GARDENING FOR LENT

First plant five rows of peas:

Preparedness
Promptness
Perseverance
Politeness
Prayer

Next to them plant three rows of squash:

Squash gossip
Squash criticism
Squash indifference

Then plant five rows of lettuce:

Let us be faithful
Let us be loyal
Let us be unselfish
Let us love one another
Let us be truthful

No garden is complete without turnips:

Turn up for Worships
Turn up with a smile
Turn up with a new idea
Turn up with real determination

Then see what a wonderful garden you can grow.

*Have a meaningful LENT*

I killed Jesus

"I killed Jesus by Christina Mead"
  
While I read the story of Christ’s passion and death in the gospel of Matthew, I was looking for myself in the story. Which character am I? What is God trying to teach me? Well….
I think that I am every character in the story of the passion and death of Christ. And I think that’s the whole point.

I am the apostle

I am an apostle, sleeping in the Garden of Gethsemane (Matthew 26:40). I’m prone and give in to laziness in the presence of holiness. I don’t put up a fight against the pull of distractions or sometimes even sleep.

I am Judas

I am Judas. Jesus has every right to call me both “friend” and “betrayer” barely 30 seconds apart (Matthew 26:46, 50). My heart is fickle and weak and sometimes my commitment to being Jesus’ friend is blown off on the whim of an emotion.

I am Caiaphas

I am Caiaphas, the high priest. I want Jesus to prove Himself to me (Matthew 26:63). I want signs and wonders to know that I really can trust Him. I want my prayers answered in my way. I want concrete proof over humble faith.

I am Peter

I am Peter. Sometimes I deny Jesus (Matthew 26:72). I deny Him in the face of the homeless when I chose to look away. I deny Him when I am afraid of being judged and condemned by those around me.

I am the Crowd

I am in the crowd yelling, “crucify Him” (Matthew 27:21-23). And I say it again and again every time I knowingly choose to sin.

I am Barabbas

I am Barabbas. I am chained in sin and holed up in the prison of my own pride. And instead of suffering the full punishment for my sins for which I am guilty… Christ takes my place (Matthew 27:26). And I often forget to thank Him.

I am Pilate

I am Pilate. I want to give up when life is too challenging (Matthew 27:24). I’m ready to wash my hands of Christianity when being a follower of Jesus means pursuing virtue over mediocrity, a life of prayer over a life of pleasure.

I am Simon of Cyrene

I am Simon of Cyrene (Matthew 27:32). I suffer reluctantly. I will take the cross but I won’t seek it. I’ll only take it if it’s been placed on my shoulders… and I don’t love it.

I am passer-by

I am a passer-by. These passers-by mocked Jesus while He was hanging on the cross (Matthew 27:30). How quickly they had forgotten all the good works He had done among their cities and towns. When popular opinion about Jesus changed, they followed suite. How quickly I  forget the good He’s done for me. In a brief moment of pain all my gratitude is forgotten and replaced by resentment.

I am one of the Roman soldiers

I am one of the Roman soldiers (Matthew 27:35). I killed Jesus. My sins were the reason He was nailed to that cross. It was my fault and I know it.

But sometimes…

I am the centurion. My eyes are opened to who Jesus is in my life (Matthew 27:54). My heart swells with the truth that God became man and died for me. And this knowledge brings me peace and a resignation to amend my life.

I am one of the women standing by the cross (Matthew 27:55-56). When I’m open to God’s grace, I can be a faithful and constant Christian. In the midst of pain and suffering, I can stay close to the cross. Jesus, my beloved, is my strength and He’s all I need.

I am Joseph of Arimathea (Matthew 27:59). Again, only by God’s grace, I can be selflessly compassionate, putting others’ needs before my own. Moved by God, I will use what He has given me in the service of others. My time, talent, and treasure are all for Him.

Sometimes I am every character in the story of the passion and death of Christ.We have to apply it to our lives today because the reality of it’s events matter today.

I killed Jesus. But I am also the reason He rose from the dead.

IT WAS THE GRACE, FAVOUR AND MERCY OF GOD - Amazing story

A lady who was a
deadly professional prostitute,
she did prostitution for a living
and had a lot of customers around.
She knew that no man
will never accept her as a wife,
so she went to a hospital and
told the doctor to remove her
womb so that she will no longer
be coming for abortions.
After some years, someone
introduced the word of God to her
and immediately, she gave her life
to Christ and started working in
the church and became
dedicated to God.
As time went by, one of the Pastors called
her
and said 'my sister, 'the Lord
spoke to me that you are my
wife, i want to marry you.' The
lady smiled and said 'Brother, the
Lord didn't tell u anything or maybe u
didn't hear him clearly, go back
cause am not even planning to
marry any man. The man came
back and said to her again 'the
Lord said that u are my wife'. The
lady smiled and narrated her story to him.
The man still insisted
to marry her and she told the Pastor,
'I don't have a womb, I removed it after
several abortions', but the pastor still
insisted, 'The Lord said u are my wife',
so they got married.
Not too long after some months
she became pregnant. The lady
and the man went to the hospital
were her womb was removed,
the doctor thought she was coming
for another business...but
the lady told the doctor that 'i am
pregnant and i have come to
your hospital to register'.
The doctor was shocked, with laughter he
said,
'u told me to remove your womb,
u can no longer have children'.
but the lady told him it is the GRACE,
FAVOUR and
MERCY of GOD that she's
pregnant. The doctor conducted a
pregnancy
test which showed that she was one month
pregnant. Out of disbelief and tears, the
doctor said, 'please, show me ur God,
I want to worship Him'.
Not too long the lady gave birth to a baby
boy..
IT WAS THE GRACE, FAVOUR AND MERCY OF
GOD
that the prostitute could have a child.
Therefore, I decree upon ur life that
whatsoever that has or might
have damaged in your life, in your body,
in your skills, your career, your academics,
your
business, MAY THE FAVOUR, MERCY,
GRACE AND MIRACLE OF GOD LOCATE YOU
AS YOU TYPE AMEN TO THIS PRAYER,
IN JESUS MIGHTY NAME, AMEN.
My brothers & sisters, God still does this
kind
of miracles. 

SALUTE..👮‍♂️👮‍♂️

My Brother With a Bloodied Nose

My brother with a bloodied nose,
And officer and gentleman.
Landed across the Line of Control today.
Ejecting after doing the best he can.

They caught him on their land and then,
Thrashed him like perhaps any of us would.
Till the army stepped in and dispersed them.
And rescued him while they could.

They asked him who he was and he said,
With poise and utmost grace.
A flying pilot of the Indian Air Force.
Battered, bruised, but with a proud face.

If only the general public could,
Muster a milligram of the same poise.
And realize that their war drum beating.
Is a ridiculous dangerous noise.

My brother with a bloodied nose,
He stood there firm and tall.
And smiled in the face of his captors.
And taught us the biggest lesson of them all.

That bravery is not ordered online,
Does not ship overnight on Amazon Prime.
Tis not the moment of jingoism and memes.
For armchair aggro tis not the time.

My brother with a bloodied nose,
Thank you for your dedication and verve.
Your class and bravery I fear though,
Is a little more than some of us deserve.

For those whose fury takes wing today,
Who have no idea what it's like.
To parachute into enemy territory,
Taking a hit in a combat strike.

My brother with a bloodied nose,
You've taught a lesson to us all.
You can bail out of an aircraft at high speed,
And yet to lows never fall.

And keep your cheer and character in times,
Of uncertainty in the face of death.
And learn again to behave as human beings,
If we only would our conscience let.

My brother with a bloodied nose. 
Keep you chin up, enjoy the brew.
A salute to your sacrifice today and forever.
Hold on a while, we're coming to get you.

My brother With a bloodied nose.
The bison who took on the sun.
Here's to you and all those that stand guard for us.
Nabah Sparsam Diptam.

Salute !

*What is Maturity of Mind ? *

1. Correcting ourselves without trying to correct others.

.

2. Accepting others with their short comings.



3. Understanding the opinions of others from their perspectives.



4. Learning to leave what are to be avoided.



5. Leaving the expectations from others.



6. Doing whatever we do with peace of mind.



7. Avoiding to prove our intelligence on others.



8. Avoiding the status that others should accept our actions.


9. Avoiding the comparisons of ourselves with others.


10. Trying to keep our peace in our mind
      without worrying for anything.


11. Understanding the difference between the basic needs
      and what we want.


12. Reaching the status that happiness is not connected
      with material things.


*Our life will be simple if only we practice.

Answered prayer - Heart touching story 💙💚💛💜💗

I wept when I read this. God is great!
I found it so touching 
Isaiah 65:24 :- “Before they call, I will answer.” 

This is a testimony written  by a doctor who worked in Africa. 

One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all we could do, she died, leaving us with a tiny, premature baby and a crying two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive; as we had no incubator (we had no electricity to run an incubator). We also had no special feeding facilities. 

Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton wool that the baby would be wrapped in.   
    
Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst (rubber perishes easily in tropical climates).  “And it is our last hot water  bottle!” she exclaimed. As in the West, it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst water bottles.  They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways. 

“All right,”  I said,  “put the baby as near the fire as you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. Your job is to keep the baby warm.” 

The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle, and that the baby could so easily die if it got chills. I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died. 

During prayer time, one ten -year-old  girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African children.  “Please, God” she prayed, “Send us a hot water bottle today.  It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon.” 

While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added, “And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?” 

As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say “Amen?” I just did not believe that God could do this. 

Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything; the Bible says so. But there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever, received a parcel from home.  Anyway, if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put  in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator! 

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time I reached home, the car had gone, but there on the verandah was a large 22-pound parcel. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly.  Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly-colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas - that would make a batch of buns for the weekend. 

Then, as I put my hand in again, I  felt the.....could it really be? 

I grasped it and pulled it out. Yes, a brand new, rubber hot water bottle. I cried.  I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could. 

Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, “If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!” 

Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully-dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted!  Looking up at me, she asked, “Can I go over with you and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?” 

“Of course,” I replied! 

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months, packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. 

And one of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child - five months before, in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it “that afternoon.” 

“Before they call, I will answer.” (Isaiah 65:24) 

When you receive this, say a prayer. That's all I ask. No strings attached. Then just send it on to whomever you want to – but do send it on.
  Prayer is one of the best free gifts we receive. There is no cost, but a lot of rewards. Let's continue praying for one another

The Indian Army...!!

MUST READ - THE INDIAN ARMY FAMILY

When I met her, I was curious to know the story behind the uniform and that day she told - 
I was 19 when I got married to Captain Shafeeq Ghori in 1991. It was difficult in the beginning to accept the fact that he was constantly on the move and had to leave me alone for long periods, but he sat me down and explained what it was like to be an army wife. There were no mobile phones back then. I used to spend hours by the phone unsure when he would call. We used to write letters, and my husband made sure I received one letter every day for the days he was away from me. I used to write small notes and hide small surprises in his luggage.
In the years that followed, he had many high-risk postings. Back then, Punjab and the East were all dangerous places to be. He has been to Tripura, Punjab, and Srinagar. He used to be gone for days, but by then I had become strong and learnt to fend for myself and our children. I knew he loved the country the most and his kids and wife came a close second.

In 1999, he had a field posting in Srinagar, since it was a high-risk area family weren't allowed, I moved to Bangalore. June 28th, 2001, we spoke for the last time. He asked about our wellbeing, told that he was in the jungles for a military operation. He wanted to speak to the kids, but they were running around with their cousins, and there was a lot of chaos and noise. I told him to come back to his base and speak to them. I still regret that decision.

On July 1st, 2001. Around 6.30 pm, a group of army officers along with their wives came home. Suddenly, a lady made me sit down and told me. “Major Ghori is no more,” she said. I thought I heard it wrong. It had to be a mistake. She said they had been trying to reach me since morning but couldn’t as I was at my mother’s house and the phone lines were disconnected. Major Shafeeq Ghori was martyred in a heroic gun battle with militants during Operation Rakshak. Everything around me fell, crumbled. That day was the day I received my final letter from him.

The next day, I went to the airport to receive him for the last time.This time in a box clad in Indian Flag. I broke down. He would always ask me to be strong. He reminded me even on that last day we spoke, but I never imagined a day when he wouldn’t be around.

I got his uniform and civil clothes in a box. I did not wash them for eight years because I did not want to let that feeling go. His money is still in his wallet. The letters are still a part of my reading. I have played the role of a father and mother, but there were times when I used to fight back a tear seeing other kids play with their parents. Today, I work for the welfare of the army martyr families and women empowerment of the martyr widows in Karnataka.

I was 29 when Major Shafeeq Ghori was martyred. People told me to move on.. but He was, is, and will always be my Forever.

Salma Shafeeq Ghori. 
A wife.

--Article from newspaper--

Encouraging soldier's story

I NEVER GET TIRED OF READING THIS STORY...

During World War 2, a soldier was separated from his unit on an island.

The fighting had been intense, and in the smoke and the crossfire he had lost touch with his comrades.

Alone in the jungle, he could hear enemy soldiers coming in his direction.
Scrambling for cover, he found his way up a high ridge to several small caves in the rock. Quickly he crawled inside one of the caves.
Although safe for the moment, he realised that once the enemy soldiers looking for him swept up the ridge, they would quickly search all the caves and he would be killed.

As he waited, he prayed, "Lord, please spare my life. Whatever will happen, I love you and trust you. Amen."
After praying, he lay quietly listening to the enemy begin to draw close.
He thought, "Well, I guess the Lord isn't going to help me out of this one."
Then he saw a spider begin to build a web over the front of his cave.

"Hah" he thought, "What I need is a brick wall and what the Lord has sent me is a spider web. God does have a sense of humour."
As the enemy drew closer he watched from the darkness of his hide out and could see them searching one cave after another.
As they came to his, he got ready to make his last stand, but then he heard the leader of the soldiers say:
"you may as well ignore looking in this cave ...if he had entered here this web would be broken!" So they left and he was delivered!
To his amazement, however, after glancing in the direction of his cave, they moved on.
Suddenly he realised that with the spider web over the entrance, his cave looked as if no one had entered for quite a while.

"Lord, forgive me," he prayed. "I had forgotten that in you a spider's web is stronger than a brick wall. He will use the most foolish things in this world to confound the wise!
God is your protector, if you believe in him. Bless someone with this story.

The Christian drummer boy - Amazing story

*#voice_of_revival_broadcast*

#tribute_to_Charlie
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🥁 THE CHRISTIAN DRUMMER BOY❣

The following story is a true acount, taking from an old, out-of-Print book called "Touching incidents and Remarkable Answers to Prayer". It was compiled by S. B. Shaw and published in 1894.

I was a surgeon in the United States Army during the Civil War. After the battle of Gethysburg, there were hundreds of wounded soldiers in my hospital. Many were wounded so severely that a leg or an arm, or sometimes both, needed to be amputated.

One of these was a boy who had only been in the service for 3 months. Since he was too young to be soldier, he had enlisted as a drummer. When my assistant came to give him chloroform before the amputation he turned his head and refused it. When they told him that it was the doctor's orders, he said, 'send the doctor to me'. I came to his bedside and said 'young man, why do you refuse chloroform? When I found you on the battle field, you were so far gone that I almost didn't border to pick you up. But when you opened those large blue eyes, it occurred to me that you had a mother somewhere who might be thinking of you at that very moment. I didn't want you to die on the field so I had you brought here. But you've lost so much blood that you're just too weak to live through an operation without chloroform. You'd better let me give you some.'

He laid his hand on mine, looked me in the face and said, 'Doctor, one Sunday afternoon, when I was 9 and a half years old I gave my heart to Christ. I learned to trust him then, and I've been trusting him ever since. I know I can trust in Him now. He is my strength. He will support me while you amputate my arm and leg'. I asked him if he will at least let me give him a little brandy. Again he looked at me and said 'Doctor, When I was about 5 years old, my mother knelt by my side with her arms around me and said: "Charlie I am praying to Jesus that you will never take even one drink of alcohol. Your father died a drunkard, and I've asked God to use you to warn people against the dangers of drinking and to encourage them to love and serve the Lord". 
I am now  17 years old and I have never had anything stronger than tea or coffee. There is a very good chance that I am about to die and to go into the presence of my God. Would you send me there with brandy in my breath?' 

I will never forget the look that boy gave me. At that time I hated Jesus, but I respected that boy's loyalty to his Savior.  And when I saw how he loved and trusted him to the very end, something deeply touched my heart. I did for that boy what I have never done for any other soldier. I asked him if he wanted to see his chaplain.

Champlain R. knew the boy well from having seen him frequently at the tent of prayer meetings. Taking his hand, he said 'Charlie, I'm really sorry to see you like this'. 'Oh, I'm all right, Sir,' Charlie answered. The doctor offered me chloroform, but I told him I didn't want any. Then he wanted to give me brandy, which I didn't want either. So now, if my Savior calls me, I can go to him in my right mind.'

 'You might not die Charlie,' said the chaplain, but if the Lord does call you home, is there anything I can do for you after you're gone?' 'Chaplain please reach under my pillow and take my little Bible. My mother's address is inside. Please send it to her, and write a letter for me. Tell her that since I left home, I have never let a single day pass, no matter if we were on the March, or the battle-field, or in the hospital without reading a portion of God's word, and daily praying that He (God) would bless her."

'Is there anything else I can do for you, my lad?' asked the Chaplain. Yes please write a letter to the Sunday School teacher of the Sands Street Church in Brooklyn, New York. Tell him that I've never forgotten his encouragement, good advice, and many prayers for me. They have helped and comforted me through all the dangers of battle. And now, in my dying hour, I thank the Lord for my dear old teacher, and asked him to bless and strengthen him. That is all'.

Then turning to me, he said, 'I'm ready doctor. I promise I won't even groan while you take off my arm and leg, if you don't offer me chloroform'. I promised but didn't have the courage to take the knife in my hand without first going into the next room and taking a little brandy myself.

While cutting through the flesh, Charlie Coulson never groaned. But when I took the saw to separate the bone, the lad took the corner of his pillow in his mouth, and all I could hear him whisper was, 'O Jesus, blessed Jesus! Stand by me now.' He kept his promise. He never groaned.

I could not sleep that night.  Whichever way I tossed and turned 'Blessed Jesus stand by me now' kept ringing in my ears. a little after midnight, I finally left my bed and visited the hospital a thing I had never done before unless there was an emergency. I had such a strange and strong desire to see that boy. When I got there, an orderly told me that 16 of the badly wounded soldiers had died. Was Charlie Coulson one of them?' I asked. 'No Sir', he answered. 'He's sleeping as sweetly as a babe.'

When I came to his bed, one of the nurses said that about 9 o'clock two members of the Y.M.C.A came through the hospital to read and sing a hymn. Chaplain R. was with them, and he knelt by Charlie's bed and offered up a fervent and soul's stirring prayer. Then, while still on their knees, they sang one of the sweetest of all hymns, 'Jesus lover of my soul'. Charlie sang along with them too. I couldn't understand how that boy, who was in such horrible pain, could sing.

Five days after I performed the operation, Charlie sent for me, and it was from him that I heard my first gospel sermon. 'Doctor', he said, my time has come. I don't expect to see another sunrise. I want to thank you with all my heart for your kindness to me. I know you are Jewish and that you don't believe in Jesus, but I want you to stay with me and see me die trusting my Savior to the very last moment of my life.' I tried to stay, but I just couldn't. I didn't have the courage to stand and see a Christian boy die rejoicing in the love of that Jesus who I hated. So, I huridly left the room.

 About 20 minutes later an orderly came and found me sitting in my office with my hands covering my face. He told me that Charlie wanted to see me. 'I've just seen him', I answered 'and I can't see him again.' 'But doctor, he says he must see you once more before he dies.' so I made up my mind to go and see Charlie, say an endearing word, and let him die. However, I was determind that nothing he could say would influence me in the least bit, so far as his Jesus was concerned.

When I entered the hospital, I saw he was sinking fast so I sat down by his bed. Asking me to take his hand, he said, "Doctor, I love you because you are a Jew.' The best friend I have found in this world was a Jew.' I asked him who that was and he answered, 'Jesus Christ and I want to introduce you to him before I die. will you promise me? Doctor, What I'm about to say to you, you will never forget?' I promised, and he said 5 days ago while you amputated my arm and leg, I prayed  to the Lord Jesus Christ, and asked him to make His love known to you.'

Those words went deep into my heart. I couldn't understand how, when I was causing him the most intense pain, he could forget all about himself and think of nothing but his Savior and my unconverted soul. All I could say to him, was, 'Well, my dear boy you will soon be alright'. With these words I left him, and 12 minutes later he fell asleep, 'safe in the arms of Jesus'.

Hundreds of soldiers died in my hospital during the war, but I only followed one to the grave, and that was Charlie Coulson. I rode 3 miles to see him buried. I had him dressed in a new uniform and placed in an officer's coffin, with a United State's flag over it.

That boy's dying words made a deep impression upon me. I was rich at that time so far as money was concerned, but I would have given every penny I possess if I could have felt towards Christ as Charlie did. That feeling cannot be bought with money. Alas, I soon forgot all about my Christian soldier's little sermon, but i could not forget the boy himself. Looking back I now know that I was under deep conviction of sin at that time. But for nearly 10 years I fought against Christ with the hatred I had, until finally the boy's prayer was answered and I surrendered my life to the love of Jesus.

About a year and a half after my conversion, I went to a prayer meeting one evening in Brooklyn. It was one of those meetings where Christians testify about the loving kindness of God. After several had spoken, an elderly lady stood up and said, 'Dear friends, this may be the last time I have a chance to publicly share how good the Lord has been to me. My doctor told me yesterday my right lung is nearly gone, and my left lung is failing fast, so at the best I only have a short time to be with you. But what is left of me belongs to Jesus. It's a great joy to know that I shall soon meet my son with Jesus in heaven.

Charlie was not only a soldier for his country, but also a soldier for Christ. He was wounded at the battle of Gettysburg, and was cared for by a Jewish doctor, who amputated his arm and leg. He died 5 days after the operation. The chaplain of the regiment wrote me a lettter and sent me my boys Bible. I was told that in his dying hour, my Charlie sent for that Jewish doctor, and said to him 'doctor, before i die, i wish to tell you that five days ago, while you amputated my arm and leg, I prayed to the Lord Jesus Christ for you'.

As I heard this lady speak, I just couldn't sit still, I left my seat, ran accros the room, and taking her hand said, God bless you my dear sister. Your boy's prayer has been heard and answered! I am the jewish doctor that Charlie prayed for, and his Saviour is now my Saviour!
 *The love of Jesus has won my soul!'*
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A letter written by Glady Staines to his son on his 20th death anniversary:

Dear Philip                                                                           23rd January 2019

It is strange to think that 20 years has passed since that January night. Strange as well to think, that had it never happened, you would now be thirty and Timothy twenty-six years old.

We woke up the day after your death to another day at Kovalam Beach where we were on holiday. And there it was on the front page of The Hindu newspaper, a grainy photo of a burnt out vehicle and words that blurred on the page, disconnected and nonsensical.

You never saw 9/11. If you had, I guess, you would have been about twelve years old. Airplanes crashing into towers, dust, rubble, destruction and burning; the air heavy with ash and death.

Everyone who remembers the events of 9/11 can also remember what they were doing the moment they heard.

The morning after your death was like that; separate to normal reality, brazen, burnt into the memory and never forgotten. And unspoken on many lips was not the fact of your demise, but the manner of it.

And that morning, at Kovalam Beach; the waves still crashed on the beach, the Sunglass Man was still out, a lassi was still sweet, lime sodas were still for sale, the fishermen still dragged their boats up the beach, like any other day.

Back at school, a few weeks later, your memorial service was held outside on the basketball court. The sky was incongruously blue and the sun bright. The silvered eucalyptus leaves glittered overhead dancing in the breeze. In February (at the time your memorial took place), a few months before the monsoon’s arrival, the sun shone unrelentingly with no let up for a mourner who longed for a sullen sky and a cold wind.

We sang “It is well with my soul”, rather badly I thought, voices thin and insubstantial with no roof overhead to catch any sound. We remembered you writing with too much premonition for a 10 year old that you “wanted to live to give God glory” in your school handbook. We remembered your Dad standing at the back of the Assembly Hall bellowing out hymns so half the school turned around to see who was singing.

Two other Standard 13 students and I read an account of the life of Horatio Spafford, the writer of the hymn “It is well with my soul”. We had no microphones and so our voices it seemed, hung in the air around us as if we were only talking to ourselves. Horatio’s family was almost entirely swept away with only the exception of a baby daughter. My preoccupied mind did not really join the dots in what I was reading and how it related to recent events. Horatio’s overwhelming loss was (and is) the loss experienced by your Mum and your sister Esther. Your family’s loss was (and is) our loss to share. Horatio’s reaction was (and is) your Mum and Esther’s reaction and could be ours. But I confess, at the time, this significance was lost on me. All I felt was empty shock. But this sense of shock was shared, it seemed to me, as so few shed tears at that service. You had been taken with such force and violence; we were dry eyed and silent. Seated on the back row with the other girls in Standard 13, I listened to Mark Ronalds, your Standard 6 teacher deliver a moving tribute. His honest reflection and the holding back of his tears brought tears to my eyes.

And then I had an A level physics class and school ground back into motion like an old machine stiff with a nine week holiday behind it.

We had a Sports Day that year (not a swimming gala) and your sister Esther won javelin (I think) for her age division. At the point that her name was called to come and collect her tiny trophy cup and certificate, the cheers were deafening. She had won the Olympic Gold for us, an Olympic Gold in bearing up under suffering.

And so much has happened in 20 years. We are all grown up now. And you would be too, if none of it had happened. Esther and your Mum are back in Australia. Esther is married with four children, with a son – your nephew – who looks exactly as you did.

I visited Hebron in 2009, and found that the newly renovated Assembly Hall was named the “Staines Memorial Hall”. On the plaque outside reads this verse from John’s gospel. ”Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” (John 12:24, NIV)

Orissa is a place of a rapidly growing church. Those many seeds are green shoots. And Orissa is still a place of the intensely persecuted. The air still hangs heavy with suffering for Christians; where you lived and eventually died. Thousands are displaced, Christians killed, church buildings destroyed. The world is not worthy of them.

The world was not worthy of you or Timothy or your Dad either. And although the adult Philip and Timothy or the seventy-eight year missionary statesman Graham are not a real presence for us earth side; it is gloriously real heaven side.

It is well with our souls.

And it will be well with our souls.