There is a vista beyond the cloud.

Every experience does it’s work in us; experiences can be like war. My father’s nightmare experience was like venom from a fire breathing dragon. The humongous dragon obliterated the entire horizon with the madness of hell and brought death. Dad’s thoughts, his joy, his work, and his family were all in that hell. It left him as good as dead. Nothing could be the same again. I’m his daughter. I know. When life becomes abominable, you too, become abominable and hate yourself. You are two people. One of you is the crowd pleaser and says the right things, somehow managing to keep the ship from completely sinking. The other is hidden deep inside, and keeps grief, bitterness, and confusion alive.

Dad’s heart resounded with shame; he’d let Mom down. He was not there when she needed protection. It haunted him —but a man with a gun? Who’s to say what may have happened had Dad been there too? We may have become orphans.

One brisk spring morning when Dad was miles away and we children were in school, an intruder entered our house and attacked Mom. She put up a good fight but was brutally murdered. My father was away, working in another state. Her stalker had picked the timing carefully. No one was nearby.

Our youngest sister arrived home from school first, walked in and found her mother lying in a pool of blood. My sister was never the same. None of us were. Life changed. No one could take that memory away from my sister, or from any of us. It was tattooed into our souls. Our earnest desire to help our sister was itself helpless, for we were boxed into an environment of stunned emotions. We were confused, angry and helpless.

Dad needed an escape route and diluted his emotions by writing:

Who Am I?

I am a pitiful lump turned tragic,
placed by unnoticed cosmic error
at point often crucial in the lives of others, rising to confront weakness and strength as though with strength, but settling, later, like gull on troubled water, more yet like
sparrow stung by blowing sand, clinging
to life’s branch while yet longing for
the peace of release,
forgetting those who have loomed suddenly to lend brief dignity to the dream
of survival, a moment of grandeur
to a lonely quest to be,
to be a man,
to matter.
~Dad

Many people took counsel from Dad. He knew there was a way to get from the pit of despair to that beautiful, rainbow-colored vista of hope. But while trapped in the pit he was unable to find the escape route. A woman named Jerrie had been trapped in her own pit, but she found the escape and climbed out.

Hope

There is a vista beyond the cloud
Unseen by those who labor in its shadow
by those who grieve,
by those who hate,
by those who struggle in the storm.
It’s reaches stretch beyond the imagination Of even those whose vision is not obscured.
It is they who must venture into the shadow
With the poetry of hope.
~Dad

Dad, the psychiatrist, was just a pitiful lump of clay when Jerrie found him. Jerrie was his secretary. When she was only 20, she became paraplegic. She faced death in her hospital room. Jesus came in, and she was healed. She never got up and walked again, but Jerrie always lived fuller than most people who can walk. Miraculously, she forged her way out of the dark valley and up to the mountain top where she firmly, resolutely, grabbed the lifeline of hope that Jesus had thrown to her in the hospital room.

Dad and Jerrie began a close relationship on a normal workday, but in an abnormal way. Jerrie went about doing her secretarial work. She first knocked on Dad’s office door, and hearing no answer, rolled herself in. Assuming he was out, she put some patient files on his desk. His desk was cluttered and in disorder. She rolled her chair around the desk to clean it; that’s when she spotted dad. He was curled up in a ball under his desk, crying. She was startled, as was he. Professionals like Dad, always know the answers to everyone’s problems, but now, Dad was completely lost and confused. No one had recognized the depth of his despair.

That was the beginning of an intimate relationship. Jerrie had an infinite amount of wisdom and empathy. She’d already come out of her valley of death victorious. Her incredible courage, determination, and hope —her everyday armor, was the showcase of her character.

She helped Dad wage war against the pain and depression that could have overtaken him. Together they went to God. Together they understood that God had never deserted them, even when the going seemed more than one can bear. God never promised happiness; he guaranteed suffering.

James 1:2,3
My brothers and sisters, think of the various tests you encounter as occasions for joy. After all, you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance.

Until you do really suffer, you’ll never understand the great value of endurance. Suffering is never easy, but through it, mercy and forgiveness were unearthed. Because Jesus walked his own dark valley, He’s able to help us get through ours. He, God, had no privileged life; his life was like ours.

You are the Best 

Phil. 1: 29
God has generously granted you the privilege, not only of believing in Christ but also of suffering for Christ’s sake.

Climb every mountain?

Resolutions?

Fruitless resolutions?

Solution?

Pin your hopes and dreams on the one who actually can pull you through every new year, every new day, every hour and minute… and every resolution.

It’s the end of all resolutions.

My father called me a worry-wart when I was small. When we took a family trip, I sat in the rear of the station wagon, facing backwards. Dad noticed. As we’d drive off and left our home in the distance, I’d stare out the back window, noting every turn, every sign, colours, stores and houses. On the way home again, Dad called me to the front and sat me on his lap.

“You drive us home.”

I took the wheel and drove home. I knew how to get home. I could do it. I never wanted to get lost or loose the way home.

When I thought about Christmas, I thought that it’s all about finding the way home. “In the beginning God made heaven and earth.” God planned to connect earth to heaven, even though they were such opposite poles. So, he searched hearts to find the special woman to birth Jesus. He found Mary. Mary’s eyes focused upward on home”.

Heb. 4:6:

“Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

It wasn’t a throne; it was an old, broken, well-used manger in a barn, where Jesus Christ, the new-born baby lay. His bewildered mother was awe-struck, she could only praise and thank God continually.

Mary knew without doubt, this baby was heavenly. She’d had no relationship with a man. Added angelic assurance was given by Gabriel (the angel who appears 4 times in history over hundreds of years). More than anyone in the whole world, Mary had assurance that this baby was the longed-for Messiah. The Saviour.

When our youngest daughter was in her teens, her curiosity arose; she wanted to know who her real birth mother was. She searched and found family members in a tiny village in rural India; but the connection was missing.

Our oldest son also wanted to know who his mother was. She was alive, at least for some time, but her whereabouts were unknown. Locating her was impossible. There was a deep yearning in him; but there was another missing connection.

I grew up going to church. The people, who attended church with me, questioned, “who is God?” I followed my heart to find “home.” I discovered that that my fear of getting lost was a deeper. What is home? What is family? What connection was I searching for?

Gen. 1:1 —”In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” The plan; to join the two together. The intersection of both through Jesus. Jesus was the 2nd person in the world, after his mother, to have 100% assurance that He, Himself, was the Messiah. As a twelve-year old boy, His parents lost him in Jerusalem. But he was not lost. When they found Him in the temple, His comment was;

“Didn’t you know I’d be in my father’s house?” Mary knew His father —God.

There was a time I didn’t believe in Jesus. I went to church, but didn’t “believe.” In fact, I didn’t even like God. But, after I met Him at a specific time and place, a specific day in my life —I was changed. Like Mary, I was 100% assured who Jesus is.

In childhood, I focused on an earthly home and family. Mary’s eyes were focused on a heavenly one. When opposite poles of magnets approach each other, they attract each other. Any north-south combination will pull them together. If you can think of earth and heaven as two opposite poles, you know they are attracted to each other. But how to cross such a vast, void and pull them together? God’s plan.

In the above manger scene, at the rear, a family peeps in, trying to see the baby in the broken manger. They know they are not worthy to view the Saviour of the World.

Sin. God ordered his creation to multiply and have dominion over all other creation. Angels were sent to protect them, lest they fall.

Even so, they fell. The burden of sin was a great weight on them. God did not create robots. People had their free choice, and a conscious… and “consequences.”

The plan: Jesus, God’s son, would be the sacrifice for sin.

“In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth”; Jesus was there. Jesus knew the plan before he was born as a baby, yet being born in human form, he, like us, had to understand this relationship with God through prayer. Jesus spent many hours praying for God’s presence and revelation in his life. Born in a barn, he lay in a manger. Nothing could be more basic. Like us, Jesus grew. Jesus took on everything human, including our sorrows and weaknesses.

He had the whole mortal experience; yet, he was God.

Jesus, fully God, lived in the weakness of human form, including every human temptation. But he did not sin. He knew his course would lead him to death —followed by eternal life and freedom for all humans from the sting of death. He too, wanted to go “home.”

He promised that whoever believes in him will not perish, but have everlasting life. It was for us, that He willingly and lovingly, drank the cup of suffering. Jesus, at the right hand of God, has prepared a house for us. I suppose that’s why the verse in Matthew 7:7
says; “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek and you shall find; knock and the door shall be opened to you…”. It’s not an earthly door that you are knocking on; it’s the connecting door from earth to heaven.

It’s the way home.

John 14: 2:

“In my father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?”

I am inspireless, said I.
I don’t think that’s a word, said he.
That’s what I mean. I’m so inspireless I can’t even write words.

I often feel bereft of all inspirity. As you now understand.
Even when writing songs…
However, these days songs are gushing forth,
I’m nearly frothing at the mouth with good and bad ones…
still going strong.

In the end, it’s God. All the time, its God.
There is nothing in me, nor do I want there to be anything happening in me, without God.
He’s the SOURCE.
The TAP is connected to the pipe
The PIPE is connected to the well,
And nothing happens in the TAP
If everything is not connected together.
Get it? Maybe I’ll explain later.

Holy Spirit

by Frieda McRae

Accompanied by Michael Sethi

It seems that I will never write a song again
For your Spirit falls upon me,
I know not when Your power overwhelms me
Humbles me within,
I pray, Oh God
Put a new song on my lips again
From the power of Your love
And the life of Your Word
Filling me up and
Bowing me down before my God
Holy Spirit, Breath of Life
Breathe on me and give me life
Spirit come upon me in such a way
That I might know newness of day
Holy Spirit, Breath of Life
I fall before Your awesome light
Spirit come upon me
So that all I know
Will be from You alone

—Friend and guest writer, Simi Sara Thomas, shares her story, BUT, all our stories—

I have spent a major portion of my life on the heavier side of the weighing scale, and I hate to admit it, but I have loathed myself for it almost ALL the time.

My weight story started even before I was born. My mother had a healthy appetite and was an enthusiastic cook, and my father absolutely enjoyed all sorts of good food.
Food was always going to be a part of my heritage. I became an emotional eater.
When the going got tough, my kitchen always got raided, and with time, so did the various food apps on my phone.

My weight was hit the worst when I was put on some medicines in my last year of college, which fanned my raging appetite even further. Anxiety and uncertainty of the future added to the mix. Food became my sole comfort. I gained 20 kilos that year, but my physical weight was nothing compared to my emotional one. I detested myself more than ever.

It wasn’t long after that I reached the veritable sundar aur susheel, shaadi ke layak (beautiful and capable, able to be married) age, minus the sundar (beautiful) part, of course! Getting married was my hearts-desire, but my heavyweight appearance got me more rejections than I cared for. It was a vicious cycle of “I want to get married” to “nobody cares!” to “nobody should care! I’m ugly!”

And so on and on it went on for about seven years till I reached a point of true devastation. I hated myself more than ever, and to add insult to injury, there was no groom to be found! It was unbearable pain, and I had nowhere to turn.

So, I turned my eyes heavenwards, and gave up.

I gave up the relentless hate-relationship with myself, because I was inevitably becoming the root of my unhappiness.

I gave up trying to measure up to the body standards that people around me seemed to expect from me.

I gave up looking for love in others.

I gave up seeking constant approval to be alive.

It had finally dawned on me that I didn’t need permission to breathe. I didn’t need to be a specific size or shape to be loved. I didn’t need to be anything but me.

I could, however, want to have a healthier body weight and lifestyle, of course. And understanding this difference between needing and wanting made all the difference.

I was no longer motivated (or demotivated) by what people outside me wanted, or thought what was correct for me. Wanting to be better, and healthier, was up to me now, and I was pumped by this realisation.

I joined a gym eventually, started eating more home-made food, and even began cooking, which was hitherto a much-despised endeavour. I also took therapy sessions with a counsellor, and consciously replaced my negative self-talk, with my favourite bible verses.

It won’t be honest to say that I transformed overnight, like in the movies.

I am still on that journey of healing. I still have my weak moments when I give in to self-loathing, but they are fleeting and infrequent. I still go on binge-eating sprees, but they are far less intense than they used to be. I still fall short of people’s expectations, but I have stopped punishing myself for it.

Because that’s what it was, right? A self-imposed punishment for not being a perfect specimen.

I didn’t lose much weight (because habits don’t die easy!) but I gained a whole lot of confidence in being resilient and persevering. I learned a lot about the things that trigger my overeating, and eventually started recognising and avoiding them. It was slowly becoming real to me that I am, indeed, “fearfully and wonderfully made”, loved beyond all measure, beyond all reason, and I started showing myself the kind of sympathy and love that I was known to show to others around me.

I don’t know what brought you to this article, but if you are a victim of body-shaming, be it by others or self-imposed, please know that you are worthy of love just as you are, right now.

Please don’t let ANYONE convince you otherwise.

Read more from Simi at:
www.simisarathomas.wordpress.com
www.simbeingbipolar.wordpress.com

Hebrews 11:1-3

There are so many, many people surrounding us; witnessing what we’ve done,
Just like God watches over us, there are so many people keeping watch!
So, throw down every weight, every hindrance, every sin;
Lighten up and win the race that you’re meant to win.
Run your race with patience, endurance and resolve
To reach the finish before, before the sun sets down
While racing keep your eyes on Jesus (the anchor of your soul)
The author and finisher of life, where our faith is resting and alive.

For the joy he saw before him, he threw his life away,
He only saw the prize ahead, what was to gain instead
He saw joy and life with you and me; spent in eternity
He never saw the shame, kept his eyes on the gain
And that’s why he’s now seated at the…. Throne…. Of…. Grace.

That sin, which entangles us now let us run the race to win.
And be strapped to Jesus the leader of our faith,
seated at the right-hand throne of Grace.
Let’s run with the endurance the race in front of us,
Throw off extra baggage and get rid of the sin that trips you up
Fix your eyes on Jesus, keep your eyes fixed on him.
Your faith and life depend on it from beginning to end.
Fix your eyes on Jesus, let’s keep our eyes fixed on him,
Chuck off the baggage and the sin that trips you up
Fix your eyes on Jesus, keep your eyes fixed on him.
Your faith depends on it from beginning to end,
Your faith depends on it from beginning to end.

“Love speaks in flowers. Truth requires thorns.”
― Leigh Bardugo, The Language of Thorns: Midnight Tales and Dangerous Magic

Lucky was smart. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, but had enough guts and drive to make up for anything she lacked. She was an orphan with a few uncaring relatives who had nothing, yet, you knew she would be alright. She would make something of her life.

We looked after Lucky for a few years as she entered adulthood. It was apparent that Lucky would manage. After she trained as a teacher, she wanted to marry. We weren’t very pleased with her choice.

You see, Raju wanted to marry her, but he displayed an extremely questionable character. His reputation preceded him like bad news. Though his character was less than stellar, we couldn’t outright forbid her to marry him. Instead, we advised and counselled, hoping and praying she would understand the gravity of marrying this man.

The girls we cared for all had the same fear about marriage. Their worst nightmare was a husband who drank and then would beat them. That was the reality of their young lives —seeing their mothers beaten and abused. They knew first-hand the poverty that resulted from “drink”. And though horrific, having a husband who drinks was the reality they expected. The best outcome they could hope for would be to marry anyone —as long as he didn’t drink. They didn’t have the luxury to indulge in daydreams about anything fanciful. We sent Lucky to train as a teacher, as that was her first choice of careers. Lucky became a teacher, and a good one. She took great efforts to make sure that each child learned the subject, and enjoyed playing with them. She loved children and especially the little ones. I knew she’d one day make an excellent mother.

Yip and I had just started a school, beginning with Nursery and Kindergarten class. We had a dozen students in each class, and Lucky was one of the main teachers. When we first decided to run the school, it was agreed that I would not be involved. Well, that sure didn’t happen. I was learning the ropes of being Principal. Our eldest child was in Kindergarten, and our second one in Nursery. They were part of the reason we started the school, along with the fact there were no other English medium schools for 30 km.

Our third child was a one-year-old, and because I couldn’t leave her alone at home, I took her with me. She was quite a distraction, but in some ways a great addition to the class. She forced the children who loved to fuss over her to speak English. Our school, from the very beginning, was known for teaching students English. Most English medium schools in the village areas used Hindi regardless.

When the school began I told my children, “Now when you are at school, you must call me “Ma’am like all the other students.” Hmmm. Instead, the whole class ended up calling me “Mom.”

It was around that time, in 1989, that my husband had to travel to New Delhi for some work. While at the Embassy, he ran into an acquaintance. Someone he’d known, but was not close to personally. They met as Yip was ascending the stairs and Jeff, was descending.

“Oh, Yip! Hello!”

“Hi there Jeff!” And that was the extent of conversation expected by Yip beyond a short exchange of pleasantries. But that didn’t happen. The conversation was most amazing.

“Yip, by any chance, do you need a car, because God just told me to give you mine?”

“Ah … well, yes, I guess we do need a car.” We had actually been praying for a car because our little 1964 crank-up, canvas-covered Willy’s jeep had just died. When the crank was no longer able to start her up, prayer worked. Now prayer was also having some frustrations.

“Well, then, that’s really great,” said a jubilant Jeff. My car is parked right over here.” Then he frowned and politely asked, “If it’s not too much trouble, can I give it to you tomorrow?”

Yip, totally awe-struck, could hardly speak. “Yeah, sure! Great!”

Yip drove back from Dehli in the fanciest car we’d ever seen: an Isuzu equipped with power steering, CD player, air-conditioning, plush seats, and even seat-belts! Quite the dream. But it was real —and timely. My mother was coming to visit. She was paraplegic and couldn’t travel without seat-belts. It certainly was the answer to prayer that we were looking for.

And so, Yip made a triumphant, quite surprising entry back onto the campus where we lived with the children we looked after. It was then that Lucky and Raju became engaged. She decided against our counsel and soon after their engagement the consequences of marrying Raju began to show. Raju, the man she wanted to marry had nothing to offer financially, but he convinced Lucky that they would manage. Lucky, easily convinced, displayed her characteristic fearlessness.

A few months prior, Lucky’s sponsor died and left an inheritance for her. We put the money into a bank account and used it for her training and further financial needs, which her sponsor would have wanted. Lucky, Raju, and everyone around saw our wonderful new-used car.

Much to our great surprise, Lucky laid a court-case against us. Immediately we understood that Raju was the root of her actions. His strong influence seemed to have manipulated her thoughts and understanding beyond repair. She officially went to court and claimed that we had used her inheritance to buy the “new” car. I was utterly devastated and thoroughly distraught that she would believe that, or want to put a case against us. All the care and love and time that I’d given her personally seemed to count as nothing to her. It made me very sad.

So, I cried.

(from Ps.142)

I cry out loud. Oh God, with my voice, I plead mercy. Without shame I complain. I tell him all my troubles. Lord, when my spirit fails, you know my path. You see the trap laid for me… I’m the catch. On my right, no one there notices me…

No refuge, no safe house, no one loves me. I cry out, oh, God, I cry out. You are my refuge, my safe house, my portion. My lighthouse that leads me home. Attend to me, deliver me; crushed in prison… oh Lord, come set me free.
Oooooo ummmmmmmm oooooo uuuuuaaaaaahhh

I said to Yip, “Why? Why are we here when no one wants us here? Why are we here?” Yip looked at me sternly and said; “We’re here because God wants us here. We go when God wants us to go.”

I think I had that sort of dumbfounded look on my face —the look that says why didn’t I know that? It was all that needed to be said. I got it. I understood. And being satisfied, I left my pity-party behind, as well as the anger of betrayal. Lucky had traded all my care for personal gain. But I knew it would do her no good. She was the one to be pitied. The court case died. Lucky lost out. She taught all her life, and she was a good teacher. Her husband became a paraplegic early in their marriage. They had two sons and three daughters, and she was a wonderful mother. Lucky died of cancer. I look back at Lucky with much love and respect, for all that she faced in life, for all she overcame.

Some people complain because
God put thorns on roses,
While others praise Him
For putting roses among thorns.

(—Unknown)

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

Dad’s Love Song of Life

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

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

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

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

… powerful source.

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

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

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

For Knight Terry…

Is the water deep?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leviticus 26:13

Ps. 3:3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the words of C.S. Lewis:

(*above pencil sketch by Paul Crouse)

Life is like an Onion

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

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

That’s life. The plot is always thickening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Prayer Dear Lord