Shall I make this prayer public, shall I in secret pray?

Or tell Jesus what already He knows and sees?

Conflicting cares within my heart, I weep.

In waves of writing I swim safely, He stays with me,

He gives me hope, I see His face in tears,

some doubts and pain in me remaining.

On His body this Jesus risen are nail marks for me,

for the brother and the sister who cannot see,

for the neighbor and the refugee.

Jesus came to church with us, I asked Him to.

So cold was the morning breeze, I needed Him.

I gave Him all my fears, yet they would return;

and viciously steal my tranquility.

That night before I put my head on my pillow,

“Jesus” I said, “see what I read in Your Word,

A psalm of victory instead of anguish written for me,

the promise of Your prevailing peace.”

I saw Manoush* last summer at the Rose Garden. We were attending her neighbor Azniv’s memorial. We lost Azniv who was almost ninety. She had become a spiritual guardian to my friend Arpineh and me. We had her humor, her words from the Scriptures, and her prayers as we were crossing over the line of our 70th year.

I had met Manoush a few times while walking pass her front door to reach Azniv’s little back house. She always had that gracious smile, her blue grey eyes reflecting the genuineness of her greeting. Azniv had talked about her kindness. She had mentioned that Manoush would bring her the bulletin of St. Garabed* church every Sunday afternoon. I did not see Manoush for a long time after the memorial.

Three months had passed, it was early December last year. I was at St. Garabed praying at the back of the sanctuary, in front of the large painting of Christ on the cross. I sensed someone standing behind me. I continued praying, then after some moments of silence I turned back. There was Manoush praying. I would have walked away to not disturb her prayers. But this time she spoke to me. I did not understand her words. She continued motioning with her hands to her head and lips. I realized she had a stroke. My heart pierced with pain, I said to her, “I will pray.”

I saw Manoush occasionally at church. I knew where she would sit regularly. Another month had passed and we were in mid January. I was in line for communion. I had taken my portion of bread dipped in wine from the priest. As I turned my head to my left, I noticed Manoush close by looking at me. Instead of going to the right to reach my seat, I walked over to her. We forgot the solemnity of the occasion. Her face had a bright smile, I was smiling with my mouth open. There were many communicants moving right and left. We were oblivious of others. Our hands extended, we touched in the joy that God gives to friends. Here was a new friend, who had lost her speech but not her heart.

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* Names changed.

Could I reprehend the God for letting snake enter paradise?

Ignominious thought! Puzzling demise of all virtues!

Yet I have done it over and over again.

I pull my gaze away from this cumbersome thought,

and let my Friend help survey the blessings untold.

But when the snake becomes a crocodile…,

“No fear dear one,”

I hear Aslan say, in The Chronicles of Narnia:

“Call on My Name.”

He does have another Name on earth.

What fierce evil drove Herod to order the slaughter of Bethlehem’s children! Only Mathew, the Gospel writer in the New Testament of the Bible recorded this gruesome crime. Were the other three – Mark, Luke and John, too timid to remember and recount this harrowing story? Or perhaps God told them to remain silent and let the women’s weeping echo without words or utterance. Mathew continued the story of Christmas; how baby Jesus was saved from the clutches of Herod.

In years past, I have sent happy Christmas cards to friends and relatives; cards that pleased my sense of beauty and joy. The cards I chose said “Merry Christmas”, or “Joy to The World”. My faith was obvious with serene scenes of Baby Jesus in a manger or in the arms of Mary, and at times with barn animals looking glad to meet their Maker.

But lately I have had some restless thoughts. Why would God’s Son consent to be concieved in the womb of Mary by the power of the Holy Spirit? When Father R. two Sundays ago, described the untidy reality of Jesus being born, it did not resemble the cards I had bought all those years. I saw another picture, here was the Majesty from heaven coming to earth in humble humanity. I sighed with reverence.

How I miss forests and fir trees, the moss and murmur of gentle breeze. The loving rocks and boulders with various hues of Creator’s stones; paths in wilderness, walking and breathing pure winter air.

But now comes the melancholic muse whispering in my ear, getting louder in my soul – to move my fingers and write the spoken words.

Oh God of David’s Psalms, who became also mine. Was this really Your will, to let people read what this heart of mine wonders, people unknown to me, but not to You? Oh Light of the world, hold my hand and give me strength.

Now hear Brother Lawrence’s prayer as mine.

Plenty of pecans sprouted this fall on our pecan tree. First came the squirrels, to check if they were edible. They dropped half pealed ones to the ground and waited a few more days before they returned. A week later came the wild parrots in a noisy splendor, screeching, cackling, advancing creation’s symphony to human ears who love hearing them. They were a group of twenty or so. They had a feast; their manners unfurled in view of their Creator. Keep them safe, I murmured, till they return; they belong to You.

There were plently left on the tree as they flew away. On this same morning, a clan of local crows followed them; not a large group as the wild parrots. These know the ins and out of our neighborhood. Lofty and loyal to their relative crows, their little ones grown by now and able to feed themselves. With their strong beaks – as black as their feathers, they break open the shells of pecans with no difficulty.

Indeed, I am laughing with the birds and the squirrels right here where I live. Lately we heard a new guest close by us, a hooting owl after dark. I doubt it would care for pecans.