Dear God,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• 

• 

See what I mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Song of Songs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, if you’re still curious:

• Female, age 68

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

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

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

That’s me. Frieda. That’s Yip. (Ken)

by Ashutosh Pandey

I was having a hard weekend and on top of that I was tired of acting how the people around me expected me to. I didn’t want to smile. I didn’t want to talk about God to anyone. I saw no fruit coming out of doing so. I was tired of being “right” and just wanted to be “real.”

Lying on my bed thoughts spewed forth like a word processor. And to be honest, I wanted to write. But I wanted to write something as negative as possible, because that would be me, being “real.”

A storm churned in my sleepless state, I wrote:

I was lying on my bed, trying to rest the heaviest part of my body; my head,
When a seriously devastating thought said “What if in a blink, I’m dead?
Half of me cautioned “Discontinue!” But I still chose to go ahead.
And when I allowed it to dwell, I felt I was clutching a never-ending thread.

In seconds my brain was packed full with questions,
I wasted almost half an hour deciding where to begin.
All the questions had one thing in common:

WHY DO WE DO THINGS THAT GOD CONSIDERS SIN?

So, the question began, “What was the biggest sin you did today?”
This was the easiest one, so I hardly did any delay.
To that, I answered, “Disobeying God was one of the ways!”

The second question asked; “Why do our hearts know the truth, but our mind plays games?”
To that I answered, “It usually happens when I don’t have a defined aim.
Instead of doing the will of my God, I work to benefit my temporary frame.”

As the dialogue continued and the temperature rose, I countered back, “Why can’t happiness be bought from money?”
Tongue in cheek, God replied, “Some people are so broke, all they have is money.”
My heart, in dissatisfaction, continued to dispute. “God, I follow you, but where is fruit?”

God sighed and replied, (with a gentle rebuke)
“Son, if you want an answer, you might have to mute.”
I stopped computing and listened intently.

“Son, you bend towards me for only a second. Where are your roots?
I made you a true solution but you’ve made yourself dilute.
If you want to see the fruits, let me delete all things that pollute.”

Hearing this I said, “God I’m ready for reboot”.
Then appeared the million-dollar question;
“What if someone else knocks me into a hole? God, you can’t blame me when I had no control!”

To this, he said, “It’s no crime to be knocked down, but a sin if you don’t get up! 
Half empty or half full, soft knock or hard knock;
Do you think life is dished out, just ad hoc?”

Reluctant to sleep I made a last plea,
“God give me something strong, I need to hold on!”
To this God said “Open up to chapter three, verse sixteen in John.”

After reading, I thanked God for the eternal invite
And said, God it’s okay now IF I DIE TONIGHT.
Now I understand I’m cleansed by your blood, so from today on,
I choose to be REAL rather than right.

The day when my heart starts to turn cold, God, help me rejoice,
For I know you are turning this molten heart into solid gold.

I ended my writing and was surprised when I read what I’d wrote!
I couldn’t find anything negative in it. Then I remembered that I’m created in God’s image,
and when he made me, it was GOOD; negatives never make a POSITIVE.

And that is my reality.
He reminded me that my works don’t define me.
Instead, I’m the person who’s defined by the blood of Christ.

A free invitation is detailed for you (take a look),
John chapter three, verse sixteen (in God’s book).

“AMEN.”

*Ashutosh Pandey is an inspirational writer (and studying to teach Math).

Check the story menu:

Me, God and Suicide

“Guess who wrote to me?” I asked Yip, knowing he’d never guess. “Your sister?”
“No. Mayo Clinic!”

I’m not sure how they located me. It’s been over 50 years since my heart surgery in 1961. A time when the concept of computers was akin to science fiction, and mobile phones had yet to be invented. I conceded and filled out the survey. I mused, “They are probably patting each other on the back to discover I’m still alive!”

Sixty years-ago heart surgeries were a new frontier. I was seven years old when the hole in my heart was discovered. It was shock for my parents. (I must add that Dad, who was a doctor, liked to claim some of the credit over its discovery—but only after it all came to a good ending.)

The experts of the time advised my parents to have the surgery done immediately. Without it my lifespan would be critically shorter. But the surgery was dangerous and the big question was, was I to be, or not to be? A decision was made, and before leaving for the operation, my father told my older sister, “Frieda may not come back.”

Dad loved to tell me the story, but I treasure my own memories:

I was in 2nd grade (far left with a ribbon around my neck) and tried to be a nice student. I tried to be a friend to classmates who had no friends (encouraged by my mother). I was awarded the certificate of “Best Friend.” My parents found this hard to believe. “Who, Frieda? Best Friend? Impossible! She always pouts and cries! It’s hard work to be her friend!” It was so unbelievable to them, they decided I needed to see a psychiatrist. But first I was first sent to the family pediatrician to rule out any physical causes. Dr. Blood was as good as her name suggested. She diagnosed a hole in the wall of my heart where blood was escaping. She then explained that after the long hours of school I had no energy left, leaving me in tears and pouting. (I still cry when I’m tired. Must have become a habit.)

Dad, a child psychiatrist, was intrigued by the surgery and wanted to understand all aspects of it. He studied it and drew pictures of the procedure, including the (now old- fashioned) heart and lung machine that would be attached to my body. He made multiple carbon copies and mailed them to my relatives.

Mom and Dad packed me up and we traveled to the Mayo Clinic, in Rochester, Michigan. I was excited, probably from all the gifts I received. Understandably, my sisters were a bit jealous of the gifts, especially my blue silk pajamas with matching robe (I felt guilty about that). I ended up with a lot of very nice things. I felt quite angelic in the soft blue silk. I had a small suitcase, the perfect size for me to carry by myself (which I proudly did). I had stuffed animals and zillions of ‘Get Well’ cards. It was a time my parents allowed me to get pampered.

I was kept in the dark about the risks, and loved having my parents all to myself at the hospital. Before the operation, a nurse was taking me to the lobby to meet my whole family. She asked if I’d like to walk or ride? I looked at the wheelchair she was offering, an ancient wicker one with a backrest twice as tall as I was. Greeting my family in a chariot would be a magnificent entry. “I’ll ride!”

I awoke in the ICU with my mother dozing beside me. It took a few moments for me to figure out where I was. I tried to peer through the foggy, heavy plastic walls of the oxygen tent. “Mommy?”

She immediately woke and gave me a reassuring smile. “I’m so thirsty!”

“I’ll call the nurse.” She rang a bell.

I was given water in the tiniest cup imaginable. It seemed to me to be about one inch tall and half full. It had a huge straw in it that was bent at the top. The nurse waved her finger at me. “Drink slowly!”

That was when I discovered two pipes protruding from my chest, and not long after that a glimpse of the long scar down the middle of my ribcage with about 25 stitches in it. On my abdomen was another long rainbow-shaped scar with the same number of stitches. The excitement and novelty of this new experience diminished as pain set in. Nonetheless, I progressed well and was given a good report. My parents were overjoyed.

Soon, we were heading home. At first all went well, but soon I developed severe chest pain. The doctors tried all sorts of drugs, from aspirin to steroids, which led to nightmares and hallucinations. Scary, geometric figures from outer space came charging at me in the night and sent me knocking on my parent’s door. Dad always got up and led me into the kitchen saying, “I’ve got just the thing for nightmares!” The ice cream emerged and he’d dish up two bowels. We laughed and talked nonsense. His psychological ploy was incredibly successful.

But a cure was not found. I was confined to a wheel chair for the next 6 months. All physical activity was banned. The pain in my chest lasted about 10 days and would show up about 2 times yearly. This continued over the next 20 years. When the pain came, I had to lie with my head propped up on two or three pillows in order to breath. Twenty years on, the pain still chastised me.

Soon after Yip and I married we were caring for 100 children. (No starting small for us!) Yip’s mother planned to visit from Canada for three weeks. The pain began. It was more severe than I’d ever experienced before; it shot down my left arm like arrows, indicating signs of an approaching heart attack. Two friends came to pray for me, and one of them brought their son, a young boy named Brad. Brad was curious about what had happened to Frieda, and now curious to know what would happen to her when they prayed.

People were praying, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy having my own talk with God: “I know you can heal me, but I don’t know if you WILL heal me.” That was as much faith as I could muster. Then added, “If you can, at least, heal me while Yip’s mother is here.” (As though that was “the least”, God could do!)

After prayer I breathed deeply to check my pain level. There was no pain. I took another breath. Still no pain. I got up and moved around. Still no pain. I had been healed! Brad was amazed. My two friends who prayed were also amazed and rejoiced. Brad took note. He never forgot what he’d seen. It was the first time Brad’s father also witnessed such an instantaneous miracle. And me? It was a miracle that would mark the rest of my life.

While Yip’s mother spent the month with us, I had no problems at all. I cooked, cleaned, and took her on trips. Her last day arrived and Yip left with her for the airport. As I waved them off and turned to go inside, I was stabbed with sharp chest pains! My immediate reaction was, “God! This is not funny!”

I was alone, riddled with blasphemous pain. I was frustrated and asked God what in the world was He doing? I let Him know how unimpressed I was with His little joke. He responded. I heard God’s inaudible voice, very clearly in my spirit: “Trust in me, and trust you’ve been healed by faith.”

Now, I had to stop and ponder why God was saying this to me. What did it mean? How could I trust that I was healed by faith when I knew I was no longer healed? A self- examination began. Where was I not trusting God in my life? I honestly surprised myself when I found so many areas I was worrying about. I couldn’t be trusting God if I was plagued with worry. And I had vast storehouses of worry. What if there was an earthquake? What if there was a scorpion in my bed? What if my husband stopped loving me? (New wife syndrome.) What if a cobra bit me? How can we live without an income? What if Yip would die in an accident?

The list went on and on, then on and on. I had to evaluate every worry one by one as it arose, such as earthquakes. Earthquakes were not in my control; God was in control. I began to see the folly in worrying over things outside of my control, and realized it was useless for me to hold onto them. I threw earthquakes out the window. I continued down the list. I dealt with each worry until I was sure it was no longer hidden in a mental cupboard for me to uncover and indulge in again. I could breathe again. Literally! I could breathe! I took a deep breath. No pain. Another breath. No pain. I was elated and danced around the room. No pain. I was healed again—a second miraculous healing of the same disease, but this time I prayed alone. Healed twice of the same disease seems tongue-in-cheek, but that’s what happened.

It was now clear. My pain, my problem, was psychosomatic. God healed me physically of pain the first time. The second time He dealt with the root of the problem. If God had stopped after the first healing, I’d still be stuck with all my worrying. God cared too much about me to leave me with worry. I couldn’t trust God at all if I didn’t believe His words. I’d not only heard Him, but read the Bible and was aware of His promises, such as Matthew 11:28; Come to me, all you that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Did I trust Him?

Two healings happened. God played the part of a teacher and showed me he could heal pain, but it was up to me to trust God enough to stop worrying. The cure was in my hands. I experienced firsthand, that stress can play havoc on our bodies. Worry can kill us—literally. And psychosomatic pain is REAL.

When I share this story, people are surprised, because the changed ME is very laid back, calm and peaceful (“Frieda” is German for peace). Worry stays light years away; as do those geometric figures from outer space which once haunted me.

And then, there is Jerimiah 29:11; “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

God knew the plans for my future. I needed to be stress-free. The future for me included three episodes of near death. When my first child was born it was only prayer that saved me. Second was a brain operation, which surprised me. Finally, to top everything was a rare condition that put 13 screws and rods in my neck and left me half lame. That is a recovery I’m still facing. Had God not loved me enough to help me throw worry out of my life, I would never have managed those hard times and many others.

(One daughter shares her hair over my pre-operation bald head.)

(Another daughter brought me a wig.)

It was thirty years after releasing my worries to God, I was in the hospital for a brain tumor operation. The night before the surgery, my surgeon came to visit. We had a brief chat and as he left, he turned and said, “Aren’t you even a little scared?” I thought to myself, “No.” I didn’t think he would believe that answer, so I said, “Well, maybe a little.”

The doctor shook his head and left. My rock-solid security was a miracle. Brad, the boy who prayed for my heartaches never forgot that miracle. It laid a foundation in Brad’s faith and confirmed his dad’s faith. My Dad loved to tell me the story of my heart operation, but his story was only the beginning of a bigger one; I had greater treasures to come. Miracles are never forgotten.

The Sun Came Searching

By Kim Balke

(Photo by Tom Balke)
Kim is a poet, friend and a heart-transplant patient, whose life is full of medical challenges. She cannot afford worry. The beautiful imagery of what she writes is from a deep, emotional and spiritual experience of knowing who to trust.

Kamla phoned. She was eagerly searching for a verse, but all she could remember about it were two words, my cup. She asked, “Do you know where the verse is?” Kamla’s heart was like a cup that overflowed. Her faith in God, her passion to serve, her marriage and children were all part of what made her heart overflow. Even I was included in the overflow. It was such a privilege to be part of her joys. I tried to remember a verse that included the words my cup, but it was her husband who came up with the verse.

भजन संहिता 16:5-6

नहीं, बस मेरा भाग यहोवा में है। बस यहोवा से ही मेरा अंश और मेरा पात्र आता है। हे यहोवा, मुझे सहारा दे और मेरा भाग दे। मेरा भाग अति अद्भुत है। मेरा क्षय अति सुंदर है।

Psalm 16:5-6 ESV

The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

The Psalm had many promises and was prophetic for Kamla. In it, she saw hope for the future. That was no small dream for Kamla. She was bedridden for the last 18 years of her life with a rare terminal illness. Hope was her life-line. Death was no threat to her, for she never allowed it to cast a shadow on Hope. The lines of Psalm 16 spoke to Kamla of Hope, “He’s the cup…. From him comes my inheritance…Boundary lines you’ve given me fall in places of sanctuary.”

After that phone call, I turned the Psalm into a song as a gift for Kamla, but she died before I had the chance to sing it. Kamla gained her inheritance, heaven, and was simultaneously released from years of pain and suffering. She reached her safe sanctuary, her refuge.

The song, Kamla’s Hope, uses these verses:
Psalm 16:5-11, Ps. 4:8, Ps. 73:25,26, Rev. 22:17

Kamla’s Powerful Cup

The Lord’s my chosen portion
He’s the cup, from him I drink.
From him comes my inheritance
In Him, my needs complete. 
Boundary lines you’ve given me 
Fall in places of sanctuary
My heart and mind are advised at night
He counsels me continually.
He is before me, at my right hand
I cannot be shaken; He makes me glad
Overflowing Joy —like a well spring I’m drenched.

In His Love… in His love…
You will show me the path of life
In your presence is fullness of joy.
In peace I lie down and sleep;
You alone make me dwell safely.

The Spirit and the bride say, “Come!”
All say, “Come.” If you’re thirsty then come! 
Come and take life-giving water,
If you want, come and take, it’s free!
Whom have I in heaven but thee?
And none I desire besides thee.
My flesh and my heart fail me:
But God is my portion forevermore.
He says Come. He says Come.

Because of her disease, Kamla lost her hair, which in time, grew back. She disliked the stubbiness that began to poke through, but it was her inner beauty that was seen. Kamla knew how to love. In that, she was a rock. A spring that gushed life. No matter how difficult her life became, she pressed on.

She renewed her sense of living with every day she was given. Kamla’s last day, she spoke only two words; Lord Jesus.

स्वर्ग में मेरा और कौन है ? तेरे संग रहते हुए मैं पृथ्वी पर और कुछ नहीं चाहता। मेरे हृदय और मन दोनों तो हार गए हैं, परन्तु परमेश्वर सर्वदा के लिये मेरा भाग और मेरे हृदय की चट्टान बना है। Ps. 73:25,26

Death always evokes in us thoughts of heaven, even though Heaven is not about death, but life. My father wrote a line in a poem “stretch beyond imagination.” When I think of Heaven, it’s hard to envision its beauty. Unmarked boundaries stop my imagination. And when I view an awesome sunset, I realize there is so much more—stretch beyond imagination. That would be Heaven.

My vision is limited, yet it doesn’t stop my imagination from wanting to know what God has in store for me. In the sunset below, the heavens are beautifully mirrored on the wet roof. It makes me certain that the mysterious magnetic pull between heaven and earth, plus God’s own image reflected in us, is full of love and smothers us in grace daily. Life is given in our mother’s womb, and that goes stretch beyond imagination. What greater love can do such amazing things? I was created in love and that’s enough assurance— nothing is impossible with God.

Kamla reached her goal; Heaven, a place more beautiful than we can fathom, better than this sunset—stretch beyond imagination.

	Photo by Tom Balke
	Photo by Sonu Kumar

By guest thinker, writer, and illustrator, my granddaughter, Joshna Kumar.

The Thought:

“I was thinking about how my brother, Vijay, connected simple, every-day examples with God. He does it so easily and his examples make sense. As I was thinking, suddenly, a thought came to me on June 6th, 2021, on a Saturday night. I was already in my bed trying to go to sleep. I had this thought. I started thinking about a tap…

But a tap needs other parts to make anything happen… so my thought went further.

• 

• 

• 

A tap, a pipe, and a well. Connecting pieces, like a puzzle, that fit together.

The tap connects to a pipe, the pipe connects to a well. But these connecting pieces are useless on their own, or together, without water, the Source.

To use this example in life, we, are the tap. A tap can be turned on, allowing the Source of life-giving water to flow to many people. The Source, drawn from the well, is a holding place for the Source’s inextinguishable love. The pipe connects us to the Source of love, which is God.

Our connection to the Source, to God, could be the Bible, listening to music, our personal relationships—anything that connects us deeply to God and his never-ending love.

Sometimes we may be having a strong and easy relationship with God, but sometimes our pipe gets bent, has angles, coils, and ups and downs. Sometimes our pipe leaks, or is clogged with dirt (like bad thoughts or a million other mucky stuff). We need to continuously throw out the dirt so it doesn’t contaminate the clean water, preventing the tap from releasing the Source’s pure water.”

Granny’s thoughts interrupted The Thought.

She loosened her collar and gasped, “Is this theologian really my granddaughter? Then Granny gave Joshna a piece of her mind:

“Pipes do have their many ups and downs, just like all of us have in life. The light grows dim when you look through a bent, dirty pipe. God also had a great thought way back in the beginning. He thought, “I’ll create light and water first.” He understood people needed them, just like they need Him, The Source.”

Joshna smiled cooperatively, and continued to expand on her Thought:

“So, returning to simple life examples (and I hope to impress my brother, Vijay), we are the tap and can give water to many people. If the well is full of water, but our taps haven’t been turned on, we are defeating our perfectly planned purpose. When turned to “on,” we are conduits and others can benefit from us, free to fill slowly or all at once. We open our tap up and are filled to overflowing with The Source. We have plenty to share. When needed, God straightens the pipe, fixes the leak, and cleans out the dirt. The tap, the pipe, and the well have a perfectly planned purpose. To share the Source, God’s love.”

Happy Trails to Willy

Our 1964 canvas camouflaged Willys jeep
Had a crank in the front that was really neat
Driving down vertical Himalayan roads
Playful Willy sent a wheel for a roll!
We cried aloud, “God, look! That’s our wheel!” 
Poor Willy died, but God had more still
His plan was no old, cranky military jeep
But a snazzy Isuzu with AC and bucket seats!

Surprise Supplies

Mr. Campers always regretted selling it to us. His 1964 canvas-covered, compact little jeep was a gem. And we got it cheap. When we finally sold it, we regretted it too. Working or not, it was a priceless 1964 crank-up military jeep.

When we first got it, we were so pleased! We finally had a vehicle to use in the mountains as well as the plains. Then Willy started acting up. When Willy pouted, we’d have to attach the crank in the front to start him up. It took muscles to give it a whirl, so Yip would twirl, while I sat behind the wheel and pressed the gas pedal at the precise moment.

One day, we drove down the mountain-side with a full jeep-load of children popping out of the canvas windows and sides, and we pulled a loaded trolly behind us. Then, a wheel rolled down the road ahead of us. Yip, who was driving, wondered, “which idiot lost a wheel?” He hit the brakes, speculating where the 3-wheeled car was, but the brakes didn’t work, even pressed fully down to the floor. Then Yip realized we were the three-wheeled brakeless car!

“Everyone down! Hang-on tight!” Yip slowly drove the jeep against the steep mountain side, scratching it along the wall of rock. It was the only way we could come to a stop. At least we weren’t on the cliff side of the road. That would have been fatal.

Thankfully, everyone was fine. Except Willy.

“Okay,” said Yip. “Tim and I will look after Willy, the rest of you start walking.” Tim was a young man who came from Wales to help us. “We’ll meet you at the bottom of the mountain.”

It was about 10 kilometres to the bottom of the mountain. The kids were excited. An adventure! I had 3 small children of my own, plus 5 little boys—all under the age of 7. The question for me was, how would I ever control them on 10 kilometres of curvy road while carrying a baby? I don’t know how we managed, but we got down the mountain and waited for Yip.

Willy dying was a sad happening. He’d been so faithful when we needed him.

There were many trips up and down the mountain. We’d had lots of neighbours needing day and night emergency runs to the hospital. Willy rushed us to the hospital for our children’s births as well. Once, in monsoon, while crossing the rivers to get to the mission hospital for our second child, Willy nearly drowned.

We got there just in time on 2 spark plugs. As Willy aged he would only start with a crank. When that failed, we prayed, pushed, pumped the gas pedal, and then leapt in while Willy was coughing and sputtering—hoping he’d take off. Finally, the day came when Willy refused to start at all, not even by prayer. We had to accept it. Willy, our steadfast and stalwart friend, had died. We prayed together for a car.

The next week Yip had to go to Delhi for some pending work. As he walked up the steps of a hotel, he spotted an acquaintance he’d met a few times.

“Oh, hi Yip!” Jeff yelled.

Yip turned and greeted him.

“Hey Yip,” said Jeff with raised eyebrows. “Do you need a car?”

Yip was so surprised his words were glued to his mouth. Before he could spit them out, Jeff said, “Because God just told me to give you, my car.”

Yip stared wide-eyed. His mouth made silent, awkward shapes while he tried to find the words.

“Um … yeah … .”

Jeff looked a little embarrassed. “It’s parked over there, but if I you don’t mind, can I give it to you tomorrow? Would that be alright?”

Yip, finally able to speak, said, “That would be fine.” But his look of shock and surprise, gave him away.

Jeff grinned and slapped Yip on the back, making the arrangement to hand the car over to him the next day. And that’s what happened. Yip drove home in a fancy Japanese ISUZU, with seat belts, air-conditioning, buckets seats, and a CD player. God’s plan was no old, cranky military jeep, but a snazzy Isuzu with AC and bucket seats!

Who would have thought of that?

Showers of Blessings Fell

We began with just a rupee or two
When boys arrived, we had no food.
That went on, for quite a few years
We reminded God, “Hey! We’re working too!” 
And refused to beg from anyone else…
And that’s when showers of blessings fell!

The Story:

Selaqui, in 1986, consisted of a local betel leaf (paan) shop. Today the bazaar is so packed with shops, cars, and industries, that standing on the road to take a photo would be putting your life in danger. The flyer hanging over the road welcomes the Canadian Ambassador to inaugurate our house. Our hope was that a little publicity may help us out. Thinking our way through survival was hard.

In 1976 we began with 4 boys, then 14, then 34, then 50…. and in fact, we went on to have 25 girls too. Ridiculous? Indeed! At that time, we lived in Mussoorie, the foothills of the Himalayas, and rented two houses. We had no income, therefore, most of the time we had neither money or food. Yip managed to make a deal with the leper colony; they would give us oats if we gave them potatoes. (We had bags of those.)

I cajoled the girls to accompany me into the jungle to find eatable plants, mostly thistles. With big sighs, they picked up the tools; gloves and scissors. They hated it, but at least we had some greens. We told no one about our needs and waited for God to provide, since that is what God said he will do. We were new in following Jesus and were told that God doesn’t lie. So simply, we held out.

One day, some guests came to visit us from Kenya. As they walked in the front door, Yip hustled me out the back door to borrow some coffee from our neighbour. We had nothing to give them, which is culturally rude (…rude to be poor?). As they sipped their coffee, they told us about their work and how the Lord always provided for all their needs. We hoped they were enjoying their borrowed coffee. It was quite depressing. Why didn’t God provide for us?

One day, a friend requested help to move his refrigerator up the mountainside. He needed strong boys, and we had boys by the dozens. They did the job and earned 20 rupees. We ate vegetables that night.

And thus, the saga of not having money, and not having food, went on. Occasionally an envelope would arrive with the needed finance at just the right time. We called those years, our desert years, similar to Moses who roamed the desert while relying on God to supply.

But many great things came out of those years. The boys learned to trust us and understood we loved them, for when we had no money for food, we all went hungry. It added honour, integrity and endurance into our lives together because we stuck it out together. Once, when we ran out of all our food supplies, the boys counted the papayas on the tree, to make sure no one selfishly went for them.

Yip told one of the older boys, Ravi, to go to Dehra Dun and find out if we had any money in our bank account. He went and found there was nothing. But the children were hungry. In the bazaar Ravi found a shop willing to buy his watch for 13 rupees. He brought the money back and gave it to Yip. Ravi said, “Buy food for the kids.”

That day, a friend came to visit. When the sun set, he straddled his Bullet to take off again. The engine roared and he said his goodbye’s. “Oh!” was his murmured afterthought. The motor sputtered and stopped as he reached in his vest and pulled out a fat envelope full of money.

We had no money or food many times, but I have no recollection of ever going even slightly hungry. God faithfully came through when we had needs. Even so, we were living constantly on the poor side of life. We never knew where or when we’d get our needs looked after.

One day, as we prayed, Yip and I looked at each other, both feeling rather fed-up with the way God was treating us. We agreed with each other, and in prayer, told God just what we thought. “If you’re not going to take care of us, then we’re not going to work for you.” (God was just waiting for us to get serious with Him.)

We found some (rocky) land and moved off the mountainside into the valley. The Doon Valley. Every day Yip and the boys walked to the land and moved rocks here and there, only to find more rocks. We rented a house near the land but found it too expensive. We prayed about it and felt that God wanted us to buy it. The owner was ready to sell, so we made the deal. We had to pay 4,000 Rs. for the first down-payment. Of course, we didn’t have anywhere near that amount of money.

Once more, Yip sent one of the boys to Dehradun to check our bank account. No one had ever donated into it, so our expectation was not high. However, we were in for a surprise! There was exactly 4,000 Rs. in the account. Yip quickly made the down- payment and was informed that we need to give another 30,000 rupees in 6 weeks. Yip agreed.

Six weeks went by remarkably fast. “God? Why do you do this to us?” Same story; no money. Yip sadly went off to the court to annul our agreement. In the meantime, I sent one of the boys, Jugat, walking 4 km down the road to Selaqui to get the mail. Jugat returned with a letter. In the letter was a check, and it was in English pounds! I grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him excitedly, “Run! Go fast to the courts in Dehradun and find Uncle. Give this to him! Go!”

Well, God must have been having a chuckle. The check was from a young English couple who ran a bakery in England. Yip gave them ride from Mussoorie to Dehradun in our 1964 crank-up Willy’s jeep once… the only meeting we ever had with them. And now a large check looked us in the face.

Jugat reached Yip just in time. He paid the 30,000 and was told we needed another 30,000 in the next six weeks. We were pumped and quickly agreed. We were on a roll now.

Six weeks later; no money. Despondently, Yip sulked around. That week he remembered that Sister Agnes, who ran the leper colony, had asked him to drop in when he had time. He figured he might as well visit. There wasn’t anything else happening, unfortunately.

He met Agnes, who said, “A priest in Germany died who was like a father to me; he left me an inheritance. He worked with boys. And since you work with boys, I think he’d be pleased for you to have it. It amounts to about 50,000 Rupees. Do you think you can use it?” She had a suspiciously sombre look on her face. Yep, Yip used it, alright. With that much money we even bought a bit of land around the house.

Then we invited the Canadian Ambassador, the Wardens, to come and inaugurate our house. Canada made a donation to support “grass-root projects.” The embassy sent our project proposal to Canada to show what projects they were supporting. Canada was confused. They thought it was a new proposal … thus, a second donation was mistakenly given. The Embassy apologized, and asked if we’d be willing to use it (returning it to Canada involved too much paperwork). We took time to think it over (no!) … of course, we’d use it!

God, in his Godly, playful way, met our needs. He helped us learn faith.

After that, showers of blessings fell. Why? I guess God trusted us now with faith. We leapt out of the desert and into palm-tree-ed luxury on the other side of the desert.

(Same place where the rocks were in 1986)

We just got married and had 50 boys
When malaria hit, we all got sick
No money, no know-how to cope with this
It was algebra for us country hicks!
Walking up Nigam Road that day
Was a flute-playing-hippy coming our way
He wore a loin cloth, thongs and beard
Was this help an answer to prayer?
You see
On our own we’re weak, but God even fights for Selaqui!

The story goes like this:

“Turn off the fan, guys, it’s cold.”

Every eye stared at me. We were sitting on the floor in August, and it was hot. Turning off the fan was just not done, neither in the day or in the night. In August? Never.

“Guys, it’s cold. Turn off the fan.”

Reluctantly, but respectfully, the fan was turned off. Looking at one another with questioned-marked faces, the boys shrugged their shoulders. I was intensely cold and got up from the floor. I went into the bedroom to put on a sweater.

The boys surely had an inkling of what was happening, for every one of them had just recovered from malaria. I was a hotbed of sickness. Wearing a sweater wasn’t enough. I lay down on the bed and asked for a blanket, then another blanket, then a heavy quilt, until the weight of all the bedding was too much. I shivered violently. I wasn’t thinking clearly, but after caring for all the boys, Yip knew how to proceed without asking a doctor. Yip dosed me up with chloroquine. In time, I recovered.

Much to my horror, our 1-year-old daughter was next. She also recovered normally. Finally, Yip, the last, became sick. He out-did everyone by getting chloroquine resistant malaria. His was harder to diagnose and required a smart doctor. He ended up in the hospital. His recovery took over a month.

It was during that time that we spotted the happy Canadian hippy rambling up the road. In those days, foreigners were rare. We were the only ones. Any foreigner who got off the bus in Selaqui, had only to look around with confusion on his face and a villager would point up the 4 km road toward our house and he’d be on his way.

That was the day we met Sammy. He’d been told we were all down with malaria and may need some help. This uniquely attired angel came at the right time.

Sammy was searching for meaning and truth. He’d never known a “living” Jesus. He thought Jesus was just a super-hero out of a Marvel comic. As he stayed with us and spent time with our boys, Sammy’s life changed. He met a living Jesus.

He asked, “What can I do to serve Jesus?”

We couldn’t provide the answer. It was between him and God. And the answer came immediately.

“I should become a doctor!”

It seemed a bit of a joke. A flute-playing-loin-cloth-wearing-happy-hippy decides to become a doctor? Sounded a little unlikely. But Sammy had given his heart to Jesus, and that is exactly what he did.

He became a doctor and served all over the world, in the most terrible conditions. In the Rwanda genocide, in the Canadian northern territories where suicide and depression pervaded. He served in places where no other doctors would go. He was dedicated and utterly stalwart in serving Jesus. Sammy never forgot us. As he earned his money, most of it was sent to us.

It’s worth taking in the stranger—no matter how strange. It may save your life, or the stranger’s life, and gently ripple—or joyously explode—into other people’s lives.

We are all beloved.

*The background rhythm from a song by Charity Gayle, My God Fights for Me, was the inspiration for creating this song/poem. Her song, should be the tale in our lives.