So heavy the sight out my window, let me go to God and cry,

for the agony of those suffering, fears of prolonged agony.

I see places, where blurry and bound darkness prevails.

Come now Prince of peace, remove remorse and rectify.

Come! Not just in a carol sung at Christmas,

Come, long expected King of glory.

Till then my pain endures,

for a sign of hope.

Who says I have not heard the whisper of His love,

a love that lets you seek Him in shadows of pain

and barrenness.

Behind the lies of a revolted demon, I tottered. Sent by the Rebel,

a rebel angel of darkness. Oh my soul, remember ‘Paradise Lost.’

I fought Him, the One who gave me Eternal Love, I fought Him

with words of why.

He won my heart. Here He is! Full of Light, not easy to describe.

Much He explained to me in Scripture called the Word of God.

The heavenly angels smiled. Along with the Spirit of holiness, free now to love Him

in His Love.

L u c i n e

Yesterday was April 24, the remembrance day of the 1915 Armenian genocide. Both my parents became orphans: my father as a five year old city boy and my mother, a litlle country girl.

I had listened to my father’s horrific story. Left alone in the street, a kind man brings him a piece of bread every day. Some time later, his older sister finds him; they survive to live through some gruesome suffering! My mother, at the age of 6, finds herself in the town’s church with her younger sister, alongside other children. Her older sister Lousin and her mother – my grandmother, both perish during the forced walk in the desert. Swiss missionaries rescue my mother with her sister and bring them to an orphanage near Beirut.

What does the God who knows “the path of justice” want from me? While sitting at my prayer corner, my Bible open on my table, I find my last year’s journal where I had scribbled in pencil my conversation with God.

Will I forgive? Yes, I will… not just for the Turkish people in general. But to forgive those who took the life from my grandparents. Here, now I say to the Lord, I do forgive. Oh Lord, help me forgive.

I knew she always favored my brother. Not that she hated me, I would see her satisfied look whenever I loved her cooking and ate every bit of her Middle Eastern dishes. She cooked well and would not mind if I brought my friends along to her dining table. My mother was one of those pious churchgoers who never missed her tithing. Lying was not part of who she was either. Why then once every two or three weeks, her sudden outbursts of cutting words when alone with me? I would retort in anger. The hurt stung both of us for days.

One Sunday, I was invited to sing at her church. During my song, my gaze caught her sitting among the people, watching me with eyes full of tears. After some days, she called me on the telephone. There was a new slant in her voice: “Come over,” she said. I drove to her house right away. I stood for some moments outside her door, then knocked. She opened immediately, as if she was waiting for me on the other side. She extended her hands to give me a hug, my whole body froze in front of her. This was out of the ordinary. With no delay she told me the whole story, short and direct.

“Jesus woke me up last night.” Silence prevailed for a moment or two. She continued, “He said to me, ‘you do not love Lucine’.” I knew she was speaking truth. Instead of my usual quick response, I was speechless. Still in my frozen state, she hugged me.

I understood much later the mercy of God that changed her whole demeanor. She had surrendered to His loving voice. Mother was in her mid seventies and I in my early forties then. We became fast friends for the following twenty years.

To forgive, when his story differed from mine, took several meetings with God in my prayer corner. Years would not change his outlook. It took awhile for my heart to acquiesce with the command of Jesus’ words, “Unless you forgive…. .” He had to help and heal the pain with the immense love of His presence. I quickly put on my woolen plaid skirt, a top and a warm jacket. It would be the last Sunday of this year; he had already left the house for the choir.

The empty church looked barren, only five people and two children in the last two rows of the pews. In order not to be seen in the live webcast, I sneaked in and sat in the back. All of us far from each other, as if we were strangers determined not to become friendly. The masks on our faces hid any possible smiles. I saw him among the few choir members sparsely seated facing the altar. The sermon suited my intention to obey the One I yearned to follow. It was St. Steven’s Sunday.

Our discourse in the church’s parking lot paved the road to peace. We had moments of smiling faces as we drove home unmasked and still married.