At the last curtain call, long applause resounded and the annual school program came to an end. Former students faithfully came to catch a glimpse of the old days, appreciating the feeling of welcome to the school where they grew up and learned life. A young man suddenly charged towards me but stopped abruptly in front of me. He pounded his clenched fist to his heart, bowed before me and touched my feet with his fingers; a greeting bursting with love, respect and honor. Of course, it’s Indian tradition, and doesn’t always carry those wonderful tones, but when it comes from the heart it’s as good as the best hug ever. Touching feet is significant. The one who first taught touching feet did so as a lesson to his disciples. He took off his cumbersome garments as a servant would, kneeled down in front of each of them and washed their feet. In the previous story I mentioned the little girls who touched my feet; they scoured my feet like pots and pans. My little friend, Budwara, “touched my feet” whenever she looked at me; it wasn’t just physical touch; the love and respect shining from her eyes was as[…]

I was eleven and told everyone I’d be starting an orphanage in India. Who’d believe an eleven-year-old? Skeptics added coals to my fire.

Excuse me, did you have a question for this answer?

Grandma is as sweet as pie; as calm as a lalabai…

He’s the crying Lord and with painful compassion, keeps tears in His wineskin for healing the nations…

Our land is crying, smothered with heavy darkness; how long do we live in fear?

My little boat was far from home across a vast ocean. Helpless? Yes! Unhappy? Not at all! Life hung in limbo, perched precariously somewhere between dreams and truth. Life was picking up speed and taking me with it.

I sent the story draft again and again to Anna’s sisters who were top-notch school teachers. Her sisters meticulously read my story and edited it methodically —like proper teachers grading an exam. They admitted reading it was not easy; tapping into buried feelings took them to an emotional place that was difficult to visit too often or stay in too long. Buried heartache emerged after years. I understood. Reading about one you loved so deeply, but lost… hurts.

And so, after all the wonderful sacrificial love, and the tenderness and brokenness which I’ve described exhibited in my dad, this live gig recording reveals the truth; he was also, undoubtedly human.

Parents are always on stage; they are the star in their children’s lives. They are the heroes.