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.

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.