A teacher wanted to visit. She wanted to see my million-dollar smile. That created a problem. Had I lost the smile she remembered? That smile was before the circus of trying to find a diagnosis. Before enduring the probing, pricks, needles, scans, everything I called my “Frankenstein testing.” The million-dollar-smile was before a gruelling 7-hour surgery that left 13 screws in my neck. It boils down to pain. Prolonged pain. She wanted to visit; I wanted to lock the door. What kind of a teethy grin would I give her? It would be a pretend smile. I’d be exposed. A million-dollar-smile has high expectations. I’m a useless actor. Was there even a sincere smile anywhere in me? Every smile took concentration and effort. I could almost count the seconds that a smile would stick to my face.

The days and weeks after surgery became a routine of sitting, resting, doing nothing, working hard to keep my neck comfortable while doing nothing. I lived a boring and very taxing reality. It didn’t take long to realize that I didn’t want to waste my days being unhappy. I wanted to rediscover my smile. A smile shouldn’t depend on happiness or circumstances. A smile is not a stealable commodity, so no one could have taken it; it’s losable, though. So where was mine? If I once had that priceless smile, maybe it got buried somewhere deep inside me. I decided to do my own surgery and transform myself into an excavation site. I’d dig for buried treasure. Surely, that million-dollar smile had to be in me somewhere?

Thinking about pain was easy, but navigating the roadblocks around it seemed insurmountably difficult. And yet, if I truly once possessed a million-dollar-smile, was it still there? I began to dig. When one hole produced nothing, I dug another —and another. I was determined to find the buried treasure.

Before and after my surgery I read Psalm 23; read it, spoke it, sang it… over and over again. I was totally mesmerized by it. A friend wrote an article on Psalm 23: I always wondered what this part of Psalm 23 meant. I thought “He anoints my head with oil” was figurative language for God keeping the Psalmist healthy. Ha! Alas no, here are the facts:

“Sheep can get their head caught in briers and die trying to get untangled. Horrid little flies torment sheep by laying eggs in their nostrils which turn into worms and drive the sheep to beat their head against a rock, sometimes to death. Sheep ears and eyes are very susceptible to nasty insects. Thus, the shepherd anoints their whole head with oil. Then they have peace. That oil forms a barrier of protection against the evil flies and insects who try to destroy the sheep.

Pain can be overwhelming, devouring all your time and thought, keeping the focus solely on you. Pain is like a mind in captivity controlled by depraved, negative, depressive thoughts. How can worry and fear not follow? Sheep, in their helpless torment against predators beat their heads against a wall. Wasn’t I doing the same thing? Pain was culprit that kept my smile in captivity and I hadn’t even realized pain had captured my mind as well!

The deeper meaning of Psalm 23 claims that God anoints us with oil to guard our thoughts, to help us live beyond pain, to provide us with a peace that passes understanding. With this anointing, the darkest valley holds no scare, we dance right through it. We can surf above the churning undertow and coast on the overflow; his cup overflows and fear takes the brunt of our heel. (Don’t be afraid to kick hard.) We are drenched in love.

If Psalm 23 is just a mish-mash of poetical words God is a liar. If God doesn’t lie, it’s safe to say the Lord is our Shepherd. That’s how “the dig” at my excavation site began. I had to dig deep. It took time but I found the buried treasure I was searching for. It was underneath pain, fear, worry, and pride. It hadn’t been used for quite a while and needed some dusting off. But it was my own lost million-dollar smile. I brushed it off, tried it on, and hoped that the teacher coming to visit would still recognize me. If not, I’d have to make a new entrance. At least now, I know who wears the smile —and its permanently fixed.

Would I wear my million-dollar smile if I had to experience the pain of the world? The meaning of Jesus’ sacrifice sets us free to live life fully. The complete reality of what this means doesn’t enter our imagination. We cannot gage all that it encompasses. But God calls us his sheep, and we call him our Shepherd because each of us has their own million-dollar-smile to wear. A smile solely yours.

I wrote Psalm 23 in Song over those months. I wanted it to be right. I sang straight into my computer, no mic. Now I appreciate that my song will never be perfect because I am a sheep. I beat my head, make mistakes and bad decisions, get depressed… I am human and that won’t change. I walk through valleys, which during those times, seem very dark and low. The chorus has to be sung over and over so that I know he is with us and anoints us with oil. He is my shepherd. I am not alone. I present an imperfect song… it’s perfectly human. Jesus knows that.

Psalm 23 in Song

The Lord’s my shepherd he restores my soul
When I walk through death —valleys dark and low
I fear no evil; he guards and comforts me
Lays a feast while those against me watch.

He anoints me with oil and my cup overflows.
In the overflow I stay and let it run down my robe.
I’m anointed with oil, and my cup overflows
In the overflow I live and am drenched from head to toe.

The Lord’s my shepherd, can I lack at all?
His presence fills me up; beside him I stand tall.
He guaranteed to lead me quietly,
The darkest valleys hold no scare for me.

I’m very excited about having a deeper relationship
and promise not to weird-out.
I trust that if one of us says something the other doesn’t understand,
we can just ask.

~ full quote by Ruth Andrews~

Mika

Setting: USA

Mika was happy; Chrissy had invited him for Christmas. He’d been a soldier, joined a war and returned home physically unscathed, but was an emotional and mental wreck. He witnessed more than he’d bargained for; violence, greed, poverty, starvation, and the worst part, killing. Killing that he had participated in. Now his life felt meaningless.

Chrissy’s relatives invited her for Christmas dinner, which she accepted. Excitedly she informed them that Mika would also come.

“Who’s Mika? This is a family occasion.”

Chrissy explained that Mika, an ex-soldier, was a close friend who needed security, love and reassurance. How could she not invite him for Christmas? But she heard only a resounding No. “He is not family. It’s a family occasion. The table is already full.”

“Just squeeze him in beside me. I’ll look after him,” begged Chrissy.

“The table only seats eight. Our Christmas dinner plates are eight and Grandma is bringing desert for eight. How can we ask Grandma to do extra cooking?”

Chrissy was stunned that anyone could deny being family to someone so lonely and needy of love. They even had the nerve to suggest the food might be compromised! Was there anything to say to her family that wouldn’t offend them further?

“Chrissy, how can you take advantage of your invitation to invite whoever else you like?”

Chrissy tripped over the words in her head, searching for a way to reason with them, only to discover the answer was not in her head, but her heart.

Chrissy stayed home that Christmas and cooked a special meal, just for Mika.

Foreigners

Setting: Village India

I had just arrived home after walking across the rocky fields and dry riverbed. It had been another long day of teaching and running our school. It was hot and I was looking forward to getting out of my sari. As I hoisted my 1-year-old on my hip, I looked out the window. I saw a very unusual sight: A foreigner!

He walked past, but soon another stranger followed him, then another, and another … how many were there? Unused to heat and unusually red in the face, they were seemingly trying to strip down as far as possible—wearing shorts and undershirts that were culturally questionable. I stepped outside and the parade of foreigners froze. They stared at me. One man approached. He pointed at me and in halting English said, “Ken McRae?”

I pointed back at myself. “Frieda McRae.”

Surprise spread over his face as he realized I was not Indian and understood English. “We are looking for you. We’ve come to help you.” The men surrounded me, about twelve in all, sunburned and soaked in sweat. Now it was my turn to be surprised. Having heard about us from a friend, they had traveled from Scotland! I invited them in, turned on the fan, and went to find Ken.

It was mid-afternoon. Ken was bushed after a day of working in the field. When I told him about our sudden visitors his face fell. How would we ever find time in our full schedules to accommodate and feed twelve more people? We were too exhausted to even manage help! He decided we’d give them lunch and immediately drive them back to their hotel in the city. So, after lunch and as they were climbing into our van, Ken asked, “What kind of work do you do?”

One by one they answered. A welder, an electrician, a mechanic, a carpenter, an architect, a mason, and down the list it went. Every man possessed skills we desperately needed. And what were we doing? Piling them into a bus to get rid of them. Their skills were exactly what we needed.

Ken about-faced. “Wait! If you’d like to stay and help us, we have plenty for you to do!” Broad grins appeared and they put their bags down.

Help had come in the form of Scottish angels.

Mary

Setting: Bethlehem

Mary, nine months pregnant, plagued by thirst and exhaustion, rode a donkey for ninety grueling miles. It’s no wonder she was ready to give birth when she and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem. Joseph must have searched madly, pleading a place for Mary to rest. There was no room at the inn, and no villager was willing to open their home to a woman about to give birth. At last, someone understood their predicament and took pity. “If you’d like to rest in my barn, please help yourself.”

The villagers in Bethlehem missed their opportunity to host the entrance of the Son of God into the world. Instead of scooting over and offering space, they shut their doors. Had they opened their arms to Mary and Joseph, what an unfathomable part of history would have been theirs.

Don’t neglect to open up your homes to guests,
because by doing this some have been hosts to angels without knowing it.
Hebrews 13:2

The Million Dollar Smile; a good name for a movie.
When the smile disappeared, it really quite behoved me.
I saw a film about a boy whose father became lost,  
For any child, big or small, it’s quite a heavy cost.

I’m so sick of me. I’ve been the fool.
If you hang out with me. I’ll hang out with you.’”
That’s when it appeared (like Cupid’s own arrow),
the smile, worth millions… returned to that sparrow.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave…when first we practice to deceive.”

~ Walter Scott ~

Christians in India told me to do something I did not want to do, “Go to Bible school.”

“Why?” I countered.

“You need discipline.” That settle it for me. No Bible School.

It had been 4 months since I’d met Jesus, which in my estimation, was ample time for Jesus to work out all the snags he may have encountered in me. I decided it was to my benefit not to comment on the subject further. Unable to renew my visa for India a third time, I had to leave. Bible School was not on my agenda, I needed a paying job to buy a ticket back to India.

That summer, 1975, I couldn’t get a job. Not even dipping ice cream. At the end of a uselessly spent summer, I applied to the Bible School in Canada which had been suggested, just in case it really was God’s plan for me. I applied late, but was sent a form and on the form, I lied, because I didn’t want to go.

The last page ended with a few questions: Do you dance? Do you drink? Do you smoke? Do you gamble? These questions went on and on, quite needlessly. So, I just wrote “yes” on all of them. The last thing they asked was, “Do you have any comments?” I said, “Yes. I disagree with your rules. But if you let me attend, I’ll abide by them.” Well, you know what happened? I received a telegram, “COME IMMEDIATELY YOU ARE ACCEPTED ON PROBATION” Afraid that God might have something to do with this, I went. Lying was probably not the best way to enter Bible School; nor was I really able to uphold my promise to “abide by the rules” —but I tried, at least to some extent.

I can’t actually think of any negative result from those lies. We shouldn’t lie. But, honestly, it did me a lot of good. I thought I’d dupped the school staff, but I’m now quite sure it was the other way around. They saw right through me. Bible school studies were hard… Ezekiel?!! I nearly failed. But somehow, I made it through the year and was only called into the dean’s office a few times.

At the end of the year, pressure came from students and staff to continue studying (it was a 4-year program). I loved soaking in the Word of God… nearly like living in heaven, but I’d left my heart in India. I longed to have all those little children around me again. I loved the culture and I loved learning Hindi. I was torn and didn’t know what to do.

The end of every year meant a graduating class; thus, an end of year assembly with special speakers. That year, one of the speakers was Helen Roseveare. Her story was unbelievable and quite horrific; but she was the most amazing part of her story. I had a horrific story in my past; but was I an amazing part of my story? All because of the lies I told on my form, and the staff’s hope to reform me at Bible school, I had the privilege of hearing this humble woman.

Helen served in DR Congo during the rebellion of 1964. She was a doctor and ran a hospital among her many other duties. When the rebels attacked, many were murdered and many were captured, herself included. She was badly beaten and raped numerous times over long months of captivity. Helen was so badly abused, others in captivity tried to protect her. She witnessed many horrors, but many miracles happened as well. I won’t attempt to tell her story, but she was rescued and returned to her country, England. When the horror of being beaten and raped happened, she asked God, “Is it really worth all this? The price is too high!” She told God more than once. Finally, she heard God answer; “Change the question. Am I worth it?” A few months later, of her own desire; she returned to the Congo, to her people, to serve again. The story she so honestly shared mesmerized me.

After the assembly, anyone who wished to speak with her was allowed a time slot to do so. I immediately signed up. I was guided into a small room behind the main assembly hall. She smiled as I walked in and motioned me to sit down on a chair facing her. A small table was between us. I can’t remember the whole conversation, but I explained to her that I met Christ in India. I shared my desire to return but also felt under pressure to stay and study more. I simply asked her what she thought. It was then, I saw the rascal and rebel in her own eyes as she leaned over the table toward me, and barely whispered; “I never went to Bible School!”

I liked her even more. The twinkle in her eyes, made me realize, Bible school can be wonderful, but it is not included on a universal plan for mankind. I then realized that God was taking me back to India, the place where I wanted to be. It was in my plan and God’s. Bible School was an added benefit, and maybe I learned some discipline.

(Don’t misunderstand; lies may, but don’t usually lead to wonderful things; I’m not suggesting that telling lies is okay.)

Ashu’s story was unimaginable, but sadly true; a type of Cinder-fella story. After two weeks of procrastination, he finally showed up at my house to tell me his story. Now I understand why it took him so long to come; it was a matter of courage —facing the truth. As he unfolded his life, he was once again confronted by his family, the battle scars opened again, the anger and the unanswerable questions were rebirthed. But at the end I heard a story he had never told. Now I stood with him like a friend, a witness who shared his secrets, his private life. At last, he finished and reclined on the couch; “I feel so light.” That was the final line of his story.

I was glad he told me his story, but now he’s opened up and shares his own stories. He enjoys writing his thoughts and recently commented that he’d never written a poem. So here it is; a poem. Perhaps better categorized as a thought poem.

The poem describes one of the lowest times of his life; and there were many of them. Perhaps this was the climax —the end result of so many lows. Again, and again, he’d climb the stairs to reach the third floor; from there he’d look down and wonder if he’d ever have the courage to die… or, ever have the courage to live?

Ashu’s poem title is accurate: Me (first) Suicide (in the middle) and God (last). His me first attitude and God last, led to the horrible middle section: suicide. Ashu’s right; suicide becomes an easy compromise. It’s an appropriate warning; who has first place? Listen deeply. The following, in italics, is from Ashu. His thoughts are quite loud. It’s Ashu’s heart; his poem; his story —told by Ashu.

This poem is about a thought…

A though that everyone of us go through at least once in our life.
This thought comes to all of us, rich or poor, strong or weak, black or white, you and me. And this is how I dealt with it, when it came my way!!!

ME, SUICIDE AND GOD

I believe this all happened when I was about to complete my twelfth grade. I remember complaining about it all as it did not feel like a fair trade.

It was because I was hiding and carrying so much that I was afraid to have a raid. I did not talk to anyone about what I was going through as I feared I might just get betrayed.

It was never that I did not have people around me who were trustworthy.

But the main reason was that the Devil convinced me to believe that my life was not worthy.

I remember I went so deep into those beliefs that I forgot to even ask myself “Am I being deceived?”

I remember going, three months in a row to a roof, and looking down from there, and feeling that I was being seized.

By now the very word suicide made me feel like I was being teased and by the time I realised what was happening it had turned into a dreadful disease.

I remember all my physical pain, mental strain, abusive past, and spiritual drain Came down on and in me like a disastrous thunderstorm and acid rain.

But despite all the dark and suicidal thoughts I had, there was always a second deep voice in me that was full of love and said ” son just get on your knees”.

So, to be honest I did take some more time before I got on my knees. And then I made a loud cry still keeping in mind that no one should be nearby. And then I said those magic words “God, please”.

To this plead God took no time and guaranteed. And said, as long as you believe that you have a heavenly Father you are no longer gonna’ feel that you are frozen and seized.

I started to do what God wanted me to, but many a time I still hesitated.

And that’s when all the negative thoughts came in and made me think ” I was better off separated.”

And then I would restart and ask God ” how do I relate?” And to this God said, son, I am proud of you and I might just end up giving you a degree in spiritual debate.

And when I was still in a debate, I asked a question “God what about my dark and painful background?”.

And on hearing this he said, “son I am the best Painter and I know how to use the darkest background to set off the most amazing foreground.”

And then he went on and said what I’m giving you is not just imparting information. But that and a new transformation. And to all that God has promised me, I today testify that he has changed all my bitterness into victory.

And now even when I walk into a cloudy day. I try my best to listen and sing to God as I wend my way.
Love you, Jesus!!!

I wonder, India, how are you doing in the midst of so much pain and big loss? Children who hadn’t known death, are now stabbed and crippled in pain. India, your magnificent ship is barely floating. I wish to throw you a life jacket… grab hold and hang on.

Written during May, 2021
Sadness, grief and tears;
India Covid crisis

Is God good? Can it be? Is God love? Help me see!
People cry out; oh, God, where is your love?

Jesus came as your son, to be hope when there is none
Jesus came to be light when day dawns as dark as night;

To cast fear out of love
To free our hearts for life
Your son died to give life
He gave purpose to die
So, cry India …declare God is love!

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves.
When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning,
with wreckage all around you.
Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty
and the magnificence of the ship that was,
and is no more.
And all you can do is float.

~the Loss Foundation~

Flower mountain. That’s the name of the drawing. The mountain is big… a bit scary.

There’s a mountain in my path.
Many people are hurting in India, and across the world.
It’s like, —we need big band aid.
India is hurt. People are hurting.
It’s not Corona —it’s our inability to love, to touch.
Individual circumstances cause grief and take a toll on us.
Survival —a word with a new understanding.
During this time, I’ve faced an unexpected rough stretch.
I was diagnosed with physical disability requiring immediate attention… it was serious. I found myself looking at a mountain. I didn’t see the flowers.
I asked God a lot of questions, because… circumstances created no other way…
I had to trust God. It is a good place to be forced into.
Through pain and grief, we experience that life is short….
But there’s hope. Eternity.
Our perception of what a short life means, is night and day different from God’s.
God is not hard-hearted as some think; he understands grief.
Even Jesus cried with loud cries, like we do, when he faced death.
David Crowder sings “everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.”
We stay contentedly in our little box.
Death is kept out of the box…yes, but God understands our fears. 
We put up boundaries and fences to shield us from hurt.
We live in this world… this life.  God lives in eternity.
These are strange, and hard times. It’s a time to focus on what is not seen.
India, how are you doing in the midst of so much pain and big loss?
Your magnificent ship is barely floating.
A quote from “The Loss Foundation;”

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves.
When the ship is first wrecked,
you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you.
Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty
and the magnificence of the ship that was,
and is no more.
And all you can do is float.

Can you see beauty on your mountain? It’s there.
The Spirit of the Lord comforts all who mourn;
Gives them beauty instead of ashes,
The oil of joy instead of mourning
A garment of praise instead of a heavy, burdened and failing spirit…”
Is. 61: 1-3

At the last curtain call, long applause resounded and the annual school program came to an end. Former students faithfully came to catch a glimpse of the old days, appreciating the feeling of welcome to the school where they grew up and learned life. A young man suddenly charged towards me but stopped abruptly in front of me. He pounded his clenched fist to his heart, bowed before me and touched my feet with his fingers; a greeting bursting with love, respect and honor. Of course, it’s Indian tradition, and doesn’t always carry those wonderful tones, but when it comes from the heart it’s as good as the best hug ever.

Touching feet is significant. The one who first taught touching feet did so as a lesson to his disciples. He took off his cumbersome garments as a servant would, kneeled down in front of each of them and washed their feet. In the previous story I mentioned the little girls who touched my feet; they scoured my feet like pots and pans. My little friend, Budwara, “touched my feet” whenever she looked at me; it wasn’t just physical touch; the love and respect shining from her eyes was as good as touching my feet. Washing feet only comes from a servant heart. Clearly, transparency is where love is. Why would God touch our dirty feet?

Touch the feet for you are made from dust and you know that the one who walked in dirt, has His thrown on holy ground, so, touch the feet.

I touch the feet I feel the flesh of him whose tears and blood are mixed to become wine for me, through his sweat I touch his feet.

Touch the feet of Christ, wipe the stain from him who died, standing up unashamed, stripped of pride it remains; to touch the feet.

Lord how can I come into your presence now? Lord how can I walk through gates of splendour now?

I by your great mercy come into your house, in reverence and adoration I bow before you now.

Touch the feet for you are made from dust.

Every dream begins with a dreamer.
Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion
to reach for the stars to change the world.
Harriet Tubman

April 1965; I was eleven and informed everyone that I was going to India to start an orphanage. Who’d believe an eleven-year-old child? Those skeptics didn’t stop me from dreaming; they only added coals to the fire.

By April, 1975, I’d been in India for six months. I reclined on my bamboo mat on the strangely comfortable cement roof and gazed at the millions of stars lighting the sky. I mused, “Lovely Moon, however did I get to this unbelievable place in my life?” Though only a sliver, the moon was brilliant, like a beating heart; nothing was around for miles to obscure any of the nightlights­­; a hundred million stars sparkling like tiles as a ceiling to the universe. Stars are riches in rural India —diamonds in the sky. Not every country has such an array. The giant Himalayas stood outlined and glowing against the northern horizon, creating a spectacular backdrop. Lying on my back on my thin, bumpy bamboo mat, left me with inexplicable peace.

Budwara was there beside me, day and night, always waiting for me to come. At night I arrived late; my mat would be rolled out for me and she’d be sitting on her mat spread next to mine. Budwara means Wednesday. Was she born on a Wednesday? So much mystery hid behind her shy giggling face… why was she left at a children’s home? What deep hurts lie buried inside, invisibly warring against her?  The children were so hungry for touch; deeply hungry for love.

There was no electricity for fans or lights. During the hot summers, the rooms were stifling hot and buzzed merrily with mosquitos —totally unbearable. Thus, I with all the girls marched to the roof, hoping to catch the draft of a cooler breeze and ride on it into sleep.  But I was mesmerized by the stars.

Daily chores became routine, as did the trip for baths. I’d herd the barefoot girls down the village road, thick with soft filmy dust. Each step brought up swirling brown clouds which slowly thickened on us as we made the two-kilometer walk.

Leaving the compound was a-looked-forward-to event by all. As we walked down the road, each of my fingers were grabbed (holding hands with only one child at a time just wasn’t considered fair). After reaching the canal the girls would excitedly jump in and splash. I’d sit on the edge and dangle my feet in the water. Then a water fight ensued; who would be the lucky girl to wash my toes? With a crowd of wet little girls at my feet, the scrubbing began. Roughly, thoroughly and lovingly my toes, the soles of my feet, the sides of my feet, my ankles were scoured as though I was a pot or pan. It was a heavenly massage and ridded my feet of dead, dried skin. The dirtiest part of my body was not begrudged by the girls in any way; they had no hesitation in showing kindness and love. They wanted to touch me and they wanted to be touched.

The children’s home stood on a dry riverbed; rocks and stones —and yes, “dry riverbed” aptly described me. My idyllic childhood dream of serving orphans was not quite what I’d anticipated. I understood dry riverbed for it described my spirit; it also described the children who were thirsty for love. I was no heroine. I needed the kids more than they needed me. Could I really make any difference at all? Something deep inside was persuading me to stay. I was not even close to being ready to leave. What I could achieve seemed insignificant, but I just couldn’t walk away.

In India, respect is traditionally shown by formally bowing down to touch someone’s feet. The girls touched my feet and washed them in the canal. Budwara touched my feet whenever she looked at me. I clearly saw the love and respect shining from her eyes. My childhood dream of going to India became reality; but not in the way I’d imagined it. The fluffy, dreamy visions of working with sweet orphans was now a hard, difficult reality. And not only that, the conditions, and the heat and humidity of the seasons took a heavy toll on me.

Every dream begins with a dreamer.
Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.

Harriet Tubman was right about reaching for those beautiful stars to change the world; except the world remains the same —it was I who was changed. Gazing at the stars showed me that God was in this, though I couldn’t understand where he was. God was somewhere near; I determined to find him. I’d found children —but God? Wednesday —Budwara, changed my life. Living alongside children drew me closer to truth. Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me….” The closer I got to the children, the closer I was drawn to God; my dream began to have meaning.

Tears drop like stars falling from the sky.
Night closes upon the darkness I feel in my soul
My spirit yearns and cries out for God.

Tears are meaningless in the largeness of earth
It’s magnitude and enormity and terrible, fearful nature
Humble me in the vastness of galaxies upon galaxies.

I am lost and alone and seeking an answer
From God, who meets me alone;
In a quiet and secret place where rivers run dry.