Rains of January

She was walking through the fields when it was evening. The sun still lingered with its warm rays gliding the paddy fields that stretched wide before her. It was then that she noticed him to her right, standing in the marsh that interrupted the farmland like a mystery.

It was the Evangelist.

She recognized him instantly. He had known her since she was a young girl and used to occupy the place of a father. Years had passed since their paths crossed, yet there he stood unchanged in attitude as if they had met only yesterday. He stood ankle deep in the marsh. He was dressed in sky-blue shirt neatly tucked into his tailored navy trousers, impeccably groomed, carrying the authority and charisma of a seasoned and faithful evangelist that anyone would love.

He lifted his hand in greeting, and she returned it astonished, not at seeing him, but at where he stood. It was a square marshland submerged amid the cultivated field, but lo he stood firmly within it. She did not understand the significance right away, but she walked closer, equally happy to see him and careful not to step into the marsh herself. They exchanged warm greetings and a gentle side hug.

Her mind then was opened to understand how the former rain had softened the soil for sowing. It had fallen so heavily that the place where the Evangelist stood had become marshland, and as he sow his words brought souls into the Kingdom. 

The sower sows the word. 

Mark 4:14

She saw his face break into a broad smile showing his teeth and his prominent cheeks bearing the unmistakable roundness of genuine joy. There was no trace of distance, of time passed, no misunderstanding or pain as she had imagined. Only pure gladness and enforced love of two people reunited after long. 

As she bid goodbye to him she returned to the spot where her journey had begun and now turned to walk toward the left, away from the Evangelist toward another field. A narrow path ran through its center, bordered on both sides by crops so high, heavy, and ripe, ready for harvest. As she moved forward, she noticed a man approaching her along the path.

He wore dark trousers and a deep purple shirt, casually tucked in and she recognized him instantly.

It was the Prophet.

She wondered how he had come there at all. Was he not a man constantly in motion, traveling, ministering, carrying a demanding schedule across nations? How, then, did he time to be here? Someone beside her seemed to answer her unspoken question. He said, "The Prophet visits this place often."

The thought struck her. She lived so near, yet she seldom passes by the fields. And the Prophet, amid his global journeys frequented here?

The Prophet walked easily through the ripened field. The field of ripened grain had received the latter rain too, the rain that matures what was planted, preparing it for harvest. 

Lift up your eyes and look at the fields, for they are already white for harvest! 

John 4:35

And the Prophet—standing amid the harvest—had reaffirmed her place in that divine plan. Now beside him stood an Elder who encouraged her to receive prayer. She knelt, and the Prophet placed his hands upon her head and began to pray.

Her thoughts wandered and she failed to grasp his words. Suddenly, he paused.

“Did you hear what I prayed?” he asked.

Ashamed and a little scared she replied honestly, “I’m sorry. I’m struggling to focus.”

She braced herself for a rebuke. Instead, he continued repeating what she had missed, covering her again in prayer. She bowed in awe at the unexpected response. 

As she got up her memories surfaced to the words he had once spoken over her life, that she would be a voice in the end-time revival, and that from her family, revival would break forth, not through her alone, but through her household, as part of God’s greater plan.

As she returned once more to the place where she had first stood the words of Jesus resounded in her ears.

The harvest truly is plentiful, but the laborers are few.

Matthew 9:37

In these end times, God has allowed the former and the latter rain to fall together. And now I'm a part of it? I'm witnessing it? Good Lord! 

For He has given you the former rain faithfully,

And He will cause the rain to come down for you,

The former rain,

And the latter rain in the first month.”

Joel 2:23

It was no coincidence that this vision unfolded to her in January—the first month of the year. The pattern of heaven was happening on earth. What God had promised through the prophet Joel, He was now revealing through lived experience.

The fields were ready.

The rain had fallen.

And the call to labor remained.

And so she found herself once again standing at the place where she had begun.

She turned not toward the fields, nor toward the marsh, nor toward the path, but she is now looking at the Reader. Her posture is no longer merely reflective but resolute call to return, to respond, to arise.

And with that assurance, she spoke boldly not her own words, but the words of the Lord.

“So rend your heart, and not your garments;

Return to the LORD your God,

For He is gracious and merciful,

Slow to anger, and of great kindness;

And He relents from doing harm.

Who knows if He will turn and relent,

And leave a blessing behind Him—

A grain offering and a drink offering

For the LORD your God?”

Joel 2:13–14

The rain had fallen.

The fields stood ready.

And now, the call was clear.

To Mama, With Love

She lay in her bed, suspended between wakefulness and rest. A friend had once told her that everything we project through our senses while awake inspires what we project in our dreams or, more precisely, in the realm of the spirit. So this time, she spoke the words aloud and let herself drift.

I have fulfilled my divine purpose and calling.

I am known as the girl who loves Jesus.

She spoke them in the accomplished tense, as though they were already written into reality. There was confidence in her voice that it would be so one hundred percent. And then, in a fleeting moment, she was no longer here.

She saw herself moving through space. A vast greyish-black expanse stretched endlessly around her. Was there a sound? She could not recall. But that was not all. All around her were millions of stars, alive, shining with astonishing brilliance. Each star was surrounded by a glowing, hazy light. She thought it impossible to capture them on a painting canvas. The closest anyone could try would be to paint them like bokeh lights, soft and radiant, suspended in that stark and contrasting darkness.

As she gazed at them in awe she became aware of a voice, because "heard" would not be quite the right word to convey it. It was as though an unseen Interpreter made her understand that these were not stars at all, but these are hosts of angels of the Most High.

She wondered agape at the beauty of the spectacle before her. Shining brighter were a million stars and it felt unbelievable, and yet entirely believable at the same time. That was when she realized she was flying.

Yes, flying through that vast expanse. She leaned into the moment. It had been a while since she had flown. When was the last time? She could not remember, and she did not want to. In that instant, she only wanted to live in the present, to neither look back nor ahead, but to seize what was unfolding. To fly among angels aflame with glory, what more could she wish for? What words could she use from the shelves of learning acquired over the years to explain it?

So she opened her arms wide. Her thoughts guiding her every movement. She accelerated, and suddenly wooho, she was speeding through the hosts of glory all around her. Flying was the thing she loved most of all. There was no wind, or perhaps no such thing as wind in that never ending outer space, yet the speed itself was tangible making the experience utterly unforgettable.

The endless expanse of space slowly gave way to drifting daytime clouds, and then again to the deep darkness of night. She alighted on the roof of her home from among the radiant host of angels of the Most High still resounding their song of joy and peace that had heralded the Lord’s birth. To her surprise, on her roof lay the manger where the Lord had been born.

Mary was there, and the sweet baby Jesus rested in the open night, calm yet cold. She sensed the presence of others around them, but her memory couldn't recall any of them. They remained as hazy shapes, quiet presences, and in her heart the moment remained solely of a mother and her Son.

Her thoughts turned to her own baby, barely two months young, waiting back in her room just two storeys below. She thought of how carefully she tended him, how instinctively she protected him. And to see baby Jesus exposed to the chill of the night, no! It could not be. It should not be. So she stretched out her hands, and when Mary with her gentle gaze granting her permission of her Baby, she took Him from the manger and held him close to the warmth of her bosom. As she held Him tightly, her conscience opened to the voice of the Great Interpreter. 

She had often felt as if she were missing out on God’s purpose and calling for her. God had entrusted her with the sacred role of a mother, a role she often feared she might fail to fulfill perfectly. She thanked the Interpreter, finding deep solace in knowing that her restless search for purpose elsewhere had only drained her strength, when all along her calling for a time as this was already in her arms. To tend to her own "baby Jesus" at home, her suckling babe, entrusted to her care. The knowledge that God had faith in her, and the reminder that her love for her child mirrors the love she held for her Savior, filled her with strength, steadying both her heart and her mind.

A Dream of Intercession

Written verbatim, as narrated by the dreamer.

Dated 30 August 2025

I was in a classroom, a student among white students. When new students entered the classroom, the boys seated to my right bullied them. Watching this made me feel sad. If the new students didnt fit in, these boys chanted, “evil day, evil day.” They folded papers into horseshoe-like shapes, like pointed objects meant to harm people, and threw them at the newcomers.

As I watched this, I thought to myself that these people don’t truly know what they are doing or how harmful the chant “evil day” really is. So I sat there and decided, God, I will pray. While they continued, I choose to sit quietly and pray for them.

In front of me, I could see papers and boards stuck on the walls and as I sat there, I began to pray:

“Lord, please open their spiritual eyes. When their spiritual eyes are opened, they will know the difference between good and evil. Once they understand that difference, they will become good. They will know You, Lord. They will know the goodness of the Lord.”

At the same time, I think that if I keep praying like this, I might get bored after a few days because I won’t see any immediate change. If there are no visible results, it would be boring, and I know I would feel sad as well. Still, I told myself that I have confident faith—that God will do it one day.

So while those boys continued their behavior, I remain seated and prayed.

As I prayed, I prophetically came to know what was about to happen. I suddenly knew that lightning was going to strike inside the classroom. Then I heard myself speaking a testimony that I would give in the future: “I saw the lightning strike inside the classroom.”

While I heard this and was praying, it actually happened. On the front side of the classroom I saw it strike at the right end. The sound was incredibly loud—so loud that my ears rang for a considerable amount of time from the thunderous noise. The lightning was white in color. Even after I woke up, the sound lingered; my ears rang and ached from the thunder I heard in the dream.

My prayer was not long; it didn't take much time at all. It wasn't boring in any way. Instead, I cried out loud at the goodness of God. I even thought to myself, Won’t my mom come out of her room if she hears me crying this loud?

Then I heard the sound of a TV news telecast in my ear saying, “In 0.35 seconds, this lightning went to Netherland.” At first, I thought, it should have destroyed the entire classroom and these boys. But instead, it went to the nether “world,” as interpreted by me, the dreamer.

Then I said, God is so good.

Am I Everything You Think I Am?

 A good friend of mine from school and I still keep in contact, although we’re busy with our lives and are at opposite corners of the earth. As time permits, we do what most friends do: send long audio notes and wait for replies as and when time allows. Recently, after a long time, we caught up with a series of these long audio notes, discussing traumas from the past and the process of healing—whether self-healing or spiritual. My friend is not a Christian, but she understands when I talk about healing from Jesus and the healing that can come only through Him. Anyway, today the discussion led me to a surprising revelation, which I thought I should write about.

When we were 7 years young, we had an unforgettable English teacher at school. She was stylish, always wore a saree, as teachers were required to, and was good-looking. But that was the only good thing we could tell about as kids.  She inflicted trauma on us that we carried for years. Since I did not have a pleasant childhood overall, when I get flashbacks, I think of the children I know who’d be around the age I was then. I can't imagine hurting an angelic child as I was hurt. And because of my great memory, I remember most things vividly, like a video recording.

This teacher, when she got angry, would do something so bad that we could never forget her. She’d smack our heads with a pencil box. And if you brought a pouch instead of a pencil box, she'd get the plastic pencil box from the person next to you and smack your head. Yes, I’ve seen that happen and still have the image in my photographic memory. The sin was never pardoned, and the punishment was never forgotten. One time a pencil box was broken, but we were too scared to voice it to anyone. We were expected to suffer in silence. The pain and public humiliation were supposed to teach us a lesson: if you had brought the crayons, this wouldn’t have happened to you. If you had brought your textbook, this wouldn’t have happened to you. Let it be a reminder to never do anything amiss that might infuriate your teacher.

I would come home and tell my mom about it. During those days, it was just my mom and me at home. Since there was a lot going on in her life, and consequently in our little home, there was no time for emotional support for anyone. She’d say, "You could have taken your textbook as per the timetable. Yes, good, this is what you get for being naughty, rightly punished." My friend, who did not bring the crayons, had a similar situation at home, living only with her mom. Times were hard at both our places, but we never shared it with the outside world. My friend’s mom was even stopped by the teacher on her scooter and given an earful about her child not bringing the crayons.

Thankfully, that was the only year she taught at our school. Years passed, but I remembered her face and name so clearly. After school, I somehow reconnected with her over my old Facebook account. I told her what she had done to me. She was friendly and accepting but never apologized. She showed a side of her that was friendly, but I wasn’t in a place to start a lasting friendship with her. After I married, I once shared this with my husband, Danny. He couldn't understand how someone could be so unfair to little kids. He had a happy childhood and his memory is not photographic like mine.

He’d tell me about his friends from school. Most of his friends had happy homes. Maybe. Or they just never shared anything, like me and my friend for example. However, he had one friend from school whose parents were separated and later divorced. It was her mom and grandparents who raised her. I thought, maybe she had a childhood like mine. This friend got married and is living her life “following her dreams.” Her mom allowed her the freedom to choose her husband and live the way she wanted. This lady was also friendly with Danny and their circle of friends. She was a daring single mom, friends with her daughter’s friends, in short, a very cool mom.

As my friend and I talked about our teacher yesterday, she searched for her and found that the teacher is now working as a leadership coach in an MNC. Leadership coach—this slightly irritated my friend, but I laughed it off, realizing that I am healed from that childhood memory of her. Curiously, I searched for her on Google, thanks to my friend who remembers her last name. Yes, the results showed her name and “leadership coach” on her LinkedIn page. I opened it. She had bobbed her hair and had some grays; earlier, she had hair up to her shoulder and always kept it in a ponytail with a clip. I zoomed in on her profile picture and looked at her face which showed the test of time and hardships, although she was smiling. My husband walked in on me, and before I could introduce my scary teacher from school, he asked, "Hey, do you know her?" as if he knew her well. 

I said, "This is the trauma teacher I told you about. The pencil box smacker." 

I had mentioned her old tale as hot news even that morning after listening to the audio from my friend. Danny still looked at her pic like he knew her. I realized he was serious and knew her. So, I returned the question back to him, 

"Do you know her?" 

"Of course," he laughed a little, as he couldn't believe it. 

It was his friend's mom I had just told you about.

My friend couldn’t control her laughter either as she heard my voice note. As the incident ended, I realized how I was viewing the same person in two different ways. Many might think good of me, and many might not. But I know it is not the full picture they have of me. It’s only a speck in the vast universe of my life. As in this case, I viewed her as a heartless teacher who who smacked and humiliated me and my friends in front of the whole class, and as per Danny’s account, she was a friendly, cool, and a daring single mom. While both my friend’s mom and my mom were going through issues at home, she was also going through similar turmoil and her outlet for frustration was us, her poor 7-year-old students. It’s true that trauma begets trauma. As years passed and things got better, she evolved and became kind, friendly, and approachable to everyone around her. But I never knew it, and neither did my friend. We carried the baggage and hurt from her for years.

This led me to think of a post I found online. Here it is:

Forgiveness is a gift. I’ve always thought you’d need to ask for forgiveness and forgive others in person. Well, not always do you need that happen. In the end, it always points to you and God. As one of my dear friends in Christ and a Christian clinical counselor always says: forgive. For you and for your relationship with God. Help heal yourself and allow God to heal you, and your relationships with others will also fall into place. 

Imagine carrying a big piece of rock as you’re struggling to catch your breath in the ocean, and you have chains of rock all around you—chains that you can release yourself from. God, with His omniscient eagle-eye vision, will show you the big story. Let your ego not hide your eyes from what He wants to show you. As it happened with me, God showed me the fuller picture through my husband Danny. As you forgive others and allow God to heal you, God will show you the big picture. It doesn’t always have to be in a spiritual vision. Like mine, for example, it can also suddenly happen as a funny surprise.

Do you have any such incidents when God showed you the fuller picture after you came to terms with His will? I’d love to hear them.

How to Engage with Jesus as the Door? | John 10:9

        A college friend of my husband used to do a special practice. Every morning, she would wake up and spend time in bed talking to Jesus. Beginning her day with a simple, "Good morning, Jesus," she carried out this routine consistently for a year and a half. Each day, at 4 a.m., for 5 minutes, she would engage in this heartfelt conversation.

Then, on a surprising and joyous day, Jesus actually came in person to talk with her, much to her surprise & the delight of every listener. She found Jesus sitting on the edge of her bed, physically present and smiling as if He had been waiting just for her, like in the picture here. This unexpected event showed how their strong bond and her dedication led to this special moment.

The Comforter Art Print by Greg Olsen

            Here is something I have been practicing lately, which I would like to call 'Engaging with Jesus - The Door'. John 10:9 states that Jesus is the door. 

I am the door. If anyone enters by Me, he will be saved, and will go in and out and find pasture.

So how did I start to practice this?

It was my husband who gave me the idea of engaging with Jesus as the door. One day, he asked me to imagine a door in front of me, believing it was Jesus. The concept of engaging with Jesus as a door was something I had never considered before, and I found myself drawn to this new idea. Closing my eyes, I visualized a dark brown wooden door in the canvas of my imagination. Guiding me through each step, he led me to place my left palm on the knob and gently push it open, revealing a brilliant golden light on the other side.

As he continued, the image of the door and the radiant light came to life in my mind. I couldn't help but marvel at the power of imagination and its potential for such an intimate and profound encounter with the divine. Upon opening the door, I found myself instantly inside Jesus's office room. A large wooden table and a chair were positioned behind it. Surprisingly, the table was empty, prompting me to reflect on how God's word never returns void proving He alone is God. Every prayer reaches Him, and He doesn't leave any matter unresolved from His end.

Seated on the wooden chair was Jesus, with an angel beside Him on his left. His beaming countenance drew my gaze, while the angel's evident elation in my presence warmed my heart. Contemplating my next move, I noticed Jesus gesturing for me to take a seat. Three wooden chairs were arranged opposite Him, and I moved the one on the right slightly back before settling down across from God Himself. A smile spread across my face as He returned it with matchless warmth. Although I had much to express, I felt uncertain about where to begin. Consequently, He extended His hands, palms upward, onto the table.

Without hesitation, I grasped the opportunity and held His hands. I saw the dark wood visible through the holes in His wrists — the only imperfection in His otherwise flawless body, and it served as a reminder of His sacrifice so that I could achieve perfection as He is. Gently, I squeezed His hands, my cheeks adorned with tears that journeyed down and found rest upon the table's surface. For a moment, I pondered how tears could escape through tightly closed eyes. Then, I started to pour out everything that burdened my heart. The small things, the significant matters, the intriguing, and even the embarrassing ones —I presented it all before him like a confidant baby to his mother. Throughout, I sensed Jesus listening attentively, devoid of interruption or impatience. I felt His perfect peace wash over me as I finished venting. Indeed, I had taken my time.

Then, it was His turn to speak. As His soft voice reached my ears, I found it to be the most exquisite voice in existence - tender yet so so powerful. Every word He uttered was exactly what I needed to hear— everything that my heart and soul sought. His words contained instructions, assurances, solace, and gentle reprimands—each a gift of profound significance. Another angel, positioned to His right at a smaller table, diligently transcribed not only my spoken words but also my thoughts, desires, requests, and prayers. After inscribing my words, the angel meticulously added Jesus's own words and the promises He had spoken to me. When His words had been fully spoken, He turned to me and inquired if I was prepared to follow the path He had laid out in His discourse. Tearfully, I nodded my affirmation, whispering, 'Always, Lord!'

He shifted His gaze to the angel on his left and signaled for the scroll. Taking it into His hands, He bestowed His kingly approval with a stamp, and  graced it with His signature, 'Yeshua Hamasiach,' penned in His beautiful handwriting, for He is altogether beautiful. Then He handed it to the angel on His left. This meticulous process ensured that the promises and guidance detailed in the scroll would come to fruition in my life. With a nod and a smile towards me, and a solemn sense of duty towards my Lord, the angel departed to ensure that what was needed would take place, just as Jesus had approved. I remained seated, my heart full of gratitude for His unwavering promises and words that held steadfast, never returning void. Before my eyes, I witnessed the unfolding of these petitions and requests in my life, just as Jesus had promised through His divine word.

As time stretched on during my engagement with Him, I gradually opened my eyes. Several precious minutes had slipped by, and my husband had thoughtfully stepped away, leaving me to commune with Jesus in my own personal way. It was at that moment I realized that this physical world, as real as it may seem, is only a smaller facet of the vast spiritual realm we inhabit. The minutes I spent with Jesus felt more palpable and substantial in the realm of my imagination than the tangible surroundings that enveloped me. The desire for more of these encounters lingered within me, a longing that I carried forward into the days ahead.

Does our imagination matter?

Our thoughts are words in the spiritual realm. That is why we must be careful with them. Scripture instructs us to renew our mind and bring every thought into captivity to the obedience of Christ. In the realm of the spiritual, our imagination holds the power to shape reality. The Holy Spirit stands ever-ready, eager to engage with us. What God earnestly desires from us is honesty and consecration, the practice of discipline and unwavering consistency — with total submission and surrender of our hearts to Him. 

If we steadfastly uphold these principles, Jesus will meet us at the threshold of our faith, just as He did with my husband's college friend. In a world characterized by rapidity and the ceaseless influx of fleeting thoughts and images, God's desire remains unchanged—to commune with us individually, intimately. Amid the clamor of the mundane, let us challenge the norms of the day and instead follow Jesus on a path of meditation, consecration, discipline, and steadfast consistency. In doing so, we invite life-changing encounters that not only transform us personally but also fortify the collective body of Christ.

As we listen to these incredible stories, let's think: Are we ready for our own adventure with Jesus? 

It would mean staying committed and dedicated,  sacrificing a lot and staying on course, and most importantly letting Him in one hundred percent. In doing that, we might find a special connection with God that's even better than we thought, quite contrary to the religious picture of faith painted by modern day Pharisees. So, let's not just watch these stories from a distance. Let's take a brave step and see what amazing things can happen when we let Jesus be Lord of our life, for real!

Shared Vision: Part I

 Here is a funny story my father told me that he heard at a sermon in church. I hope it helps you in some way.

    Long ago, when mirrors were an alien thing, lived a man and his wife. After a day's work in the nearby town, the man would walk through the woods in the evening back to his small village. The setting sun painted golden shadows through the treetops onto the tall grass and well-worn path that had been made by countless foot travelers like him. As he walked past the lush grass and trees, he noticed a glimmer in his peripheral vision. Turning around, he spotted something glinting between the grass leaves. With each furtive step he doubted his decision, but curiosity prevailed and he ventured closer to investigate. He stood over the source of the glimmer — a strange object that reflected the light of the golden hour. The light seemed to dim, revealing a dusty surface. He reached for it as if it held indescribable secrets, and discovered a startling figure trapped within. Not knowing that it was a mirror and it was his reflection, he carefully wiped it clean. The man in the mirror reflected his own surprise. When he noticed a striking resemblance between the reflection and his blood relatives, perhaps even a long-lost brother, a feeling stirred within him that he could not explain. He carefully stashed the reflective enigma in his cloth bag and hurried home. 

    It was visibly dark when he came home late to his wife waiting patiently at the entrance of their modest home. While his wife set out food on the table and the children laughed, he took a moment to refresh himself and secretly hid the mirror beneath a pile of worn clothes under the cot. The three children enjoyed the simple dinner and frolicked around. After serving him a warm porridge, his wife gently massaged his tired feet as a silent expression of her care - a daily routine born of deep affection. Their bond was obvious – even their oldest, just 7 years young, could see it. As he lay in the cot, his wife's touch calming him, he thought about the mysterious man in the mirror. Should he share this news with his wife? Perhaps to his brothers. Or he could ask the man himself tomorrow on his way to the town, he thought. But who is he? Does he have a wife, perhaps a family? Lost in his thoughts, the tired man fell asleep. Sensing his contemplation, his wife saw the fatigue in his countenance. She held back her questions, understanding his need for rest. She longed for their conversations. She missed talking to him about life and the little things. She missed him in that way, but she also knew how much he sacrificed for her and the children. She let him rest as he drifted off to sleep, hoping that the mirror man would not make a sound, and even if he did, the clothes would stifle his cry. 

    The next day, when the darkness still lingered, making the faces indistinguishable, and when the moon kept its position in the sky, the man got up on time, as usual, and got ready for the day's work. He threw his bag over his shoulder, filled with food and water that his loving wife had prepared the night before. As on all workdays, he set out while his family was still asleep, guided by the soft glow of a lantern in the early morning haze. As the first rays of sunlight cast its light, he remembered what he had forgotten at home. Turning back was out of the question, as he was more than halfway there, and missing a day's work was not an option. He fervently hoped and wished that his family would not find the mirror and determined to take care of it when he returned home that day.

 In the morning, his wife sent the two older children to school, and after nursing her third child, she put her off to sleep. She looked around, wondering how to pass the time, since she had already finished preparing the food and there was no laundry for the day. Her searching gaze landed under the cot and she thought of sorting out the pile of disheveled clothes that lay underneath. As she took out the first pile, her careful eyes noticed that someone other than she had arranged it. Since she was home all day and did not have much to do except cook and take care of the kids and their little two-room house, she KNEW her house and could notice if anything was out of order. She reached for the pile, and as she carelessly tossed the first pile aside, she heard something click. A pile of clothes would not make a noise, would it? Curious but cautious, she took the clothes apart one by one and saw that there was something under the pile. She opened it and to her surprise found a wooden item with a handle. Somewhat confused and afraid, she took the handle and examined it. When she turned it to the other side, she let out a scream and threw it onto the pile of clothes. What was that? Should she run out and call the neighbors? Did she see a woman in there? Who is she and how did she get there? Why is she hiding under our bed, and in a what-is-that thing, too? An array of questions flashed through her mind as she dodged the inevitable doubt - did her husband hide her there? He'd never do that! She knew her husband and how much he loved her and her children. But this! She picked up the mirror and looked at the woman in the mirror. She almost spit in disgust as the other woman looked at her with disdain. "Who are you?" she asked. Shockingly, when she asked the question, she felt the mirror blurt the same back at her. They were both seething with anger at each other. Let me just throw it away, she thought. When she had almost decided to do it, she reasoned, "Why don't I confront my husband about it when he gets home tonight? 

    

The day didn't seem to end for her, as each minute passed very slowly, and her mind buzzed with a million questions about the consequences of a broken marriage, a crumbling house. She cried, she comforted herself, she nursed her baby when she woke up, and fretted about their future and the shame their children would soon face. She remembered how her mother had persuaded her to consider the other marriage proposal, and how she pushed for it, saying, "He seems like a real family man." Oh no, but men will be men! Or how could this fate befall her of all people? She was the faithful wife, the naïve woman who could never think of another man. Her husband, on the other hand, couldn't return this love? He sees a woman and has brought her to OUR home, and see the audacity of hiding her under OUR bed, she thought. She cried out to God, for He seemed to be the only help and hope at that moment. In a few hours her children would come home. She should stay strong for them and not let any doubts arise. But with every minute her anger at the injustice boiled. Her husband was very busy these days, but she believed it was for the family. There must be a reason why he left before dawn and came home later than usual these days. Could he not have been thinking about the children, the infant who had not yet weaned? She should have listened to her mother's advice. Her friends had always warned her about men going far away to work. The town woman luring the traveling men for work is not an isolated case, they told her. She dismissed those concerns every time. Seconds that seemed like an eternity passed as she waited for her children and put them to bed early to confront her husband. That night he was late than usual, which gave her doubts more time and justification.

    Meanwhile, the man finished off his work earlier than usual and went to his supervisor to note his early departure. He was eager to return home early and ensure the mirror's safety. He could carry it with him the next day and perhaps get the story from the horse's mouth about the entrapment. Sympathy tugged at his heart for the trapped man and his family, who were probably waiting for him at home. He couldn't help but compare this to his own wife's patient wait each day. She catered to his every need, adjusted her schedule, and cared for their children impeccably. He too missed her so much these days and longed for her presence, for the warmth of their home. One of these days he wished to surprise her with that favorite flower necklace that she adores. Her friend owned one, and he recalled the sparkle in her eyes when she first glimpsed it. He knew that look - the one that masked a hint of desire. As he was lost in thought and packed his bag, his supervisor entered the tent. He asked if he could work overtime and promised an incentive. He wanted to decline the offer, eager to return home. But the incentive painted a vivid image of his wife wearing her favorite necklace and radiantly smiling at him. The officer added that if the overtime work stretched late, he could take a day off later. This sounded appealing as he really wanted a break and to relish a day with his family. And so he did overtime until the enveloping darkness sharply descended. He then lighted the lantern and went his way home, his thoughts oscillating between his beloved family and the captive man's story.

    Drawing closer to his home, he found it locked from within, the warm glow of a lantern faintly visible through the window. He knocked on the door and waited for his wife. She swung open the door with surprising haste, as if she had been eagerly awaiting his return the whole day. But, she was different today with anger etched onto her features. Baffled, surprised and concerned the man asked if everything was ok. Her right hand emerged, clutching the mirror she had concealed. She thrust it towards him and with trembling voice she asked him, "Who is she, and why is she here?" Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks. The man stood transfixed staring at the equally startled man in the mirror, his own reflection, almost in solidarity.

Part II will be published soon.

A Childhood Memoir: Crayon Adventures and Unexpected Lessons

Hey there, reader! Today, I want to take you back to the year 2003, when life was simpler and distractions were few. Join me as I reminisce about my 8-year-young self, who found solace in a box of crayons while playing alone. 

In a world without internet and endless distractions, my creativity thrived with those colorful sticks in hand. But even the most exciting adventures sometimes grew dull, and that's when my secret crayon scraping technique came into play. On one such day, when the world seemed a bit too quiet, I resorted to my box of crayons. I would draw to my heart's content, but when boredom struck, I'd scrape away the colors using a small knife. It was my little secret technique to add some excitement to my artistic endeavors. Oh, the wonders of being a kid!

But this day was different. I stumbled upon a steel rod we had lying around at home, the same rod I occasionally used as a makeshift ruler. A mischievous idea popped into my head – what if I blew through the rod to scatter the crayon crumbs? Oh, the possibilities!

Without thinking twice, I blew with all my might, unaware of the chaos that would ensue. The harmless crayon crumbs turned into tiny pieces, invading my throat and causing me to choke. In that moment of sheer terror, I turned to the only solace I knew – prayer. With a heart full of sincerity, I pleaded with Jesus, begging to be spared from this unexpected fate. "Please Jesus, I don't want to die so young," I whispered, promising to be the best child I could be.

In a rush of panic, I sprinted to the kitchen sink and gargled away the crayon crumbs, relieved to still be alive. Gratitude flooded my heart as I thanked Jesus for hearing my prayer. It was a lesson learned, and years later, I shared this incident with my parents, who shuddered at the thought of what could have happened.

It's scary to think about the danger I didn't even realize I was in, but it reminds me that Jesus sees everything, even the things we do in secret. He listens to our prayers and helps us when we truly reach out to Him. Reflecting on that childhood moment, I'm filled with gratitude for Jesus, my constant companion. It's a reminder that He sees us even in our most private moments, and He answers our prayers when we seek Him sincerely. Even if it is the most stupidest or embarrassing of mistakes despite our age or maturity. 

Until next time, keep coloring your world with joy and gratitude.