As High As the Sky

 

Again the LORD spoke to Ahaz:

Ask for a sign from the LORD, your God; let it be deep as Sheol, or high as the sky!

But Ahaz answered, “I will not ask! I will not tempt the LORD!”   ~  Isaiah 7: 10 – 12

 

 

           The passing weeks have been getting more and more difficult. Family troubles. Failing political landscape. Deepening work woes. Even as we laughed and loved as a family, there was no denying the shadows creeping up ahead of us. Navigating one minefield after another this past week, I knew I wasn’t going to hold on for much longer. Times called for an ironclad faith.

 

My faith has always been anything but of iron.

 

          Sure enough, a few days back, the earth cracked open beneath my feet. I broke, and I broke hard. Searching within me for faith, I found none. Not a grain. In those hours, I touched deep anger, despair. It had been so very long, this struggle to continue to hope, to trust. Each time, God has not left me bereft. He has always filled me.

 

          But sometimes, sometimes, it feels as if what He has given is too little for the times. This week felt like one of those times.

 

          Strangely, even as I stormed the length of anger and fury, I could sense within me an inner calmness. Inside me, an abode or a being, unperturbed by my turmoil, sad yet serene, as if this something or someone knew this needed to be let out, that this terrible length of wild anguish must be walked.

 

          Unwilling to suppress my frustrations, nevertheless, I desperately didn’t want to sin – by turning my back to God, by being ungrateful

 

I have no faith left, I told God. If there is anything, it’s only what You have given me. I have none of me.

 

          I turned to lessons I had learned in the past.

 

If you cannot pray, ask your guardian angel to pray for you.   ~  St. Padre Pio

 

          I thought of my friends who need prayers, of my own family and our struggles. Deep needs – but in turmoil, prayer is hard to summon.

 

Angel, pray for me.

 

Angel, pray in my stead.

 

          I awoke the next day, understandably dulled. Mine seemed like a world after a fire has raged to its demise. Ashen-ed white, everything burned to its stumps, hurt and anger was gone. But so was joy and mirth. Strangely though, deep within, that odd peace held strong. I’m alright, I thought to myself in some amazement.

 

          The hours went by, busy ones filled with work and love. Then, I heard a nudge within me.

 

Ask for a sign

 

          No, I won’t, I countered. I will not sin. Only I wasn’t sure in what way I would be by asking.

 

 

          Ask for a sign, came the voice again. A sign as high as the heavens.

 

          I refused. But as the hour slipped into the next, I pondered, How could that be wrong? After all the anger and the raving and the ranting, how could any asking be worse than that? So, bending my spirit, I asked.

 

Give me a sign, Lord. Give me Your sign.

 

Give me a sign as high as the heavens.

 

           It was well into sunset when I suddenly decided I would forgive all those who were upsetting me. Even if I couldn’t love them, I could venture out of the gate of my heart and forgive. Even if it changed nothing, even if our troubles worsened, I would forgive and carry on with life. Just as I did, my husband mentioned that our car needed petrol. I hadn’t started on dinner yet and I wasn’t in the mood for a drive but suddenly, I found myself running out and getting into the car with him. We had seen some heavy rain earlier that evening, not for long, but enough to bathe the world and freshen it. In the southern sky, the sun was kissing the sky a soft, watery pink.

 

          Turning out of our road, driving down our neighbourhood, the eastern sky rose above us. Suddenly, to our shock, in the sky, we saw wide bands, like the rays of the sun but of alternate blues and pinkish-orange. We are familiar with blue and white rays but we had never before seen these massive sky-pillars of blue and orange-reds, converging to a secret point beneath the horizon.

 

Divine Mercy rays, said my husband, quietly.

 

A sign as high as the heavens, I remembered.

 

          I knew science would have an explanation for it – and it does. What we saw were called anticrepuscular rays which occur in the sky opposite to the setting sun, when low-angled sunlight streams through gaps in clouds and are scattered by particles in the air. It is not a rare phenomenon but can be easily missed. For all the sky-watching we were known to do as a family, we had never seen this.

 

          Mercy, I whispered to myself. Seers have spoken of a sign in the sky when the agony of this earth reaches its tipping point. In her apparition in Fatima in 1917, Our Lady spoke of a sign to come in the sky, a illumination that would warn the world. A great white light fell upon St. Paul and soon, he was converted. Whatever the science behind a phenomenon, I believe that if our hearts are moved by it in any way, we must seek God’s voice for us in it. What is He saying to us? What is He asking of us?

 

          The sign that Ahaz was told to ask God for was the sign that God would keep His promise. Seeing those rays in the sky for the first time was God’s sign to me but I am as yet uncertain about what His message is. It came immediately after a painful day made up of many, many days and years even, of emotional and mental suffering, struggles and endless trials. The sign comes as we descend into the sheol of insanity and heartlessness, of discrimination and of torment. It comes when it seems like things can only get worse – not better.

 

          God is telling you not to quit, said my daughter.

 

          As with Ahaz, was this a sign from high heavens that mercy is coming? And that till then, I must somehow hold on…

 

 

 

 

 

 

         

Little One

          I am one of those who strongly believes in the power of the Rosary and yet struggle mightily to recite it daily. It is the simple issue of lack of discipline. But I know my family and I are intrinsically  bound to the Rosary.

          Reciting the Rosary as a family has been a struggle since years and years before, perhaps worse back then because the kids were younger and a lot harder to handle and I myself wasn’t in a good place –  emotionally,  mentally and spiritually.

          But if I thought those were hard times, worse was yet to come. One day, a knife cut through my soul. I knew I was going to fall but I no longer really cared. If I lived at all, it was only for my husband and children. A lot of life didn’t matter much anymore.

          At that point in time, I had in my possession, a rosary made from small sandalwood beads. It was a child’s rosary, gifted to me by someone  I didn’t particularly like, who couldn’t differentiate between a child’s rosary and an adult’s. I had received that sandalwood rosary during a Christmas visit – which meant shutting my mouth and swallowing any remarks I would have made otherwise.  As I already had a pretty, gold rosary which I had received when I was a child, this little new rosary was made into my ‘spare rosary’ – its smallness made it handy to have around when I was travelling.

          Years later, I faced the worst test of my life. I struggled with a dark I have never before been seared by. Oftentimes, it felt as if I would drown and never live again. I was far from home, facing a severe darkness and all I had with me was the little brown rosary. I held it tight and prayed incoherent prayers and hoped God had heard me.

          One day, I had to travel even further away. In the rush and worry and fear at that time, I misplaced the little rosary. I went to my Gethsamane without my beads. Although my relatives visited me at that time, I didn’t mention this, so no one knew. I didn’t feel like asking any one of them to get me another rosary either. I just didn’t want to receive a rosary in this way.

          It was at this time that an old aunt, very close to God, visited me and placed a white~bead rosary in my palm. It was the heaviest Rosary beads I have ever held, yet there was a strange comfort in the polished smooth heaviness of it. She told me she had bought it on a pilgrimage to India when she herself had been close to death a long time before. But she had come back to life. I knew she devoutly said the Rosary every day. Through joy, illness, heartbreak or even worry, this simple woman with a heart of gold recited the Rosary every single day.

          Yet, my aunt never told me to pray. She didn’t blithely tell me to say the Rosary and that all would be well. She just placed the rosary in my palm and with her eyes, willed me to hope on.

          That lonely night, when my aunt and everyone had returned home leaving me to face my sorrows and fears alone, I gripped my old aunt’s rose~beads and went in weeping search of Mother Mary. For many weeks after that, through highs of hopes and lows of shatterings and piercings, I held on to those smooth, white beads for life. Some days I could pray the Rosary. Often I couldn’t. But every day, often more than once a day, I tightly gripped those beads as I screamed and wept and that was the only prayer I could muster.

          Then, one night, my family and I were in the car. For a brief moment, a strength out of nowhere surged through me, and I began to speak about how great and good God was. I had just faced the worst test of my life and more was to come. The waters were still churning around me. I was by no means healed and safe. Yet, with that strange power coursing though me in the dark car, I began to speak about the greatness of a God who had just given me the worst Cross ever.

          I cannot recall what exactly I said but I know these were my ending words in the dark:

We had to go through all of this in order to return to the Rosary again.

          No sooner had the words left my mouth when my toddler son exclaimed that he had found something. He placed it in my open palm.

          I didn’t need any light to tell me what he had found. Even in the dark confines of the car, the minute I felt it, I knew he had found the small sandalwood Rosary given to me five Christmases ago. The very same one I had left in the car that hurried, harried day and forgotten about. Left it in a car I had cleaned thoroughly many, many times, and yet, never came across.

          The moment the eyes of my heart saw how we had to be taken through flood and fire to return to the refuge of the Rosary, the moment I proclaimed this truth to the others with us that night, an Unseen hand had brought back the small beads. I barely thought of the person who had given me the rosary; that was not important.

          What shone through was that a child had given me the rosary. The child was now pointing me towards something in the Rosary.

          And so began another chapter of our lives. Through the valley of death we walked, my husband, my children and I. We held each other up. We leaned against each other. In joy and in tears, we walked through the weave of years upon years. We didn’t always know what we were doing. We didn’t always do the right things. But we tried to recite the Rosary every day. Sometimes we could, sometimes, we failed. But again and again and again, we got up and went to it.

          Since the sandalwood rosary returned to me, all my rosaries for years since then were recited using it. Yet, I always kept my old aunt’s gift of white beads with me, in memory of her steadfast love for God and for me.

          But close to decade later, more than a year back, the small sandalwood rosary began to ‘slip away’ from me. Every time I reached for it, I’d see the white beads and I’d feel a longing for them mist over my heart instead. If I ignored this and took up the brown beads, I’d sense something amiss but I could never understand it. After several times, sensing something was at work, I stopped fighting it, and switched rosaries. But I kept the ‘little one’ beside me each time.

          One day, little one went missing. I was not perturbed, though. I just knew it would come back. For some reason, my Rosary had to be said with the white beads now. And again, I could not understand beyond that.

          More than a year passed. Two months back, I suddenly began to search for the sandalwood rosary again but to no avail. I still remained undisturbed but every time we recited the prayers, I now wondered where the little one had gone to.

          And I wondered why. Deep down, something was beginning to stir in me that the rosary had been taken away. Taken away by the same Unseen hand that had brought it to me that day in the car when I had given praise to God in a time of deep sorrow. I didn’t get the feeling that it was due to some wrongdoing or failure to fulfil some responsibility.

          But just as before, the humble brown beads had made way for the queenly white one.

          This morning, on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary, I awakened to a blue mist binding my heart. I wasn’t sad or depressed or in a fit over something. But there wasn’t any joy in me either. I was feeling dead and empty and this morning, I just wished it weren’t so. Christmas was coming and I wanted to feel that special joy and to quiver a bit in anticipation.

          As I was musing over this, I recalled a line from a prayer I had just read:

A Cross is a perfect gift from a God whose Love is perfect.

Then, someone passed a thought through my mind. What if this touch of blue in my soul was this perfect gift from a God whose Love is perfect? If so, to pray it away was not in the will of God, never mind my yearning.

          I didn’t try to bargain with God this time. I got off the ground and dusted myself. If He had willed that I should not feel joy, then I would embrace this Cross for the sake of others – for those contemplating suicide and for those struggling with grief and other unhappiness. I had been in those valleys before. I knew what they were like. So, I asked the Holy Mother of God that these sufferers instead be given the joy I had prayed for.

          Then I quickly got busy before I regretted the prayer.

          Dressing to go out for the day’s errands, I caught sight of a backpack I normally take on holidays. I had just used it and I knew it was now empty. Yet, for no apparent reason, I picked it up and absently ran my fingers down its inner compartments.

          I touched something. I didn’t need light nor sight to tell me what it was.

          Little one had been returned.

          I must have asked why. No answer did I receive, no reason did I get. Yet, a soft mist passed over my heart.

          And then I knew. A door has shut behind me, a page has now been turned.

 

 

 

 

Angel’s Work Done

I made a slightly more fussy chicken dish for Sunday lunch today. I liked the chicken the first time I tasted it cooked this way at a little corner street dinner run by an Indian Muslim of few words but with quiet, watchful eyes.

Compared to the other eateries that line both sides of that busy shopping street, his was understated, clean, the clientele more likely to be busy office workers out for a quick lunch, heads barely raised over their plates, than teenage kids who place a higher premium on ambience and address, and who, thus, rarely made a beeline for this man’s restaurant.

This quiet man had two or three equally quiet workers, all South Indians, I suspect. They didn’t speak the local language, knew little English but they knew the currency well so there were no problems. The restaurant owner only cooked up a few dishes and a soup each lunch time. Simple food cooked from the heart but they were hearty fare.

And one of those dishes was his South Indian peppery chicken dish which made up our Sunday lunch. The first time I ate it was after a tiring day of shopping, and in a mood not improved by hunger, worsened by the crowds that took up every seat in every other restaurant.

But this little eatery beckoned. Simple seats, small tables, clean floors. Quiet waiters. An even more quiet chef who stood afar and watched us discreetly as he washed up his pots and pans. With the busy street just a few feet away, the quiet of the restaurant was a stark contrast to the rushing and honking all around us. It felt almost like a hidden world that lived alongside busyness and mayhem.

And that day, this man’s chicken touched something deep within me. I’ve never been much of a cook but with a house full of small children with huge appetites, I have little choice but to learn to cook decent meals and to cook them fast. I had the usual go-to chicken recipes but I was on the lookout for something new and the chicken this man made that day was different. I knew he had made it right there in a massive wok in a cubicle just off the seating area but it tasted like it had been cooked in aging stoves in old kitchens with big windows, surrounded by huge trees that waved the sunny breezes inside. The hearty meal took the rough edges off the day, and quietened me enough to savor the peace of the little diner.

The following week, staring at the freshly cut chicken in front of me, I decided to recreate the chicken dish I could barely get out of my head. It turned out well, and it has, each time I’ve cooked it.

Some years later, hankering for some more from him, I made my way back to the eatery but he was gone. I stared dumbly at the restaurant in its place, its new waiters meeting my eyes sullenly.

More than his chicken, I missed the island of quiet he had created, the gentle comfort of good and reasonably priced food, the way he helped me realize I didn’t need to follow the crowd in its frazzled rush. In that little space off the crazy street, he offered respite that rested tired feet and hearts. Quiet and unassuming, he did the work of angels.

I turned away in disappointment wishing I knew where the quiet chef had chosen to bloom anew in quietness, offering an angel’s pit stop to refresh those who heaved around dusty and wilting spirits.