Category Archives: Prayer

That Stairway inside you

 

Joepa prayed like he and God were thick as thieves, you didn’t argue if he said it was going to rain that day, or that you best stay away from the river a particular afternoon. He was an old school warrior kind of Prayer-er, he’d kneel and kneel straight. Not sitting sideways slumped in the floor, nor cross-legged, like a lotus. Then he’d go softer soft, till you had to lean in to hear the words that would arrive between pauses, as if he were listening.

 

brown and black wooden staircase

Joepa would listen when he prayed, That was new for me. I had heard other kinds – where you instructed God about the rains, exam results, menus, visits; requests for shoes, the right shade of lipstick, cricket matches; pleas for grand-aunt Mei to stop snoring, a certain relative to not visit that frequently, that kind of thing. When Joepa prayed he stood at a stairway, his eyes shut wide, sometimes he would tremble as if the replies that came down were too much for him, or even the Silences. As if his head or skin were too fragile for the intensity of those conversations that went on in the little room above JoseVilla where he had lived all his life, with his canes and hats, his books and shoes, his lovely wife and children.

 

On our many visits, Joepa would tell me little details about his life, about love and faith and trust. He hadn’t accumulated wealth or houses, because he gave them away. If someone wanted something he gave it to them – his radio, a piece of land.  “Some ask me don’t I have my own family. I tell them its what I had to do.”

So, it made sense to me – the way he prayed. He lived like he prayed. His words were lived at an altar, a glass altar here heaven and hell and everyone of us saw his reality.  He lived like he feared to ever hurt anyone. He saw others as if they were God’s own too. That’s what got to me. That’s why I believed that when he prayed he really was at a Stairway and it took him beyond the little room, beyond the nitty-gritty of asking, talking and not listening. Listening deep.

Today I sat with our youngest at home – he prays a few sentences or long ones, depending on the need. His needs aren’t exactly like yours or mine, unless you are visually challenged like him. He is intense, expectant. A few weeks ago he developed these motor/vocal tics twice, thrice a day, or more. All our check ups weren’t revealing much. Wait, Doc says. Go home. Relax. Let me know if there are changes, but right now, there are no signs to alarm us; 

back against the wall, we, I started praying, telling God what He had to do here. Three days ago, out of sheer fatigue I leaned back and refused to say another word, not at the powers that be, at medicines, at Docs, and flustered feelings;

leaned back and took a good look at Joh, our son. He’d changed. Changed from a restless young one, into a quiet careful human, watching the hours of the day – for “Tizzy”. We call his Tics “Tizzy”,

…we let go. Yesterday Joh woke up early (as he always does), ran to us with, “No more asking for healing. I’m thanking God….”

We did a happy dance small celebration, but here’s the news, Tizzy showed up just once so far. I don’t know how to say this without sounding over optimistic. For some reason the pressure is off. Tizzy or no, its like the floor’s changed.

If Joepa were here, he’d have understood better than us, what makes Joh pray the way he does, fearless, focused, as if there’s no veil between the spheres, as if we are a bunch of scaredy- rabbits for nothing. Papa Joe was my father- in- law, I miss him sore today. I miss how his hands trembled when he talked with his heavenly dad , there were no doubts at all between them. If there was a conversation it was about trust, about meeting each other, unconditional togetherness that placed no blame or need between that relationship to sour it,

thank you Pa.

….

 

 

 

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The Age of Rude ?

She stared through my face as if she never saw me –  stunned, I waited. Maybe there was a mistake. Maybe I was expecting too much, but the woman wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t acknowledge my presence. It was as if I did not exist.

The next day we met again, this time in an auditorium. She talked to everyone else, but not even a nodding good-morning hint at me, as if I weren’t there.  These were new family friends, not even distant relatives, no histories exchanged. No I hadn’t stolen her best dress at school, no I wasn’t an artist rival, nothing. She was a mom like me, a citizen of this same earth, but she wouldn’t look at me.

Its possible she was just tired, or thought I had nothing of use to say to her, or be. Is possible she was having a bad day, is possible she was ill, is possible she didn’t like my face, or hairstyle, or work.

But the question followed me all day and night, it stood there between my mirror and me the next morning, it sat in my toothpaste and hair brush, my shoes and sandwich.

 

This morning, I looked at images from around the world images of waiting….
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What made something as beautiful as a human heart, such a refugee

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Image of You

I am a portrait 

in Your image,

a photograph,

growing, edge-less,

how could I be a picture of  You ?

 

Deep within, its true, I know

I am a breathing testament

of You..

dear God,

what a reminder …

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Dear God, when You said nothing…

( Inspired by Moments at prayer)  

 

 

 

I sat in the benches yesterday

they were praying,

You said nothing,

neither did I,

till all went quiet, no one spoke, nor uttered a

word;

in the silence of that, Something stirred,

walked,

then sat beside me,

dear God,

what was It ?

Like sunshine spilling deep within and

out my ears ; like a healing cleansing revealing

redeeming fire, a strength in my weakness

a stream in my desert, a Light in the dark.

I did not open my eyes, shut them tight : what if I

saw You sitting there beside me… why didn’t I ?

As I write this, everything stirs,

dearest God, like leaves of trees planted by streams

of Living Water, like plants standing tall in earth’s Deserts ,

like a harvest of unspoken words, in all our disbelief…

When You say nothing at all, You are near,

so very near,

I open my eyes and see You

open my Blinds,

touching my fears.

When You say nothing at all,

You are near,

so near..

….

 

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Filed under Bengaluru, Faith, Forgive, Friends, Humanities, India, Inspirational, Literature, Personal, Photographs, Poetry, Prayer, Real life, Reflections

‘Open the Eyes of my Heart’

Uploaded on Oct 20, 2011 

MUSIC STARTS AT 3’00..

10 YEAR OLD Christopher Duffley is an amazing kid with an AMAZING God! Born premature, blind, and autistic, Christopher was adopted by his parents before they realized God has gifted this young fellow with the gift of music!

This recording is from the 2011 “New Hampshire Night of Worship” celebration
Christopher’s website at:http://duffley.com/christopherduffley…

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Filed under Adoption, Artists, Blindness, Childhood, Disability, Dreams, Faith, Friends, Hope, Humanities, Inspirational, Joy, Love, music, People, Personal, Prayer, Real life

This One Thing

This one thing, I seek,

dear God, stretch me,

reach me, over bars, bend

my mind, my body and soul

beyond our limits,

our paradoxes and little rods,

fall me into your sky,

hold me above indifference,

dearest dearest, esp. that villian unbendable-

Indifference.

Indifference.

courtesyArtPics – Photography

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Kingdom of the Child

Go on, get out, play,

get the feet off ground, hold tight

let go, kiss the sky, feel the wind rise

play like a child, then start your day.

Some call it Prayers, He said

with such a twinkle in His eye. And I may have thought God

did not know me anymore,

but I don’t think so

not any more.

He knows I need to

pray like a child

( our little girl who teaches us to ride against odds)

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NOTHING is a miracle ?

 

http://studio 304. H O P E 

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That moment when you saw your first memorable dawn, or the twilight was unforgettable –

when you saw admiration in a child’s eyes. and they understood what was difficult,

when you touched loved, and felt forgiveness ; when relief came, even when there was no

evidence of healing;

when hunger was replaced by fulfillment and you were grateful for that plate of warm rice

and cool water, offered with respect..

if you have again, felt the wonder of a child and loved the look in your own eyes, after all

this time after all this time, then you have lived and loved and will love and live again,

and that is a Miracle.

http://youtu.be/Y2HwtWLokSc

innwedialects

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Letter to my daughter

Girl
what do you see in a land of a billion and
more,
we are not alone, and yet, as I write this
child,
am asking you will be more
than a Conqueror.
In this conflict ‘tween Love and Fear,
you will also know to never
be indifferent
you will (Oh God please hear),
you will, in all these things, recognise
Beauty in Ashes, and never be afraid
of Love
in your land of a billion
and more, my
daughter, and
yours…
…..

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I’ve loved You, India…

Ganga

(Photo credit: Pushkar V)

I’ve breathed You

everyday; years!

‘I Loved you..’

your startled Sky, blushed Suns

Fields of rye and scorn,

ganga arathi..

ganga arathi.. (Photo credit: arjunv)

or

Homes like mine:

mystery and magic, chaos and peace

marching thru’ my streets;

I’ve stared, leaned on your Sill

touched a Universe here,

one in a billion, I am among your

eons of Song, of Ganga stream and temples of

stone. History. Bells. Feet. Steps. Sands.Sacrifice

and wrong. I have loved You before, as a child that wore Your Skin

Your eyes, kohl and grace, a Race we both and all

Taj Mahal, Agra, India. Deutsch: Taj Mahal im ...

Taj Mahal, Agra, India. Deutsch: Taj Mahal im indischen Agra. Español: Vista del Taj Mahal, Agra, India. Français : Le Taj Mahal, à Âgrâ, en Inde. Русский: Мавзолей Тадж-Махал, Агра, Индия. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

must run –

thru’ Acres of Indian creed

Need. Our Pulse is myriad, but

One. I have loved You before; back then, when I spoke as a child

loved too, like one.

Now am grown, my eyes see differently. I must lean close, hold

closer – I weep easy, break, die, heal easier  ? I want to. Need to.

I’ve loved You before, but nothing like how I love You

now.

Bell

Bell (Photo credit: lokesh molakalmuru)

Am inspired by 1.20 billion unsung stories.‘I Loved you thru’ the terror but / my entry for  Publishd @ HarperCollins- Indiblogger. If U ‘LIKE’  my Story Idea please vote  AT THIS LINK :  !http://www.indiblogger.in/getpublished/idea/490/  

Valley of Songs RN Oil

Valley of Songs RN Oil

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