinkhole, which he dug, where he chose to stay, hoping to be invisible. It became a zone where he sought comfort, one he just could not move out of. It’s true that everybody has their own Everest to climb and everyone’s mountain looks different, but Vicki could not even lift up his head high enough to see the sun. He lived in the shadows.

Vicki, though physically present, left us mentally and emotionally a few years ago. At the legal age of 18 he ran away. 18-year-olds are legally adults, but maturity often comes later. He was just a kid when he boarded a train for Kolkata —the red-light district, to meet his mother. There’s no sin in wanting a mother; but there’s no sun in the red-light district. The choice was his; he was an 18-year-old child about to enter one of the most dangerous places in any city.

No one in his family has ever cared, yet Vicki imagined a mother who loved him. He couldn’t accept that his mother was unable to face her own tragic life and left him in a slum. A grandmother came and went, but there was no one for Vicki. He was brought into our community when he was 7. Everyone loved him and tried hard to be his family and take care of his needs, which were many.

Looking after children is what our community does. The children with us have uniquely sad, traumatic and horrific memories. Before they come to us, their lives are already stagnated. By giving children a community, they have a chance to find an open door, a way to be freed. For some it happens quicker, for others, it takes longer. But one thing is universal: They all yearn for parents—especially a mother. It is the most profound relationship in the world. No matter what a child does, a mother’s love won’t fail. That’s the cry in their hearts. Hearts ache for love. For family. That was God’s idea. God, who calls himself, “Father,” planned, from the beginning, an adoption process; a relationship closer than any mother or father can give to their own children. That is a mystery, buried with the ache we find in our hearts.

Vicki had more needs than most. When he turned 9 years old, he began to have violent seizures. Thrown off his bed, he’d land on the floor, bang his head and froth at the mouth. He was racked by headaches, broken teeth and bloody noses. His seizures were so violent that he ended up sleeping on a mattress on the floor for protection. He had many different courses of medicine. Some helped and some didn’t.

When covid began playing havoc, he had to do online studies. That was not the answer for Vicki. Screen time was harmful, his seizures increased. More broken teeth and bloody noses. Finally, I made an appointment with my neurologist and seizures seemed to come to an end. But Vicki never gave us enough time to know. Vicki ran away, leaving us struggling to understand.

Physically, he improved, emotionally he was a mess. Having had seizures myself, I understood some of what he felt. I’d also lost my mother and knew the ache. I tried to help him, and he loved talking to me because of our similar experiences. But it was useless. No matter what I said, or how I encouraged and coached him, he chose to drop out of school in 10th grade.

After that he went downhill fast. Vicki, who hated school, was a smart, intelligent boy. Even though he struggled, he did well in school. But he could not look past the present and see school as beneficial. Life for Vicki was a downhill rollie coaster—or a Ferris wheel, spinning round and round going nowhere. Everything in his life was negative; all the help and love, care and counsel given to him was unfruitful. Vicki was stuck in his sinkhole.

At 18 his head hung down as though weighted with bricks. He stared at the ground when he said goodbye to me, gave me a stiff hug with his head turned well away. He never even looked at me. He never said a word. I imagine him sitting alone somewhere looking at his feet. Nothing could stop him. Now we continue to pray—and worry about him (which of course doesn’t help).

Vicki ran away when he turned legal age
Still a kid in thought and mind—maturity had no meaning,
Counselled, advised, loved and cared for
Still, he chose to ride backwards against the current.
Logical solutions were not part of his plans
Hurt and confused, circling ’round as if on a Ferris-wheel
Lack of a family tore him apart, sickness left him lonely,
Flashing rights and wrongs, stops and skips littered his weary mind,
And yet, he loved every good and bad thought
He wondered, he pondered… he wandered.
Chronic illness attacked his brain, playing havoc on his fears,
Threw him down —on the ground —racked his body all around
Sickness broke his body and teased his soul
Loneliness, his captor, grew into a giant.
Vicki rested in his sinkhole —his head hung low.
Bullied, teased and laughed at, distance didn’t help;
He fled but couldn’t get away —from himself
He was too close to the blaring… neon-lighted-problems in his head
They were written in Bold CAPITAL letters
Strobe-lighted with silent thunderous blasts
Glued to him as demonic friends…
Yes, Vicki ran faraway… to his restful sinkhole
There the wind wafted sweet, soulful relief
Where Vicki hid, ate, drank, ran, and paced.
The current he jumped into hurtled Vicki against a boulder;
Suddenly shaken, his once promising future was merely a fable;
Nothing more than a significant dead end.
And the comfort zone he chose, was a sinking hole;
Vicki chose.

Everyone climbs their Everest, some fall. Stepping into another life is risky. Entering into their disarrayed life is not only hard, it borders on impossible. You risk your joy and in return gain grief and sadness. Every child we oversee has frightening stories until someone reaches into their hole, and by some miracle, says the needed, shows the love, and pulls them out. That’s God’s plan. Family enters in.

A man once woke up in the middle of the night, and sensed a tangible evil in his room. He lifted his head and saw the devil. He said, “Oh, it’s only you,” then dropped off to sleep again. That’s the victory; owning your story, not running from it.

Trauma and tragedy, hopelessness and grief, can be defeated devils. You can’t erase history; your story is who you are. Turn the past into the stronghold it can be in life, don’t allow it to take the place of terror that breaks you. Turn bad experiences into defeated devils. Face your past, make room for it, own it and walk with your head held high. The door is open. Freedom is on the other side. Father is waiting.

Vicki imagined a family who cares. And he had one. He just didn’t recognize who his family was. The world is full of Vickie’s.

Vicki, if you read this, come home, you are loved. You are in our family.

Leviticus 26:13

Ps. 3:3

Sadhu Sundar Singh; 1989-1929, walked across the Himalayas numerous times. He is believed to have died in the foothills of the Himalayas in 1929. I met him via his biography. The consequence was life changing.

It was January 1975, and I was seeking a book to read, anything that wasn’t Christian. I was surprised to find a book that met this requirement on the bookshelf of Dr. Olson, who was a follower of Jesus. It was titled, Sadhu Sundar Singh, and there was a picture of him on the cover. He wore the typical saffron garb of a Hindu sadhu. I knew one person who went with the search party into the Himalayas to find him, but Sundar never returned. Before his last hike across the Himalayas, Sundar announced that he may not return. He was right.

I first met the Sadhu in his beloved mountains, the Himalayas. If you’ve been there, you’ll know why he loved them. Sundar Singh walked back and forth across those mountains many times on his way to Tibet. He was born in a Sikh family, but wore the dress and lived the life of a sadhu, wanting to relate to people genuinely. But I’m jumping ahead. He is such a great hero of mine. Reading his story enthralled me. When I swiped the book off Dr. Olson’s shelf in the mountains, I was working at the children’s home on the plains with Yip.

For the past decade the children’s home was in a constant state of neglect and disrepair. The walls grew mould, old paint shed itself like dandruff, parts of the ceilings and walls were missing; the “two” rooms I shared with 50 girls was more like one room because of the huge hole in the wall that the girls and I stepped through. That hole was as big as a picture window, the angular bricks projected from it and framed its edges. I was worn-out by the hopeless poverty, and not just physical poverty, but the total absence of care and love for the children. I made it my duty to write a letter to Dr. Olson who was a board member overseeing the home’s functioning. Dr. Olson was a very kind man who had been good to me. The children loved him. He gave the children physical check-ups when he visited the home. His only fault, in my opinion, was that he nagged me about Jesus.

“The whole place reeks of negligence,” I wrote. “How can you consider yourselves Christians when the poverty of this place glares at you in the face? The food is terrible. It has stones in it. The children don’t even have drinking water. They get sick, they get infections, they are covered in lice. There is no vehicle to take them to the hospital. And there’s nobody that looks after them or cares or loves them. This is not the way to raise children. You should be ashamed of yourselves.” I went on and on with fine-tuned points. Dr. Olson, the lucky receiver of my epistle, wore a quirky smile as he read it, and said it was a very detailed document. “Worth keeping.”

My letter didn’t change a thing. It merely provided an interlude of entertainment. The conditions remained terrible. Unknown to me, the truth was Dr. Olson’s presence on the board was a lifesaver to those children. He was there to help and was simply doing his best to end the underlying greed of certain stakeholders who sought to benefit from the home.

I was young and ready to take on the world. I had conceded in my understanding of Jesus, for after reading Psalm 139 and Genesis, I knew beyond any doubt that the Bible really was God’s word, which logically meant Jesus was God. I read the words, but Istill hadn’t connected the dots. I assumed that when I believed, a type of osmosis occurred and I was transformed into a Christian. And yet, something was missing that I couldn’t put my finger on.

At the home we treated the children for illnesses we readily diagnosed. We had some training as lay-doctors, a practical necessity, but the kids continued to get sick in ways we couldn’t treat. Yip then carried them five kilometres to the hospital. Because of this, some of the doctors and staff became close friends. Visiting the hospital always included a generous cup of tea or coffee with cookies or cake. We craved those delicacies. It’s hard to explain what a luxury a simple biscuit or a cup of tea was. Later, I walked there in the summer midday heat to attend a community health course. Walking in the heat was not wise, but I survived, loved the course, and the loved the treats.

Back to February 10, 1975: It was late at night when I arrived back at the home. I pulled out the book, Sadhu Sundar Singh, and began reading. I thought it was a book about a Hindu sadhu. But Sadhu Sundar Singh grew up in a Sikh family. He studied at a Christian school where he learned about Jesus. But he was a proud Sikh and showed it by burning Bibles in the school yard. Though Sundar was only a boy, he lived in the era of the British Raj and understood the hatred that filled the atmosphere towards “white” people. His actions weren’t making sense to his mother, who knew Sundar as a kind and thoughtful boy. The teachers did not know what to make of him. Sundar, himself, knew he was acting out of character. He soon felt such deep meaninglessness in life that he decided to kill himself.

He resolutely laid on the train tracks and told God that if he didn’t reveal Himself, he would die with the morning train. Just before dawn he met Jesus. Jesus appeared to him on the cross. He got up and happily told his parents what happened. They thought he was delusionary and mad; they tried to talk sense into him. Sundar’s father was ashamed. His family’s reputation was at stake and he saw no other alternative but to kill Sundar. He poisoned Sundar’s food and nearly succeeded in killing him.

Delirious, Sundar wandered about, desperately sick. He was rescued by those Christians he had once taunted. He was nursed back to health but couldn’t return to his family. Realizing his course of life was changed, he decided to serve Jesus as a sadhu. His family relentlessly tried to convince him to return to his religion, but he refused. He loved his family, but would not turn his back to Jesus.

I was spellbound. It was amazing. Why did the vision of Jesus change his life so much? I’d had my own moment of recognition, of understanding the Bible to be God’s word, but, if only I could meet Jesus like Sundar did! For me, Jesus was only a name, not a person to meet. I’d always assumed that a “personal relationship with God” was purely a Christian phrase! It was baffling.

I continued to read Sundar’s story: He walked back and forth across the mountains into Tibet, desperate for people to know Jesus. He faced death almost every day, whether from perilous exploits or angry people. Once, he was thrown into a well and a lid was placed on it; locked and sealed. He was left for dead. Yet, he was rescued. The key to the well was around the neck of the chief who threw Sundar into it. Sundar definitely had angels working over-time for him.

Sadhu Sundar Singh talked to the animals—even tigers. Dangerous animals, including poisonous snakes, would turn away, leaving him unharmed.

Sundar undoubtedly knew Jesus in a unique, intimate way. I wondered how this could be? How can anyone talk to animals? How can anyone talk to Jesus? I longed to talk to God and I wanted to hear Him talk back to me. That thought took me back to my childhood when I used to pray to God in my fairy-tale-type fashion. Could anyone really talk to Jesus like he was their brother? Like a close friend? Could God really become that close and intimate with me? Prayer? Is it really just chatting to God? I was suddenly very jealous of Sundar Singh’s most remarkable relationship with the Almighty. I wanted that relationship.

That night at the children’s home I sat upright on my rope bed, a thin cotton mattress beneath me. I read the final page and silently closed the book. I looked up. “God, if this is the kind of relationship I can have with you, like a close friend, then I really want to be your friend.” It was simple and direct. No pleas to forgive my sins. No pleas to be my saviour. It wasn’t anything like that. I left out all the classic beseeches and simply asked if we could be friends. Immediately, simply, Jesus answered. I felt the Holy Spirit coming into me and I knew he was with me. My friend! I got up and I pranced around the room. I was so happy, just like when God opened my eyes to the Bible. The bottomless joy filling me was Jesus. I knew it. And I knew that he loved me.

The next day I walked out into the sunlight with a knowing smile plastered on my face. Everything around me was magnified and bright, every colour intensified. Earth was the stage, brilliant spotlights radiated down from heaven. The sky was an electric blue and the greens glittered like breathing jewels. The whole world had changed before my eyes. I was so happy. I couldn’t contain myself. I couldn’t stop talking about the WOW of it all. A Miracle!

And yet, it was just a normal day. Nothing more miraculous than a normal day. But I could see and understand that normal is a miracle! And that’s what asking Jesus to be my friend did for me. Jesus made my life an everyday miracle. And its never changed. Every morning, every day is new. Every day is a day with my friend.

In the words of C.S. Lewis:

I gave in and admitted that God was God.

Shishya is Sanskrit, it means disciple.
Sundar Singh was a disciple, a sadhu.

(*above pencil sketch by Paul Crouse)

Life is like an Onion

What happens when radical, amazing determination are put to the test? Most likely chaos. I found out first hand in my confused, runaway mentality. As a foolhardy, immortal youth, I ran, ready to take on the galaxy.

My story is officially vulnerable, like a soap opera, whose viewers are addicted to the outrageous acts of deceit, pride, humility, cheating, lying, immorality, integrity, romance, servants and kings. There’s not much to miss. Not everything develops in one scene. Even when a scene climaxes, not everything shines brightly. Something has to remain unresolved that reeks of dark mystery, keeping the wonder of what will happen to sail on.

That’s life. The plot is always thickening.

I grew up believing in God. I slept with my Bible right above my head. I believed God was there to provide all my needs which I presented to him daily, in fairy-tale-type requests. “Dear God, if you make my doll come alive, then I’ll believe in you.” He never answered that one. So be it. In fact, I can’t recall any answered prayer during that time in my childhood. Still, I persevered and completed the catechism necessary to become a member of the church.

Then, death entered. God failed me. He didn’t fulfil his part of the bargain. He left me vulnerable and betrayed.

That’s why I began to hate God—and particularly Christians because it was their God. Death made its mark and left life in question. The night my mother died, I heard a Christian say, “It must have been God’s will.” If you were standing near me, you would have felt the heat of wrath emanating from my body.

A few short years brought many layers of death. First it was a baby I looked after; then the child I cared for who had a brain haemorrhage, then the death of a young mother with cancer, then the brutal murder of my mother, then an aspiring young doctor full of dreams, and finally, my high school friend Mike, killed instantly by a drunk driver while I and other friends were in his van. Layer upon layer of death. God was striking out at me. The Almighty was showing off his super-powers. The night Mike died I felt physically abused by God, who battered me against the walls of the van as it somersaulted over the turf. And then God spit me out on the dirt.

The impossible wanted to expose itself, waiting for the right moment to swoop in and save the day… God is a dramatist and lets the plot thicken, keeping the wonder of what will happen next sailing on.

A few years after Mike’s death, I sat at a dinner table high in the Himalayas with the pleasant taste of lemon pie in my mouth, listening to Psalm 139 being read. It told me there was no place I could run where God would not find me. (Mind you, I only heard it because I opted to stay for dessert.) It’s impossible to explain how that Psalm spoke to me, equally hard to explain how that evening, as I read the first verse of the bible (“In the beginning God… God…) followed by the book of Genesis, brought home the recognition that Jesus truly is God. And my spirit agreed. Why did I, at 15, persevere and complete catechism… why did I do that? Tradition? Frustrated, I dug my heels in deeper, added extra perseverance and gusto… I started thinking for myself. Otherwise… the next paragraph may never have happened. God did finally swoop in.

My shield was pierced, a portal was opened, and the light that filled me brought bottomless joy. God. How does one explain the impossible? I can’t.

I recognized the irony of my plight. I had been searching for God, not Jesus. The name of Jesus had always left a bad taste in my mouth. It was like playing hide and seek. I was hiding while he was seeking, always.

My experience with death brought pain, but also depth to my life. Linked memories. “In the beginning… God” —truth shone like the morning sun. Its wholeness and richness clothed my life. I understood. “Wow!” I gasped! “A miracle!” In my previous blog I told the truth about my exit from the United States; one very thin layer within the whys. Writing in the short breath of blog what’s taken years, even a life-time to work out, just can’t be done. No one can explain miracles.

We are rich and complex and layered. Telling my story makes me officially vulnerable. Like peeling back an onion, the process can make you cry — there’s more and more and more. Pain and joy mixed together. You may have thought, she left to do good things. And maybe, she did them. But her whys have a history. I did persevere… but de-toured from tradition, catechism and church, because Jesus, was just not there.

Before I left for India, I went to my pastor to make things right. I told him, “I joined the church, but I don’t believe Jesus is God, I don’t think the Bible is God’s word, and I don’t want to be a Christian. I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I want to drop out of the church.” He gave me a soothing, well-practiced, established smile, and said with a forked tongue, “You don’t need to drop out. That’s the way we all feel.” End of conversation. So, I wasn’t a hypocrite after all. I was given a guilt-free pass.

When my daughter was engaged, she had dozens of journals where she penned her thoughts—past loves included. She read to her fiancé everything she’d written. Nothing left out. She gave him the journal and said, “We can burn this together.” He said, “No, it’s your story. You can’t just get rid of your story just because you don’t like it or find it embarrassing. It’s your story and therefore, it is valuable and therefore we keep it. Every single bit of it. And we own it because it’s your story.”

It’s guaranteed someone will be offended by what I write. People rarely agree; points of view differ. Even participants of the same event remember it differently. But I’ll own my past. Every laugh, every tear, each embrace, every special memory.

Although the name of Jesus had once left a sour taste in my mouth, the night Jesus’ name became sweet to me was the night I ate lemon pie. And lemon pie is my absolute favourite —our dramatist God also has a sense of humour.

Dear God, life has intricate layers —veins connect to the heart… one big game of connecting the dots. Love the Lord with all our heart… science is horribly mis-informed about the hearts function; yes, it pumps blood but it also loves… life is in the blood… the blood of Jesus is the full payment. Guilt free passes can’t be man-made. Dig deep, hide and seek… there’s more than what just meets the eye.

Life is like an onion; Dear God, I think you had a good idea.

Prayer Dear Lord

Sally, a childhood friend, sent me a letter she’d written dated a few years after high school, which she’d carbon-copied to some other neighbourhood girls we grew up with. We were all on the cusp of becoming adults. All of us entering a world of adventure to become somebody and make a difference.

Sally wrote:
July 27th, 1975

Exciting things have happened. The biggest is that Frieda came home the night before we did! … I’m sitting here in the sari she chose for me. You should hear her unbelievable stories. Our travels sound like nothing!

Frieda had 10 days to get out of India when her visa wasn’t renewed. That’s when things clicked in the guy who’s running the home with her. He asked her to marry him. She said, “yes,” then asked what his last name is…

He sounds interesting —been traveling for the last 2 years, lived in a kibbutz for a year, now he’s a devout Christian. So is Frieda. Every other Christian I’ve run in to I’ve been able to put a little dent or question in their head. The closest I’ve come with Frieda was once she said in response to one of my ideas, “Well maybe.” But then she quickly said “but she didn’t think so, because the Bible said . . . “She seems to think few people are true Christians. I agree there….

Frieda really put me to thinking because her religion is so much a part of her happiness. She has decided that it’s God’s will that she marry Yip and that makes her certain of her choice. I just hope that he is as close to being a god as Frieda is to being a goddess. She now has 144 songs and 110 kids.

They drink water from a canal that runs thru the village where people bathe, wash clothes, and wash animals. They load two large oil drums on an ox cart and drive a mile to get water. The kids are regularly checked for leprosy … She said for a while now she’s been going to bed at 1:00 and getting up at 5:00 a.m. When you get up you have to shake off your clothes to make sure there are no scorpions, cobras, etc. Frieda keeps talking half in Hindi by accident. She herds 80 kids to school in the village alone each morning. We bought medicine for the lice eggs she brought back in her head

Perhaps the facts were not exact, but Sally did a great job of creating a picture for a thrilling adventure, which it was and continues to be.

Did I really not know my fiancés last name? I didn’t, nor was I sure of his first name. Though we worked together in the orphanage—all day and into the night—it never occurred to me to ask. I knew him as Yip, but it wasn’t his official name.

At the time I was living in a village without electricity, water, phone, or a vehicle. We did shake out our shoes for scorpions, but cobras are much too big to fit in shoes. They prefer to hang out in the corners.

My exit to India was in October 1974. There are so many stories that fit between the lines of Sally’s letter. My intention is to clear up any confusion as to why I ditched the USA and fled across the world. My escape plan had been ready for years, but when it turned into the action of doing it, my motives were muddled. I left without regret or hesitation, but it was not the dreamy departure I’d imagined it to be. My exit had more of the lingering odour of a run-away kid.

Blown away by the horrific murder of my mother, all my thoughts were on the meaning of life and death; and God… even if God IS… can he be good? Not only did my mother die tragically, but a short 2 years later, there was the accident.

Mike drove the van back onto the highway after a stop at Burger King. My sister and I and 3 others were in his van, returning from a high-school football game. Mike was about to graduate as a valedictorian. We were heading home; suddenly time stopped — a drunk driver veered into us. Mike died on the spot. It was just —pointless. It brought back all the meaninglessness that had never left, when I lost my mother, and more…

As the van rolled over and over, I banged up against the ceiling, the floor, the sides of the van, until I lay in the dirt, far from the van. I looked up and saw Bess standing over me. I saw Mike being put in an ambulance. All 5 of us had been spewed out. While I bounced in the back of the van, one fact resounded; it was God hurling me around. He punched me and hurt me. It was God who pierced me every time. I didn’t like God any better than he liked me.

There was no happiness, my life was coasting downhill, big time. I saw no way forward except to flee. The farther the better. I hoped a new location might give me a jumpstart on life again. If only I could leave my identity behind and become a new person. I wanted to bury the past, but more than anything I wanted to find God. I did not like God, but could not believe that this amazing, beautiful, colourful world could have come into being without a God. I grew up going to church, but wondered what GOD actually had to do with our lives? I was quite sick of Christianity and thought India would provide some new ideas.

There were hurdles to jump first.

After high school I applied to work in a Christian children’s home. They asked, “What are your spiritual beliefs?” I said, “I’m not a Christian. I don’t believe in the Bible. I don’t believe Jesus is God.”

I think they got my point — I was turned down as a candidate. However, lying on the desk between me and my interviewer was a book (upside-down to me) with the address of the children’s home. I memorized the upside-down address and wrote it, right-side-up, as soon as I returned to my car. I shot off a letter asking for a job. It wasn’t long before I heard back. I was hired as the music teacher in the Christian children’s home.

It was a fun challenge —teaching instruments I had no idea how to play—but neither did the kids. I figured out the scales and fingerings on a day-to-day basis.

I’d never met Christians who were so nice —with such weird beliefs. One evening they showed a film: The Rapture. It was like science fiction. It was unbelievable! The film portrayed what the people believed; that Jesus would come again in the clouds, and his followers would meet him in the air. They knew I didn’t believe this, but continued to love me. Unbeknownst to me, the relatives of this home were running another children’s home in India (the very place I would soon work in) where people were in that moment, praying for me.

A year of college in the USA came next, then study at a university in Mexico —which was my downfall. I started taking drugs, but knew I didn’t want to end up as an addict. I dropped out of school, lost all the money I’d put into it, but it was one of my best decisions. I returned home, eventually making enough money to buy a plane ticket and humongous book on Mahatma Gandhi. I began to study Hindi. I loved learning Hindi and was able to read its beautiful script before I landed in Delhi. The first Hindi I read was on a billboard. I slowly pronounced the Devanagari letters … co-ka-co-la!

Caring for orphans in India was my life-long dream, a fiery passion to fulfil. Nothing could stop me; not even Dad, who worried, but acknowledged my hard-line determination. He asked what I thought I could do in a big, highly populated country like India. I said, “I don’t know, but something is better than nothing.” That was my detailed plan. I was churning with unresolved grief and anger, but also earnestly desired to help. I really had no idea what I was doing, but left with as much purpose and “go-get- ‘em” as I could muster.

I worked as a volunteer at a children’s home for 9 months on my 3-month visa. I was unable to renew my visa a third time and had to leave. I planned to get another visa and return immediately to marry Yip.

Now, 47 years later, much has transpired; so many stories. But the best one, the one that really counts, is the story that transformed me. My exit to the uttermost parts of the earth achieved its purpose; I did become a new person. It had nothing to do with earnest desire to help. It didn’t have to happen in India, but that’s where it happened. (And, by the way, Yip has been my husband for the past 45 years.)

I’d never trade the hard years that led from 1974 to today. Like Moses’ trip through the desert, what I learned through suffering is gold.

My transformation kick-started in the Himalayas at dinner time in a friends’ house. There, conversation always centred on Jesus. The food was always wonderful; coming from the village to eat hotdogs was nearing divine. But there was a catch; if you stayed for dinner, you also had to participate in their family Bible reading. Believe me, dessert was worth it.

That night they read Psalm 139 aloud. My jaw nearly dropped open when verses 7-10 were read: “Where shall I go from your Spirit? Or where shall I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven, you are there! If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there! If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost part of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.” (ESV Bible)

It was the first true thing I’d ever heard from the Bible. I’d been in India nearly 6 months, heard about Jesus from these Christians again and again, but when I heard those words —no place to get away from God, I knew it was true. Crossing the seas hadn’t separated me from God. That night I decided to read the Bible. Obviously, I began at the beginning, “In the beginning… God…” The first verse of the Bible confirmed it. I finally got it —God.

I’ve waited to explain my exit for a very long time. These few words describe some of it…. God is all of it. My dream came true; proof that God is a nostalgic dramatist who loves a good plot, with all the romance included. It is obvious, as you see, from the view out our window… the plot is still thickening …

In October, 2020, I was rolling downhill fast, heading towards crippledom, which unsurprisingly threw me into a well of deep life-review. Now, at the end of that long year, I am still immobile; that is, unable to walk normally or even sit for long or carry forth with normal daily activities. Thus, a review ensued of what a human “being” is. Was my worth as a person was at stake because I couldn’t “do?” Why is to be so often linked with —to do? I mused… if to be is the stage when people get old and retire, then, to be means notto do. A rather sad deduction.

The year 2021 landed me in an unwanted state of retirement, and like those who retire, I felt their feelings —the seeming end of usefulness, and sought answers to questions on thoughts of “worth.” Placing my head on a shelf like a showcase (my humongous neck-collar) showed people cared, people helped because of the strangeness of my collar. Some stare, some pity, many will just care. It’s easy to quickly become your own enemy and turn against yourself, suddenly entertaining feelings of meaninglessness in life without doing. Where is worth and joy hiding in being?

It took a while for me to understand that I don’t need to make excuses for my inabilities, God created me, and loves me how I am. Nevertheless, I had to take God’s word for it … and simply believe. (Ha! “Believe!” God makes it all so simple!) As always, I’m reminded again and again, and again, that God loves me squarely, consistently, the way that I am.

I dared to be in relationship —a relationship that really wasn’t equal. I mean, God is God, the Almighty, Lord of all… and me? Not just mortal, but an invalid… unable “to do.” It’s like a husband and wife, the example God himself chooses to use: for better for worse, until death do us part. So, in my relationship, I had to trust that the commitment God made to me was just that. He was not going to be unfaithful, and if He felt like I wasn’t “doing” my part, well He just better strike me with healing and create the new body parts I need. So, yes, God was willing to love me just the way I am… and be there beside me serving as a crutch. Me, the sheep, Him, the shepherd, we walk together. We become one. I’m no longer take centre stage, A relationship with the Almighty! What a thought!

In marriage you have a best friend. Careful about being distracted and down-right rude when talking to God. I’ve learned that walking with God is nothing short of a daily work of art, an intentional effort, and a growing relationship. Visual, touchable aids are helpful to the human. Just like we talk to God, we need to talk to each other. Love your neighbour as you love yourself. It’s very practical and probably will do you more good than your neighbour. Life is limited to years; eternity is around the corner. I’m not morbid, or depressed… just trying to come through this well.

Writing is my way into the world that moves on, when I physically can’t. Singing with my rusty old feeble-sounding voice, is far from melodious… it’s just the way I share thoughts (like an audible diary). If you hear some creaking in the song, it’s not my knees. I couldn’t hold up my guitar long enough so I rested it on a dresser-drawer. Between the wooden drawer and wooden guitar, a creak snuck in. Because God loves me, I’m worth it. I rest my case. (Even though I do “stuff” over and over and over again.)

One day, I was praying… this is what happened… as it usually does… I confess. But he still loves me. We both know who I am; the sheep who needs the shepherd.

Morning Meltdown Meeting

I will love you today, in the biggest way…
When I think of you, I know this is true….
that a day doesn’t pass… when my thoughts of you aren’t blessed ….
not a day will slip away without thinking of you….

I just feel that dread when my head bowed in prayer
And realize my minds somewhere else…. I’m
nowhere near …. I’m no longer here
…. I cry out… I’m sorry Lord,

why would I miss a moment with you? …
it makes no sense…
I end up doing it
over and over and over again.

when you drank from that cup …. overflowing with your love ….
you drank it all and poured yourself out
when you thought of us. Lord….,
I love your love.

The Joy of Kamla:

Kim sees beauty:

I receive web-updates from Kim. Her email site is titled Kim’s New Heart. That’s it; Kim has a new heart. She is the only heart transplant person I know. Kim was taken ill and diagnosed with a very rare disease; given only a couple days to live, the only solution was to find a new heart. A heart was found. Now Kim lives through hourly, daily, weekly, monthly check-ups and tests. She remains a positive person… even when it’s painful. She gets through it. It’s no secret how she survives a continuous, on-going
recovery. She writes poetry. She sees beauty everywhere, and in beauty she sees life and healing. She writes poetry and thrives. Pray for Kim.

The following poem is from Kim Balke’s new book, Driftwood Dreams, available on Amazon.

Kim explains: Floating in my mind were the words of Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts in Alice Through the Looking Glass, who comments on the practice of believing 6 impossible things before breakfast, along with the story of Jesus and the woman who washed his feet with her tears.

Beliefs and Breakfast ~ by Kim Balke~

Let us consider a few impossible things before breakfast:
this one from my morning daydream –
a sunflower that grows toward the sunlight no matter where planted,
even from the ocean floor where I spy an old sunken ship and petals turned to gills.
Next, two oldies… the lion and lamb graze and gambol together,
children saunter along with poisonous snakes – you better b-a-a-elieve it!
A fly-on-the-wall woman washes the Guest’s feet with her hair,
with all she could gather of love, stored away in alabaster.
Stony heart pours out tears, memories, vulnerability,
regret and Grace makes perfume of it all.
I have my one-year-old heart reviewed through bloodwork,
angiogram, biopsy, cardiac echo, x-ray,
through the challenges of CMV colitis, anaemia, blood transfusions,
hospitalizations, pain and tiredness, 137 and I hear the Healer say,
despite my mirror full of fears, something like, “Zero rejection.”
Do you see this woman?!

Pintu worships:

Pintu is a musician, a singer, and a worshipper. I have worshipped with Pintu and followed his lead. Pintu, the one who leads and directs, found himself on the edge of life, with his wife and tearful children trying to comprehend the difficult meaning of this sudden, sad change. Trying to find “meaning” to grief is mostly impossible. They moved to another city for the sake of a good hospital where Pintu lives in and out of the hospital, going from one emergency to another. Medically, he cannot survive. But he does. He survives through prayer and worship. His family and friends hope that his health will last so that he can survive an operation to extend his life a few more years. But more fervently than that, they pray God will do a complete make-over on him and heal him. How does Pintu manage to have hope in such a state? Pray for Pintu.

Sumana’s love:

Sumana, and her husband P.M. Samuel (pictured above), have been actively directing Sharp Memorial School for the Blind for many years. Both have done award winning work nationally and internationally. Sumana was bitten by a snake and suffered severe kidney damage; now she survives on dialysis. During the height of the COVID 19 pandemic both P.M. and Sumana contracted the virus. Her husband, P.M., became very sick and quite suddenly took a turn for the worst. He left this world, but it’s very hard to imagine anyone happier to be in heaven.

At the time of P.M.’s hospitalization, Sumana was also down with covid, but kept her twice-weekly dialysis, managed the Sharp Memorial Blind School while training a new person to take up the leadership. Her energy has its limits, but her spirit to get the job done has no limits. Many have had lives given back to them because of Sumana and P.M.… including me (that’s another story). How does she do it? She can’t do it. She has to rely on help. She does it for God, he gives her the strength. Pray for Sumana.

Asha’s Passion:

This past week, Asha, a deafblind student who has been with Sumana and P.M. since she was four years old, came in the top three international winners of a one-minute virtual video contest on the theme; “Leave No One Behind,” Sumana filmed for Asha and made the arrangements for her to attend the award ceremony of the UN World Data Forum contest. She flew to Switzerland to be interviewed, communicating via sign language. In her interview, Asha makes a compelling case for the inclusion of people deafblind in Census. She made India proud.

People challenged with disabilities or illness are not handicapped; they are differently abled people and very privileged. They know they need God. They learn that he is faithful and his love endures through all. They sidle-up to him continuously; they are as sheep and follow the shepherd. It’s simple. There’s Asha. We are left speechless.

Friends, I am Asha 16 years old. I am deafblind studying in class 10. I am invisible in census due to my disability (Deafblindness). We do not get identified in census and no one knows how many of us (deafblind) are existing in the world. Include us in census and give us opportunity to inspire others. Now a day’s pandemic is an extra barrier for us. Data is an important tool to plan our future. We are a tiny spark can set our nation on fire. Count on us and connect to us for a better nation/world.

Pray for Asha.

— Photos by Tom Balke

Today’s story is by guest writer; Elcayla Gilbert, now 12, but wrote the story when she was 11. Elcayla is a third culture kid; her father grew up in India, but is English, her mother grew up in India, but is American/Canadian. Elcayla was born in England, but grew up in China where her family was working. After China she spent 3 years in Thailand. Now she is settled with her family in England. Elcayla loves learning; reading, drama, dancing —a natural leader. She is also my granddaughter and loves to write:

Read more of her stories at:
https://elcaylagil.wixsite.com/blog

The World is my Home

Third Culture Kid Madness

Listen to A Short Story Audio version

A Short Story by Elcayla Gilbert

People say that the best way in life is to stick to reality, but what exactly is reality, I say. Is it the common sense that simply you are a frail human with no capability in doing anything big by yourself, or is that the entire world is a system of wealth and efficiency, so the sooner you get your head out of the clouds, thebetter you’ll be? Or is it simply the definition of the world and nobody really knows the exact meaning for it, and I’m purely overthinking the entire thing. But if that is the meaning, then I’m afraid that my entire world is messed up, and I’m a glitch in the system. For that night…well, was it a night, it could have been an entire lifetime, or merely a split second stretched out and paused for this peculiar turn of events to take place.

There was something, not a human, not an animal, simply something I had never laid my eyes on. It waved around through the darkness, a blotch, a figure of some sort of life, a life so fascinating, so radiating that my heart glowed and triumphed, almost bounding out of my chest, longing to energy like that. It turned round to me with a face so complete, yet non-existent. It smiled and said, “Come, join me.” I was unsure, but every cell in my body dived to the offer, I was no longer in control. I walked by his side, everywhere was pitch black, a black hole of nothingness, but something told me there was a meaning to this drift. “Are you happy with well-being,” It said without looking at me. “Well, yes, and why is that of any importance.” I replied in the best form possible. He chuckled and continued walking. “Is that really your emotion, what makes you happy.” “Well why wouldn’t I…” I stopped, am I really happy. I have a family and a job. I get to see my children grow up with full emotion, I get to be part of this flawed but beautiful world. “Well shouldn’t I rejoice and be thankful for simply being alive, for having a place in this world,” I responded “Well of course, I’m the one who made that decision after all.”

I stopped walking and looked at him. “I have taught you in the ways of wisdom, I have led you in the right paths. When you walk your steps will not be hindered, and when you run, you will not stumble.” He said. And then it ended.

I’m an artist. I draw.
I wish I painted.
I’m a writer. I write stories and thoughts.
I wish I wrote books.
I’m a composer. I write songs and love them
even if no one else likes them.
I’m a musician. I love instruments..
Especially expensive ones.
I’m not a perfectionist.
I’m not professional or even good at any of those things.

I do best at just being part of my family. See my happy children on the beach?
I read the Bible to grow in love and life.
I fill my spot at God’s banquet. It’s a great family.
I know Jesus was born in Bethlehem, died, and was resurrected.
How do I know he’s alive? I met him.
I know him.
I’ve read the bible again and again.
Some parts are hard to understand—like the book of Joel.
So, I found a study book on Joel. Wow!
That helped me, and now I can explain Joel—my way.
I’m no scholar or theologian.
Like I said, I’m an artist.
I interpret things like an artist, and musician, and writer… even Joel.
Listen to the song, maybe it will help you understand the book of Joel.
I think my song explains it rather well.

Rend Your Heart