“Let’s Make a Deal”

God said,

“For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?”

That is the question God asked and kindly wrote out for us to think about. I’m guessing He is expecting an answer. In fact, I think He is offering us a deal. Surely, there is some reason why he threw that out to us. Perhaps some simple deductions might give some kind of answer. For God, it should be not only an intelligent answer, but the right answer. Think hard.

Being inspired, I made some notes and formulated a few questions in order to provide some light meditation on God’s question and bring us closer to the right answer. If we focus on life, death, the world and everything else, we’ve probably got our bases covered.

Kindly follow these rules and take the following quiz. When finished, if you are in a classroom, pass your paper to the person behind for checking. If you are alone, sign a vow that you trust yourself enough not to cheat on answers of life and death—no matter what the outcome may be.

If you need paper, find some. This is a one dozen-question quiz. Good luck, and look good.

As you write, keep in mind; “For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?”

(begin)

1. Does your happiness fit into a pillbox or can you measure it in kilometres?
2. Considering the state of the world, is best to be a gopher or an ostrich?
3. Is PTSD the same thing as, Pre-meditated Thought on Sacred Deals?
4. True or false:
   Can the answer to the great question of life, the universe, and everything, be 42 as discussed in the book, Hitchhikers guide to the Universe?
5. Multiple choice: Which is the most probable way the world was formed?
   1. The big bang: otherwise, what in the world happened?
   2. Evolution: Hint: put all the pieces of a watch in a jar and shake it; same concept.
6. True or false:
   Is there something else, or is this it? (Hint: We asked Grandma where she wanted to be buried, “Anywhere should do, I’m not staying there anyway.”)
7. True or false:
   Angels are God’s messengers in much the same way that demons aren’t.
8. Would you feel secure if areas of misgiving and indecision were inflexibly distinct?
9. Could Earth, where you live; be better titled as “Neanderthal Explosion?”

10. If the answer to life, the universe and everything is not an algorithm, but is God; where would you be on His scale of 1-10?
11. Why do humans have the habit of continually denying the obvious
    *Use cheat-sheet @: Rom. 16:18-20;
    Opposition to truth cannot be excused on the basis of ignorance, because from the creation of the world, the invisible qualities of God’s nature have been made visible, such as his eternal power and transcendence. He has made his wonderful attributes easily perceived, for seeing the visible makes us understand the invisible. So then, this leaves everyone without excuse.
12. The final question: What is the deal God wants to make with us?

Hopefully, the quiz has ignited your brain and thoughts are now flowing in like a computer upload.

Time to answer God’s question:

What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and loose his own soul?

Some deductions were just sent in:

*Thank you, Mr. Smith, for sending your calculations. That’s pretty deep stuff.

Since we’re on the subject of gaining the whole world, I’m reminded of my husband, Yip, who came hippy-style to India in 1974. He worked with a doctor and couldn’t help hearing over and over again about Jesus, God, and how He created the universe, life, and everything. But Yip wasn’t really wanting God. Not Jesus. He wasn’t wanting to become one of those nice Christians he’d met. He’d had enough of them.

Yip was staying in the mountains, and one starry night stood outside, looking at the valley and up to the stars. He wasn’t thinking of anything in particular, when he heard a voice, seemingly out of nowhere. “For what does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?” Yip was startled, for his aim was to be the youngest person to travel the world and visit the most countries and buy a Jaguar with his own money.

Now he was worried about who was talking and why was he talking to him? Disturbed, he went inside and asked his friend, P.M., about the voice message he’d heard. He repeated what the voice had said. “Wow! That’s great,” said P.M. “Those words are from the Bible. Mark 8:36.”

Now Yip was concerned. “God? Why in the world would you speak to me? Feeling quite troubled, and slightly guilty, Yip decided the best thing to do would be to go to bed. So, he did.

But he couldn’t sleep a wink. He just tossed and turned. In the early hours of the morning, Yip decided to talk back to God. It never occurred to him that it was exactly what God wanted.

“God, I can’t understand why you’d want someone as useless as me? It makes no sense. But, if you’re that keen on me, then you can have me.”

After that, Yip slept soundly. When he got up in the morning, the world was a brilliant kaleidoscope of colour. Actually, it hadn’t changed a bit, but Yip had changed. Everything he laid his eyes on looked brighter. The universe was more beautiful, and full of life. Yip was dancing, literally… with God.

Have you seen the horizon looking like the portal to heaven?

I walk out my door and hear the songs of the birds, the barking of dogs, the laugh of children on the playground. The flowers. Clouds and storms. Songs. Love. Children, ants and elephants.

None of these things are man-made; no algorithm has been or could be invented for such things. In other words, it is clear. No excuse can stand. There is evidence.

So, there is a choice.

Think hard.

Choose the right answer. 

God doesn’t want to fail you.

I suggest that enduring the present pain, suffering humiliation and worse, as compared to living eternally with Jesus; no pain, no tears ever, would be a good choice.

P.S. The twist in the plot is that God made a few extra promises that look pretty good, you may want to check them out: (at the bottom of the page)

Answers:

1. Answer to Question number 12:
   (Officially correct answers are not provided for Q #1-#11, but an answer for #12 is given)
   
   God’s proposed deal:
   “If you agree to suffering, pain, and sorrow for my sake now, I’ll give you eternal life in an unbelievable, peace-filled paradise with me.”
2. Answer for God’s Question: (the one he wrote out for us to answer; Mark 8:36)
   (The answer is not 42, but is written for you spelled backwards, in case you are still thinking hard)
   
   Answer: The negative form of:
   GNIHTON
   Life, death and everything flies by very quickly, so, THINK HARD.

Note the great perks in God’s deal:

Revelation 21:3-4 
I also heard a loud voice from the throne, saying, “Behold, the dwelling of God is among men, and He shall tabernacle among them. They shall be His people, and God Himself shall be among them and be their God. He shall wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more. Nor shall there be mourning or crying or pain any longer, for the former things have passed away.”

Romans 8;17,18
Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory. For I consider the sufferings of this present time not worthy to be compared with the coming glory to be revealed to us.

Isaiah 11:6 -9
Leopards will lie down with young goats, and wolves will rest with lambs. Calves and lions will eat together and be cared for by little children. Cows and bears will share the same pasture; their young will rest side by side. Lions and oxen will both eat straw. Little children will play near snake holes. They will stick their hands into dens of poisonous snakes and never be hurt. Nothing harmful will take place on the Lord’s holy mountain. Just as water fills the sea, the land will be filled with people who know and honour the Lord.

Audio version for Sermon 206

Life. It’s full of sink or swim moments.

Swim? We’re elated.

Sink? We’re down in the dumps.

I began thinking about these things after somebody said something hurtful to me. God’s answer? “Frieda, you can take this. Just deal with it. I’m with you.”

Some say we’re 90% water; I say we’re 98% emotions. We’re happy, we’re sad. We are familiar with grief, joy, bitterness, hilarity, jealousy, pride and a zillion other emotional out-bursts. We can easily cover a range of feelings in just a few minutes or hours, and along the way, indulge ourselves in little dramatic eruptions. We love topping them off with self-pity as extra masala.

Everyone has a personalized Life Road. What is at the end of yours? Tears? Joy? Catastrophe? It can be a scary view down that road. If we could see the end, even one glance would take courage.

How you weather life, that is the issue; finding the key to get the best end results. The greatest challenge? To manage well the most delicate, most fragile of all emotions. Yep, you guessed it. It’s the biggest, scariest, most cherished and necessarily sacrificial emotion of love. Life’s quest is learning how to love. That is the whole purpose.

My brain, while thinking these deep, invasive thoughts, became muddled. I landed in the mud. I searched out an old hymn book, opened it up (plop) and it landed on hymn number 206. I didn’t know the hymn. It was written by Leighton G. Hayne in 1863. God spoke to me, saying, “Come on, encourage yourself.”

I started strumming my own tune and found myself turning Leightons words into my words… (sorry Leighton) and before I knew it, I’d dug myself out of the mud.

I hope that if you’re down in a mud pit, the song will pull on your heartstrings (like a pully), and pull you out of the mire.

Hymn Number 206 

Gracious spirit, Love divine; let thy light within me shine;
All my guilty fear remove, fill me with thy Heaven’s light.
Speak your pardon, it’s grace to me, set this chained up sinner free.
Weight of sin flee far from me; the Lamb of God has died for me.
Life and peace to me impart; seal salvation on my heart.
Dwell O God, within my breast; guarantee of immortal rest.
Let me never from the stray. lest I stumble and lose my way. 
Without you’d be no light of day, darkness flees from Jesus’ face. 
You speak grace to all you meet. Paid a debt, was owed by me.
Set this chained up sinner free, joy has captured my destiny.
Amazing love. Love’s my plea. Amazing love for me.
Amazing love for me.

*Hymn Number 206—composed by me and my buddy, Leighton G. Hayne -year 1863

Growing up in Toronto: 1953-1973

My claim to fame was in owning a large red wagon that we, the kindergarten class, needed in order to bring back the pumpkin for the school Halloween celebration.

I also remember being in the principal’s office, to receive corporal punishment, or perhaps it was only a warning that such a thing could happen. Both seemed of equal severity.

In Class 4, I ripped my new red plaid shirt, made by my mother, when I got in a fight with Michael Kelly. I don’t remember the fight itself, only the mortification I felt about crying as a result of it. That may have been the last time I cried.

Early Learning

With seven children in the family, it is not surprising we learned how to work and take on responsibility. My mother was at the heart of that dynamic. She took on secretarial work while completing her college course in botany, all the while keeping her family a well-oiled work-machine. Everyone did household chores, but we also functioned as a little factory. The Rust-Craft truck backed up to our door every week and unloaded boxes of freshly printed cards. Our job was to assemble, glue, count, and repackage the cards, making everything ready for display in the shops. We learned faster than our neighbours how to count to 10.

Eventually, we delivered newspapers—a good reason to not to dilly-dally home from school. We got to know everyone in the district when we made our collections at the end of the month.

Church

The ploughing competition was not the most spiritual church activity, but in retrospect, it was a community happening. I remember it well because it was such a singular event. All the city church folk played “farmer,” with food at the centre of all activities.

One night a week, J.W. Sefton gathered us pre-teens together for floor hockey at the church. I have no recollection of learning any skills, but enjoyed the games.

Every year we camped in the forest and played capture the flag. One year, I went up a day earlier to get things set up. In the afternoon I took the canoe out by myself, without a life-jacket to enjoy a short ride. The wind began picking up so I decided to head back. While manoeuvring the canoe, I was dumped into the freezing cold water. Pushing the swamped canoe ahead of me, I swam for the island in the middle of the lake. Relieved to be on land again, I flipped the canoe over and warmed myself in the sun. Later, I headed back to the campsite, seemingly without anyone noticing my absence. I wondered, had anyone really missed me?

I am not sure why, but I was elected to be in charge of the spiritual aspect of the youth group. I penned some questions we had about God and the church. Then, with two others, we put the questions to the minister. His answers were disappointedly poor in content. We felt our thirteen-year-old selves deserved to be treated more intelligently, even if it meant rescheduling to allow the minister time for research. That put a clear stop to my being in charge of “spiritual stuff.” It was also the last time I went to church for many years.

Sport

My baseball team was the Joe Charish City Service (named after the petrol pump). That is, it was my team until it was clear to everyone I couldn’t catch or hit the ball. Much to everyone’s relief I was found to be good at absconding.

Diving classes must have been someone else’s idea as I surely didn’t sign up on my own accord. I did, however, gain distinction as the only one able to hit his head on the bottom of the diving board before sinking to the bottom of the deep end.

Cross country running was my passion. It allowed me to participate in sports without the peer pressure that comes with being part of a team. I particularly enjoyed the opportunity to go out into the country for competitions.

On summer nights, street hockey was popular. There was no shortage of boys in the neighbourhood, and we played every night. The matches finished early enough for us to play Nicky-Nicky-Nine-Doors. We would run around banging on the neighbour’s doors, and then run away. The Smith’s and the Lankan’s got the most annoyed, so we gave them more attention.

High jumping was a serious sport for my 3 older brothers. It was played by vaulting over the hedges between the neighbourhood houses. My brothers were famous for winning; however, our mother got an earful of complaints from Mr. Alain. Never discouraged, my brother Ted elevated the sport by setting up a pole-vaulting pit behind the house.

Joining the Workforce

I joined my neighbour, Michael, in trying out a better way for an eleven-year-old to earn some money. Because delivering newspapers was not fun during sub-zero temperatures, Michael showed me the ropes at Silverwood Dairy. We arrived at 6 in the morning, and for the first few weeks, Mom got up and made me eggs and a thermos of coffee to take with me. Arriving at the dairy, we hung around asking the drivers if they wanted a helper for the day. Helping meant going with a driver in his truck, running up to the house and depositing milk bottles into the box. We returned with the empties and the tickets. This earned me two dollars a day. A good driver might give you three. I was lucky to have had a number of decent drivers. Apart from earning a daily wage, I also learned my 28 times-table according to the price of a quart of milk. I can’t say that I have used that particular skill since then. Working on the trucks made for an interesting bunch of drivers giving me an interesting bunch of advice—and habits. Some good, some not to be used outside the job.

The variety of routes used by the trucks opened up my world. My confidence began to expand. In my second year of Saturdays on the trucks, I was fortunate to work for Jim Barker, who was a decent guy and paid me 5 dollars. I worked with him for nearly a year. It was great to have a regular driver rather than having to search out a new one every time. We shared a friendship and mutual respect.

In the summer, I worked 5 days a week. I was excited when Jim invited me to join his family at their cottage on June 23, 1966. I remember the date, just 3 days before my birthday. I’d be with Jim for my birthday. We planned to do the regular delivery route, then drive to the cottage for the week. I arrived at the usual pick-up spot and waited till way past the time set. After a long two hours I returned home, unable to think why Jim hadn’t shown up for the special trip.

It was at the breakfast table, listening to the news with my family, that we heard of Jim’s death. Jim had been hit by another car, driven by a couple of drunk boys. I stopped breathing as my brain struggled to comprehend the impossibility of what I’d just heard. Knowing no one would understand my grief, I processed the tragedy by myself. I attended his funeral, standing at the back of the big Catholic church. I wanted to meet his family, and see his face one last time, but left without doing either. It was a loss I was not prepared for. Nor did I heal afterwards. I never returned to the dairy.

Being thirteen-years-old is a bit of a drawback if you want to get an honest job. My brothers had jobs working in the cinema hall, the grocery shops, and fast-food places. I went to about twelve businesses before I was hired at the Dairy Queen. Minimum wage was 85 cents and all you can eat! What more could I ask!

Among the younger of us were four older employees, one who took it upon herself to ridicule and abuse the younger ones. Because I didn’t smoke, she called me names and bullied me to the point that I finally took the time to learn. I hid behind the bushes, puffing and coughing for a week. When I returned, I was ready to prove my manliness. It solved nothing. What took a week to learn, took 10 years to leave!

It was the manageress who gave young kids like me their first job. Over a period of three years, she taught me everything from cleaning and cooking, to running the cash machine and balancing the books. I did crazy shifts, getting home at 2:00 in the morning, after a final coffee with the gang at Mister Donut. My job filled my life and began to feel like family.

My life was changing in subtle ways. I hung out with older people who cruised Yonge Street after work. We watched all night movies, and tried different ways of being cool. The pressure I felt to be part of the gang was paramount.

My working hours didn’t coincide with my education, so I fit school in when convenient. Reaching 16 gave me some freedom to do what I wanted, like moving out of the family home and into a commune in the heart of the city. After some time, on an urge, I left for the west coast—easy drugs and California hippies. After a few months, I phoned my mother. She was shocked, and not too happy, completely unaware that I wasn’t in Toronto. I still had that lingering feeling of never being missed.

Reaching the Top

By the time I was 18, I was back, working for Mr. Mac, the richest man in Toronto. He indulged in luxuries; expensive cars, houses, land—whatever he fancied. I managed one of his fast-food restaurants. One of the house specialties was a Bobo. The trick in selling a Bobo was being able to explain a Bobo fast, like it was one word—”Bobo is a spicy chicken meat ball deep fried in an egg-batter and dipped in plum sauce”. The tongue twister aroused the curiosity of the customer, and they’d place an order.

While working with Mr. Mac, I spent a lot of time listening to his problems; women problems, wife problems, alcohol problems, lack of sincere friends. He knew his “friends” were after his money—and this hit home—because I, too, was a friend because of his money. Mr. Mac’s wealth brought him no happiness. And the more time I spent with him, the clearer it became that my ambition to become the richest man in the world at the youngest age, was not going to make me happy.

By 1971, school was nearly finished, or more accurately, I was finished with school. Instead, I embarked with my best friend, Tim, on a trip through Europe. My plan was to end the trip in Fiji. There, a job managing one of Mr. Mac’s many restaurants awaited me.

Europe

Outside of Amsterdam, Tim and I realized we needed to take a break from each other. Tim had been playing around with his pocket knife while waiting for rides. I was annoyed. We’d never get a lift unless he put it away! We agreed to meet again in five days, in Munich, at the Octoberfest. I don’t remember who got a lift first, but my ride was a great surprise. Instead of going to Cologne, the fellow who picked me up convinced me Cologne—such a dirty city—was not worth my time. Hearing that, Salzburg became my new destination. My longest hitch in Europe was from Amsterdam to Salzburg, Austria. The driver’s suggestion of hiking in Austria would have been easier if I’d known where Austria was located. Did he mean Australia?? Why had I slept through my geography classes? Australia I could locate on the map, but Austria? Had I purchased a map, it could have opened up a whole new level of understanding!

My guide drove straight through Germany without stopping, and we arrived in a village above Salzburg that night. He arranged a “Zimmer” for me: A bed with a down quilt, cowbells to wake me in the morning, and a farmer’s breakfast. When I woke, I was amazed to look out the window and discover I was perched right above the actual movie set of The Sound of Music. For three days I walked the streets, (humming Climb Every Mountain), climbed surrounding mountains, and sampled the wares of the many cake shops. Every morning I looked forward to doing more of the same.

One day everyone in town was dressed in traditional costume to celebrate All Saints Day. It seemed like being zapped into the past. The huge church in the centre of town was packed with locals and tourists. Classical music resonated from within. I went in and sat down to enjoy the recorded music. Gazing at the vaulted architecture, I was stunned. This was no recorded music. Above me in the balcony sat a full orchestra. Mozart would have been proud.

Remembering my plans to meet Tim, I headed for the beer fest in Munich. Despite waiting three days, he didn’t appear as per our plan. I left a note on the Hostel board: I would be in Geneva, then Spain, then Greece by Christmas. (Long story short: when I returned to Canada 7 months later, I met up with Tim. The same day we split-up outside of Amsterdam, he went straight back to his girlfriend in Canada!)

In Geneva, I met travellers going to a cool place in the Alps, with a free stay for up to 20 days. A place where people talked about amazing things. Being budget minded, and eager to be in the Alps, I changed plans for L’Abri.

This Christian community was started by an American philosopher, Dr. Francis Schaeffer. The community focused on getting youth to re-think life questions, addressing issues of origin, morality, meaning and destiny. Bible study based on logic, philosophy, and history, and, couched in the atmosphere of a loving family environment made it truly impacting. Illuminating discussions happened throughout the day, with intellectual input from the Schaeffer’s. It was the first time since Sunday School I’d heard something from a Christian perspective that was intellectually acceptable.

Something happened there. In 20 days, I came to a point of clarity, of accepting that there had to be a creator God… and I came to that conclusion without having to commit intellectual suicide. On the day I left, I attended a meeting. While we were all standing and singing, I noticed a boy sobbing—in joy and happiness. I realized that what I’d learned was not simply intellectual, but a sincere relationship—just as real as my intellectual understanding. As real as any math calculation or scientific equation.

Relationship had to be in the picture.

Unlike those who had applied to stay for 6-12 months of study, I did the twenty free days for “drop-ins.” Before I left, the leaders requested I escort two girls to Madrid. Lyon is as far as we got, because hitching in France isn’t as acceptable. Finally, a car pulled up. The driver wasn’t going our direction, but he invited us to stay, and have dinner with him and his wife. He promised to drop us in a good spot in the morning. He and his wife were great hosts. At dinner, over many hours, each of us shared our newly found faith with them. They also shared their faith. He, our host, was a warlock, and she, his wife, was a witch. Nevertheless, they sincerely appreciated us sharing our beliefs. Good to his word, the next morning our host took us to the train station and paid our fare to Marseille. From there we hitched to Barcelona, and eventually to Madrid.

After dropping the girls, I returned to Barcelona and slept on a bench in the harbour, wanting to catch the early morning ship to Italy. In 1971 the port in Barcelona was known to be the most dangerous one in Europe because of drug trafficking. As the saying in Hindi goes, “I sold my horse and went to sleep.” —

“अपना घोडा बेचकर मैं सो गया”

When I got to Italy, I enjoyed the relics of the Roman Empire. Then I caught a ship to Cyprus. The day I arrived a civil war broke out, and I also became “broke.” I only had seven dollars left to my name. I slept on a beach for a week, ate oranges off trees, and waited for a ship to Israel.

Bet Queshet

I arrived on Shabbat in early January. I was assigned to work on Kibbutz Bet Queshet, where I joined about 25 other volunteers from all over the world. I roomed with two Australian guys, both named Gary. Nearly all the volunteers were taking advantage of cheap dope, free boarding, and an easy lifestyle. We worked six hours a day for three meals a day. Every week we’d be issued a clean work pant, a shirt, underwear, and two packs of cigarettes. Everything necessary to cover our basic needs.

I don’t remember how I met the Ben Gera family. It must have been when I was elevated to the post of head-pot scrubber. The whole community ate in one dining room, facilitated by a large kitchen and clean up room. Pot-scrubber was the lowest rung of the ladder, but I took to it like a penguin in snow, and enjoyed it immensely. I talked constantly with people whose language I couldn’t understand at all. Asher, the man in charge, invited me to his house for sweets and a drink. Every day his family would meet at 5:00pm. All seven of his kids came.

On the kibbutz, children lived in children’s houses, not with their parents, so a family hour was set aside so families could share the week’s stories, eat Mom’s cooking, laugh and goof-around together. I never could have imagined such a family environment. Tamar, the mother, was the nurse in charge of the infirmary. She was an amazing woman. She served the community wholeheartedly and cared about every individual family and volunteer.

After inviting me numerous times to share in the family hour, Asher asked me, “Why is it you don’t come unless I specifically call you? Do I have to call you every time?”

I worked in many areas, driving tractors, working the field, picking grapefruits and oranges and learned much about the philosophy of communal living. The kibbutz members certainly had their reasons for creating such Jewish communities, for nearly all of the its members were survivors of the Holocaust. I had little understanding of that. It was a locked door; something never talked about. Parents didn’t even tell their children. Memories were too painful. Most everyone had no living relatives. Unimaginable trauma was their past, but the past left them with ever-present memories.

Asher genuinely seemed to like me. We enjoyed working in the kitchen together. It surprised me that he wanted me to join the family every evening. Asher was an educated and wise man, and loved music. He was a teacher who could expound on many subjects. He had a keen interest in spiritual topics and an unusual sense of humour.

Special times with Asher included times when he totally relaxed, leaned back and shared a drink and a cigar with me. Sometimes, it overwhelmed me. He was like a father to me. I never had experienced such a relationship with my own father. We’d sit and talk openly, personally. I wish I’d asked more and listened more. I couldn’t imagine why he liked me so much.

Tamar was not only a mother to her seven, but to the three or four others who showed up for her “Schlopkus” (soggy cheese cake, her house speciality). Tamar lit the Shabbat candles, but beyond that, I have no recollection of there being any religious tradition. I don’t know how the family’s own children felt about all the extra volunteers during family time. They seemed very accepting, and graciously involved each of us in unique ways.

I’m not sure what prompted me, but after I’d been there for another 4 months, I felt like I should go home. I borrowed money from my mother to return to Toronto. I was nervous and unsure about my present relationship with my parents, so instead of returning home, I went to the commune where I used to live, and where an older brother lived.

I’d been gone for nine months. I’d experienced things I couldn’t have imagined, met remarkable people, and had amazing adventures. My life had been irrevocably altered. I was a different person from the one who left nine months ago. Now, I was left with memories.

When I walked into the commune, everyone was planted around the TV watching Star Trek. After an initial round of hellos, everyone went quiet in front of the T.V. again. I felt flat. They had no interest in what I’d experienced or how my life had changed. It was an eye-opener for me.

The next day I went to pick up the money owed to me from where I’d previously worked. The secretary informed Mr. Mac that I was there. He asked me to come into the office to talk over a business proposition. He wanted me to take over management. Because I knew the ropes, he applied pressure by offering a generous wage. So, I ended up back in the old “normal.” I worked long hours, earned money, but had no purpose. Nine months of travel had changed me, and months later, I knew I was losing what I’d gained in my travels.

In February 1973, I returned “home” — where I felt belonging and purpose. Israel. Arriving there, I sat on the bench outside the dining room, making myself obvious, waiting for Asher to come by. When he saw me, he said in his typical loving and teasing way, “Yip, what are you doing here? Why haven’t you come home?”

Years later he told me, “I knew you were waiting on that bench to see my reaction.” He knew I wanted a personal welcome. So, he took care of it.

Soon a routine was in place. I didn’t have plans for the future and my relationship with the family was even stronger. I never realized what I was searching for. I didn’t even know I was searching until I found it. I found family. I had a father.

The Gallery

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?