I must have been quite young, about 6-7 years, when I visited my father’s uncle in Adoni, a small city in Andhra Pradesh. That was the early 1980s, and their neighborhood had rows of small, tiled houses where everyone knew each other. It was a simpler time – not much of city development, just a close-knit community where neighbors seemed to care for each other. Their house was simple – a small house with a tiled roof with just three small rooms: a living room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom. What fascinated me most was the little room on the tiled roof that you could climb up to reach. It felt like a secret hideaway in that modest home.
They didn’t have a bathroom inside the house. Instead, we used the communal street bathroom. As a child accustomed to indoor bathrooms, this was genuinely difficult for me, but I managed. My parents had taught us to adjust gracefully when staying with others, to not make the hosts uncomfortable. They had shown my siblings and me that love and kindness mattered beyond anything.
Adoni Thatha (that’s how I called him) was a happy man who always lovingly addressed me as “Bangaru” (gold). He had this innocence about him and the way he laughed. He had a positivity that even as a young girl, I could feel – perhaps because I had experienced the absence of such warmth before. I felt happier around him and safe.
Looking back, I realize he was the first grandfather figure I felt connected to. Both my grandfathers had passed away before I was born. Even though we did not interact much, the time with him felt like being with my own grandfather.
What I remember most vividly is the Adoni upma that Avva (his wife, grandmother in my language) would make for me. I remember Thatha would rave about this food as it is a traditional food of the city and told me I would love it. He had asked his wife to make this for me. It is my favorite to this day. This south Indian upma was made with puffed rice that was soaked in water and drained. It was made mostly the usual way of making upma but at the end garnished with crushed roasted gram dal and roasted peanuts.
The Parrot with the Broken Wing
One of the most beautiful memories from that visit was a green parrot that Adoni Thatha cared for. This bird had fallen and broken its leg, and I watched how tenderly he took care of it. He kept the parrot in a cage to help it heal. He would take the bird out, wrap its leg with a bandage, and talk to it lovingly. He allowed me to play with the bird, and he would become like a child himself, playing and feeding it.
What touched me even more was learning later – months or maybe years after my visit – that once the parrot’s leg had completely healed, he set it free. This was one of the earliest memories I have of kindness to an animal that stayed with me. Even though he loved the bird dearly, he chose to let it fly away when it was ready. His love for the bird meant wanting it to be free.
Community Friendship
Adoni Avva was equally wonderful. I remember accompanying her as she worked with other women in the community, making cotton threads for lighting lamps in the temple. I don’t remember exactly what I did during those gatherings, but I remember I would observe how it is done and she let me weave a few cotton threads and taught me how to.
I would tag along when she went to visit her friends. As a child, I remember enjoying just observing the surroundings and soaking in the newness of the experiences.
What Children Remember
Looking back now, I realize something profound: children remember kindness above all else. Despite the uncomfortable bathroom situation, despite being in an unfamiliar place with relative strangers, what stayed with me was love.
I wasn’t there with my parents and siblings – it was just me in that small house with these caring people who made sure I felt welcomed, fed, and included. They could have seen my visit as an inconvenience, but instead they treated me, a little girl, like a treasured guest.
They took me around the community, introduced me to their world, and shared their simple but meaningful life with an open heart. In their small house, they made sure I had everything I needed to feel at home.
These memories have stayed with me, not because of any grand gesture or expensive gifts, but because of the genuine warmth I felt in that little house in Adoni. It taught me that hospitality isn’t about having the perfect home or the finest things – it’s about making someone feel truly seen, loved, and valued, and genuinely welcomed with your whole heart.
Pavitra had always believed that truth was enough. That if you were honest, if your intentions were pure, people would see that. Especially family. Especially the people who claimed to love you most.
But sometimes truth isn’t enough when people have already decided what they want to believe.
The Innocent Mistake
It started so innocently. Pavitra was managing the WhatsApp group for the community volunteer cleanup project when she saw a notification about her son Arjun’s friend, Vikram, who had helped with the last event. Without really thinking – just quickly trying to add helpful volunteers while managing multiple tasks – she accidentally added Vikram to the group chat.
Within minutes, Arjun was storming into the room, his face flushed with anger.
“Mom, what is wrong with you?” he said, his voice sharp and disrespectful. “Why are you adding my friends to random group chats? You’re making Vikram feel obligated to volunteer when he never asked for this. You’re crossing boundaries!”
Pavitra looked up from her phone in confusion. “Arjun, it was completely accidental. I was quickly adding people and …”
“That’s impossible,” he cut her off, his tone harsh in a way that made her heart sink. “You don’t accidentally add someone to a group. You had to search for his name, select it, and click add. You’re lying about this being an accident.”
“I can show you exactly how it happened,” Pavitra said, trying to keep her voice calm despite the familiar panic rising in her chest. “It was literally a matter of seconds; I was moving quickly through contacts and …”
“Stop lying to me!” His voice was cruel, cutting. “You did this deliberately and now you’re making up excuses. Just admit what you did!”
“Arjun, I’m sorry this happened,” Pavitra said, her voice breaking slightly. “It was completely an accident – it happened in a matter of seconds while I was managing the list. I’ll remove Vikram right now and let him know it was a mistake.”
But even her immediate apology and offer to fix the situation wasn’t enough. Arjun continued to glare at her with that look of disgust, as if she had committed some terrible crime instead of making an innocent mistake.
She found herself wondering – why was he making such a big deal out of this? Why was he speaking to her with such disrespect over something that could be so easily resolved? Was this just how this generation handled conflicts – with immediate accusations and refusal to accept explanations? Or was this something deeper, something about how he saw her, how he valued her feelings?
The questions swirled in her mind as she watched her son’s face, searching for any sign – some part of her son that could trust her, even a bit of willingness to give his mother the benefit of the doubt in that moment.
The Betrayal of Silence
What happened next shattered something inside Pavitra. Her husband, hearing the raised voices, came over and instead of asking for her side of the story or addressing Arjun’s disrespectful tone, immediately began trying to smooth things over.
“Arjun, calm down,” her husband said, but his next words cut deeper than his son’s accusations. “And Pavitra, maybe you should give the boys some space with their friendships. You know how sensitive these relationships can be at their age.”
The betrayal was complete. Not only was her husband not defending her against being called a liar by their own son, but he was also suggesting she was somehow in the wrong for accidentally adding a friend to a volunteer group.
This was no longer just about a group chat or volunteer list. When your own son calls you a liar and your husband sides with him instead of you, when they choose his comfort over your dignity, when they let him disrespect you in your own home – it becomes about everything that matters: respect, trust, and whether your feelings have any value in your own family.
Old Wounds, Fresh Pain
As Pavitra stood there, watching her husband smooth things over and her son avoid eye contact, she felt that familiar sensation – the walls closing in, the ground shifting beneath her feet. She had been here before. Different situation, same feeling of being utterly alone while surrounded by people who claimed to love her.
Years of similar moments came flooding back. Times when she had been misunderstood, when she had to defend her truth to deaf ears, when keeping the peace was more important than protecting her dignity. The accumulation of all those times when she had swallowed her hurt for the sake of family harmony.
Pavitra felt angry, upset and could not help crying and felt a panic. Her anxiety rose. Her voice rose and she began feeling out of control.
“I know what I did and why I did it,” she said angrily, her voice unsteady following the growing storm inside. “It was an accident that happened in seconds while I was managing the volunteer group. But if you’ve decided I’m a liar, nothing I say will change that.”
That day, Pavitra found herself eating emotionally, seeking comfort in food when comfort from family wasn’t there. She stayed away from them, spending time outside, trying to process the weight of feeling so alone in her own home.
The Loneliness of Being Right
Later that evening, after Arjun had stormed off to his room and the group chat issue had been “resolved” with apologies and Vikram being removed from the group, Pavitra sat alone in her kitchen. Her family had moved on as if nothing had happened. Her husband was watching TV and her son in his room.
But she couldn’t move on. Not from being called a liar when she had told the truth. Not from watching her family choose the path of least resistance instead of standing up for her. Not from the realization that in their eyes, her feelings mattered less than avoiding conflict.
She thought about all the times she had intervened when someone disrespected her family. How natural it felt to be a moral support for the people she loved, and how important it felt for her family to be heard, understood and be happy.
Why didn’t they feel that same instinct for her?
The Weight of Invisible Pain
The hardest part wasn’t even the accusation or the misunderstanding. It was Pavitra’s wondering – how could this happen? How could everyone just get over it and expect her to get over it too? How could they expect her to be okay and just be fine, to accept the disrespect without any apology, as if nothing had happened?
It was the way her pain became invisible the moment it became inconvenient.
Pavitra wondered if this was about a lack of empathy – the inability to put themselves in her shoes and truly understand what she was feeling. Could they see her pain and still choose the easier path? Was it about seeking quick comfort rather than going deeper into understanding what really happened? Was it about avoiding the emotional work of truly supporting each other through difficult moments?
Maybe it wasn’t that they didn’t care – maybe they just didn’t know how to handle the messiness of someone else’s pain when it felt easier to smooth things over and move on.
But she also realized something else: her truth didn’t need their validation to be real. Her worth didn’t depend on their recognition. And sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is simply know your own heart, even when no one else seems to.
Moving Forward
That night, Pavitra wrote in her journal:
“Today I learned that some battles you fight alone, even when you’re surrounded by family. Today I learned that my truth belongs to me, whether others choose to see it or not. Today I learned that sometimes the people who should stand with you will choose comfort instead, and that doesn’t make you wrong – it just makes you strong.”
She didn’t know how to heal the hurt yet. She didn’t know how to bridge the gap between her need to be believed and their need to avoid conflict. But she knew she wouldn’t apologize for expecting basic respect from the people who claimed to love her.
She did realize deep within that the hurt she felt came from the expectations on how people need to be in her eyes. The moment she lets go of the expectations, she can be set free and there will be clarity, forgiveness and peace in her heart. She knows it is a matter of time when she will seek His help to let go of the expectation and be at peace. No one is responsible for her happiness except herself.
And maybe, just maybe, that understanding and insight is enough for now.
For over a year, I had been feeling this desire to feed the birds. Living in a condo without the possibility of having a bird feeder on my balcony, I felt to go to PetSmart and buy bird food and feed birds outdoors. But I didn’t act upon it – my procrastination got in the way.
Finally, last week, I felt at least this year I should do it and act upon it. And I did it. The idea came to me: why not go to the trees in front of our home, to the little park area where there are trees? Why not feed them there?
I bought a bag of bird food – dried corn, seeds, and peanuts – and began my morning routine of feeding the birds under the trees in the park area in front of our home during my walk with my dog, Tuffy. Watching them come and eat filled me with such joy.
God’s Provision for His Little Ones
This morning, I woke up a bit late and made my way to the trees around 10 AM with my bag of bird food. As I was scattering the seeds on the ground, I noticed a lady walking toward the same tree. We smiled at each other, and she asked, “Do you feed the birds?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I just started doing this recently.”
What she told me next revealed the beautiful miracle unfolding. She had been feeding these same birds for the past year. Right there, in the very tree where I had been placing food on the ground, she had three bird feeders hanging – feeders I had somehow never noticed.
With tears in her eyes, she shared that she was moving away at the end of this month. She was heartbroken thinking about the birds who had come to depend on their daily feeding. Who would take care of them? She couldn’t bear the thought of these little creatures going hungry.
And there I was – having just begun this same calling on the exact same tree, just one week ago.
“Don’t worry,” I told her, “This is taken care of. I will continue feeding them.”
In that moment, I saw so clearly how God orchestrates His care for even the smallest of His creatures. The birds would not go unfed. One instrument was preparing to leave, and another had already been called into place. The same work of love, continuing seamlessly through different hands.
As we talked more, Marianna (she graciously allowed me to share her name and our story) showed me how to properly use the bird feeders. We discovered we had so much in common – both of us believers in listening to God through our hearts, both drawn to the same spiritual language.
Marianna and me by the tree
I shared with her how there was a time when I felt deeply connected to the trees, when I would hug one particular tree daily, asking it to be my friend and give me strength – to help me become solid and humble like the tree itself, unassuming and non-presumptuous.
She smiled and said “I have a tree I hug every day too.”
How can such connections be mere coincidence?
Reflections on Divine Orchestration
This whole experience revealed such a beautiful truth to me. It’s not about me or Marianna at all – it’s about God’s tender care for these little birds. They needed to be fed, and He made sure they would be.
One instrument was preparing to leave, and another had already been prepared and placed. The same work of love continuing through different hands. How perfectly He orchestrates!
This experience reinforced what I believe: that God takes care of everything. When we stay in the moment and listen to what our heart is telling us – we become part of His plan. This is what matters most to me: trusting that God handles everything, that He knows everything, and that He is as close as we can imagine, even beyond that.
It’s important to remember and remind ourselves that this is not something we are doing – or to feel great about it. It’s humbling to realize and feel that we are just instruments in God’s hands, just as Marianna was His instrument for the past year. The birds’ needs never go unmet because God sees them, cares for them, and provides for them through willing hearts.
This is the miracle: not the human connection, but the divine provision. God’s seamless care for His creatures, ensuring that the food these birds depend on continues to come, day after day, through whoever He calls to serve. And in this calling, we discover the most intimate relationship of all – with the One who knows everything, who orchestrates everything, who is closer than close.
Thank You, God
Thank you, Marianna, for listening to your Heart and feeding these birds so lovingly, and for helping me see how beautifully God provides for His creation.
And thank you, God, for using us both in Your perfect plan to care for these little ones. Thank you for showing me that even the birds are not forgotten, and that You make sure they are fed through willing hearts.
The miracle isn’t in human connections – it’s in Your seamless, tender care for every living creature. How amazing that You would call me to continue this sweet work of feeding Your birds.
But it’s not just the birds who are taken care of. God’s love is so complete that everyone is taken care of. Marianna and I are both filled with joy, gratitude and trust in You.
Every time we hear God’s voice in our heart and act upon it, we are transformed. When we become His instruments and don’t claim responsibility for ourselves, we are changed in the humblest way. God’s love transforms everyone who is touched by it – it transforms everything connected to it.
Sometimes the most profound truths are revealed in the simplest acts: that God sees, God cares, and God provides – even for the smallest sparrow.
In a small orphanage at the edge of a busy city lived a little girl named Eva. Her dark brown curls framed her almond-colored face. While other children complained of boredom, Eva found magic in the ordinary – ants carrying crumbs in perfect lines, raindrops racing down windowpanes, dandelion seeds drifting on summer air.
Unlike the other children who felt the ache of being parentless, Eva carried a different truth in her heart. Years ago, when she was tiny and weeping because she had no parents, her teacher had knelt beside her.
“You are not an orphan, dear,” the teacher had said softly. “Your true Father and Mother live in your heart.”
Those words planted roots deep in Eva’s soul. She embraced them completely, with that pure, unquestioning faith that only children possess. Not once did doubt cloud her certainty. While other children dreamed of being chosen by new parents, Eva already knew she belonged to someone greater than any earthly parent could be.
Each night, Eva knelt beside her small bed, hands folded tight in prayer. She spoke not to some faraway god but to a Father she knew listened to every whispered word:
My Father, please help me be happy My Father, please show me the way towards You My Father, please help me find my dream My Father, please help me know Your Will for me My Father, be my guide in my heart
On the night before her seventh birthday, after Eva finished her prayer, Eva asked her Father.
Father, could I hear Your voice? Could I see You, just once?
This wasn’t her doubt speaking – it was a child’s heart longing to be closer to someone beloved.
She chose her most treasured dress for the occasion – a light blue sleeveless one with white ruffle frills that touched her knees. It had come in a donation box, but somehow it fit her perfectly, as if meant just for her. She smoothed the fabric with care before climbing into bed, certain that tonight, her birthday night, she would finally meet her Father face to face.
Chapter 2: The Forest’s Welcome
Birdsong woke her – not the usual morning chirps but something musical and intentional, like a birthday melody created just for her. Eva opened her eyes, not to peeling ceiling paint but to ancient trees dappled with golden sunlight.
Fear never touched her. Instead, she felt something like coming home after a long journey – as if the orphanage had been the dream and this forest her real home. The air filled her lungs differently here, each breath deep and sweet.
Eva understood immediately – this was extraordinary and more than a dream. This was an answer, an invitation. The feeling of love surrounding her in this place, the happiness bubbling up from somewhere deep inside – this was her Father’s presence. The forest itself spoke His love directly to her heart.
A blue butterfly landed lightly on her curls. A hummingbird buzzed close, carrying a tiny white flower in its beak, which it tucked gently into her hair. Eva giggled, delighted.
Eva sensing that the beauty around her was a language of love meant just for her, whispered:
“Thank you for inviting me, Father“
A family of deer emerged from between the trees, eyes gentle and knowing. The mother deer approached and nudged Eva’s hand with her velvety nose, then gestured with her head for the girl to follow. The fawn pranced around her excitedly, occasionally rushing back to touch noses with Eva before darting ahead again.
As they walked, Eva noticed how different this forest felt from the small park near the orphanage. The air was pure, each breath filling her with energy. The sky above showed patches of clearest blue, with clouds that seemed to hang low enough to touch, as if welcoming her presence.
In the distance, mountains stood like wise guardians, ancient and knowing. The trees along the path swayed gently, creating a refreshing breeze that carried the scent of wildflowers and old bark. And the flowers themselves – they seemed to turn toward her as she passed, their blossoms brightening, as if offering greeting.
“Everything is alive here“
Eva whispered to herself, understanding intuitively that in this place, everything was aware – conscious in ways she couldn’t fully comprehend but could certainly feel.
Chapter 3: The Garden of Wonder
As the deer family led Eva deeper into the woods, more animals began to appear. Rabbits peeked from behind ferns, squirrels paused on branches to watch her, and butterflies danced around her head.
The mother deer stopped in a patch of sunlight. She looked at Eva, then up at the trees. Eva followed her gaze.
At first, she saw only branches and leaves. But then she noticed how the leaves moved together, like they were talking to each other. The birds weren’t just flying – they were carrying messages from tree to tree.
The fawn nudged Eva’s hand and led her to a puddle of water. When she looked down, she saw not just her reflection but somehow the reflection of the entire forest. In that moment, something clicked in her heart.
“Oh,” Eva whispered. “It’s all connected.”
A bluebird landed on a nearby branch and began to sing. A rabbit thumped its foot in rhythm. Then the crickets joined in, and even the leaves seemed to rustle in time.
Eva didn’t know how, but she understood what they were telling her: Here, nothing is alone. Here, everything belongs. Here, even the smallest ant matters to the tallest tree.
She felt tears of happiness in her eyes. The animals weren’t showing her magic tricks – they were showing her the truth that had always been there, if only people had eyes to see it.
Her heart so full it could no longer contain itself, Eva began to sing. The words came to her as naturally as breathing:
Hidden treasures everywhere, In the earth and in the air. Now my eyes can truly see How we’re bound, eternally.
Father’s love flows through this place, Touching each with gentle grace. Tiny seed and mighty tree, All belong in harmony.
Thank you for this gift so rare, This secret world You chose to share. In my heart I make this vow: I’ll remember what I’ve found now.
When her song ended, the forest responded with a sudden chorus of bird calls, as if applauding. A shower of golden light filtered through the canopy above, touching her face with warmth like a loving hand.
The deer motioned with her head for Eva to follow again. Just ahead, sunlight poured into a clearing where an ancient oak spread its massive branches. Beneath it, an old man tended a garden of plants Eva had never seen before – flowers whose petals seemed to glow from within, medicinal plants whose spicy-sweet fragrances mingled and danced in the air around them. His home was a shelter crafted from interwoven branches and leaves, resembling a giant bird’s nest.
“The birds taught me how,” he would later explain to her with a smile. “They are the greatest architects of the forest.”
The old man looked up. His kind eyes showed no surprise at seeing a seven-year-old girl in a blue dress standing at the edge of his garden, accompanied by woodland creatures.
“Ah, Eva,” he said in a gentle voice. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Throughout the day, Eva experienced wonders beyond imagination. She drank nectar directly from flowers that bent toward her lips, tasted exotic fruits that grew nowhere in her known world, and helped the old man prepare a simple lunch of forest vegetables with lemon and creamy milk made from forest nuts that tasted divine.
“Why is there so much food?” she asked, watching animals come and go, each taking only what they needed.
“In this place,” the old man explained, “there is always enough. No being claims more than they require, and so no being ever lacks. The animals are not lesser than humans here – indeed, in many ways, they understand better how to live in harmony with creation.”
Chapter 4: Father’s Voice
As evening approached, the clouds above the clearing parted, and warm, golden light poured down like honey. Eva felt wrapped in something she couldn’t see but could certainly feel – love, pure and simple.
A voice spoke to her, not through her ears but straight to her heart:
“Few children ever find this place, Eva. You’ve come because your heart has always been open to love.”
Eva stood still, breathing in the golden light. She noticed it dancing around the edges of her blue dress.
“My sweet child,” the voice continued, warm as summer sunshine, “you look so pretty in your special dress. Did you wear it just for me?”
Eva nodded, her face breaking into a delighted smile.
“It’s my favorite,” she whispered. “I wanted to look nice when I met you.”
When the voice fell quiet, Eva gathered her courage. The question she’d wondered about for so long finally found its way out.
“What would you like me to call you?” she asked softly.
“What would you like me to call you?” she asked softly.
A feeling like a gentle smile surrounded her.
“People call me by many names. You can use any that feels right to you.”
Eva thought for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the ruffle on her dress. Looking up into the golden light, she asked,
“Can I call you my Father?”
The light glowed brighter, like a sunrise.
“I am your Father, Eva. I always have been.”
Tears filled her eyes, happy tears that rolled down her cheeks. For a long moment, she simply stood there, letting the words sink deep.
The light shifted, like someone kneeling down to be at her level.
“You’re wondering about going back, aren’t you?” the voice said gently. “About how to find your way when you return to the orphanage.”
Eva looked up in surprise.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“I’m always with you, little one. I know you better than you know yourself.”
She nodded, suddenly shy.
“When I go back… how will I hear you talking to me like this?”
The light seemed to come closer, like a father embracing his child in his arms.
“My voice is quieter there, but it’s still the same voice,” her Father explained. “When you feel peace inside even when things are hard outside, that’s me speaking to you. When you know something is right deep in your heart, that’s me guiding you. Just stay open, like these flowers that always turn toward the sun.”
“But what if someone is mean to me?”
Eva asked, thinking of one of the older girls who sometimes pulled her hair.
“What if I need help and I can’t hear you?”
The light wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
“I’m with you even then, Eva. Sometimes being brave means walking away. Sometimes it means finding someone who can help you. Love doesn’t mean letting others hurt you – it means finding the wisest way forward. When you’re not sure what to do, just get quiet inside and listen. I’ll always find a way to guide you.”
Eva looked at the light around her and smiled.
“Father,” she asked, “in my prayers I always ask to know Your will for me. What is it that You want me to do with my life?”
Her Father’s presence seemed to brighten around her.
“My Will for you, dear one, is simple: to love and be grateful. To see the world as you see it now, with everything connected. To do all things from your heart, whether they seem big or small. When you wash dishes, do it with love. When you help someone, do it with your whole heart. And always remember to be thankful – for the sunrise, for a kind word, for the air you breathe.”
The light gently touched her cheek, like a parent wiping away an unshed tear.
“I don’t need you to do any one specific thing, Eva. I only ask that you bring love and gratitude to everything you do. Your unique way of seeing beauty in simple things is already a gift to the world.”
Eva pondered this for a moment. Then, looking down at her small hands, she asked her next question.
“Father, I’m just a little girl,” she said. “What difference can I make in such a big world?”
“That doesn’t matter, beloved child. What matters is what you choose in each moment. Every choice creates ripples that spread farther than you’ll ever see.
The results of your choices aren’t yours to control. Once you’ve chosen with love, let go of what happens next. The outcome isn’t yours to keep – it was never yours.
A single kind word to someone hurting might save a life you’ll never meet. Standing for truth might spark courage in hearts unknown to you. The smallest act of love ripples outward endlessly, touching shores you’ll never visit.
This is peace – to act with love and then release all attachment to what comes of it. This is how even a little girl becomes light in a shadowed world.”
Eva felt something heavy lift from her shoulders. She didn’t have to fix everything – just do her small part with love.
Looking up into the golden light, she asked her final question, the one she’d wondered about most of all.
“How will I see you when I go back?”
The light grew softer, and her Father answered in words that seemed to sing:
I’m in the love that fills your heart, In happiness that makes you smile. I’m in your faith that never wavers, In your surrender, filled with trust.
When you share kindness with all beings, From tiniest ant to tallest tree, That’s when you see me most clearly – In love that flows abundantly.
Look for me in passing clouds, In birds that soar on gentle wing. I dwell in people all around you, In every plant and living thing.
I live within the smallest atom, While universes rest in me. I’m found in kindness and compassion, In all the goodness you can see.
I’m in your courage when life’s hard, In strength that helps you stand. I’m in the calm that finds your heart, When dark thoughts cloud your mind.
I flow within your very blood, child, And in each breath that gives you life. Open your heart to feel my presence – I’m always here, in joy and strife.
Eva closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. When she opened them again, she saw the forest differently – every leaf, every creature, every ray of sunlight now shimmered with her Father’s presence.
“I see you now,” she whispered, “everywhere.”
Chapter 5: The Inner Light
From the golden light descended a pendant with an emerald stone that seemed to hold the forest’s essence within its depths. A delicate chain formed itself around the stone and gently floated toward Eva, settling around her neck. The pendant came to rest against her heart, warm and pulsing with the same rhythm as her own heartbeat.
“As you asked in your prayers, my will for you is to experience your world with love and kindness, sharing creation’s beauty with all you meet. This pendant will remind you of what you’ve seen here – a secret knowledge to carry in your heart.”
The golden light gradually faded, leaving Eva standing in the clearing with the emerald pendant warm against her skin, glowing with an inner light that matched her heartbeat.
The old gardener approached, kneeling down to her level and placing his weathered hands gently on her shoulders. His eyes held the same loving warmth she’d felt in God’s presence.
“It is time to return, sweet heart,” he said softly, drawing her into a gentle hug that felt like a blessing.
When he released her, he motioned with a loving sweep of his arm toward the wolf pack waiting silently at the clearing’s edge.
“They will guide you safely home.”
The largest wolf, silver-furred with amber eyes, bowed its head low. Eva followed the wolves through the twilight forest, her heart full of wonders seen and wisdom given.
She woke the next morning in her small orphanage bed. For a moment, she thought it had all been a beautiful dream – until she felt something heavy and warm against her chest. Looking down, she found the emerald pendant, glowing with an inner light that only she could see.
Eva smiled, tucking the pendant beneath her dress. Its origin would remain her secret, but its message she would share through how she lived – with kindness, with wonder, and with a heart surrendered to a wisdom greater than her own.
Somewhere above the Indian Ocean, Vaidehi reached for her journal, its pages filled with her dreams and reflections. At thirty-nine, she was finally going home – not just for a visit, but for good. With a smile, she began to write:
February 5, 2018
The morning light streams through the airplane window, and for the first time in nineteen years, I feel completely at peace. No more counting days until my next visit, no more hurried video calls trying to bridge the distance.
All these years, the short visits and the video calls showed me so little of their lives. I have felt heartache and unease every time I realized that they have become weaker, older. The grey in Appa’s hair, the slight tremor in Amma’s hands – changes I should have witnessed gradually, not in sudden snapshots. But that ends today. No more watching them through a screen, no more carefully worded answers meant not to worry me.
I find myself thinking about privilege lately – not just the kind that comes from education and bank accounts, but the rare gifts of having parents who dared to be different.
Despite the cultural pressure to have more children, especially a son, my parents chose to pour all their love into raising their daughter. While many girls were told to limit their dreams, my Appa believed education and one’s passion was one’s sacred right.
These nineteen years in America have taught me much about child psychology and education, but my deepest lessons came from home itself. I learned about community from watching Amma and other women making vathal and appalam together, sharing life’s burdens through simple acts of togetherness. I learned about service from Appa, who turned our modest home into an evening tuition center, believing that knowledge should be accessible to all.
Now it’s time to bring these lessons full circle. My immediate dream is to teach children to understand themselves better using the methods I have learned in America, and from my personal experiences. I want to create spaces where every child feels seen and heard. And perhaps someday, when the time is right, this could grow into something more – my own small school where these values and teaching methods could truly take root. But first, and most importantly, I want to be there for Amma and Appa. To return even a fraction of the care they’ve given me. For now, my heart feels content knowing by tomorrow, I’ll see Appa Amma and live with them for the rest of our lives in my childhood home.
With these final words, Vaidehi gently closed her journal and looked out at the clouds below. A mixture of emotions washed over her – peace at finally heading home for good, happiness at the thought of being with her parents, and yes, that flutter of anxiety about beginning anew. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, feeling her shoulders relax. ‘Everything is fine now’, she whispered to herself.
Her thoughts drifted to her spiritual journey, so different from the traditional path she was raised in. Growing up in the shadow of Sri Ranganathaswamy temple, she had loved the rituals, the festivals, the sense of community – but her own connection to the divine had always been more personal, quieter. She found God in the early morning silence, in acts of kindness, in the peace of meditation, in the joy of teaching. To her, she felt closest to God, the universal Father-Mother, the source of all creation, beyond the rituals and the boundaries of religion or tradition.
She had kept these thoughts mostly to herself, knowing her parents found such deep comfort in traditional practices. It wasn’t that she rejected their ways – she simply found her own path to the divine. Some differences, she had learned, could remain lovingly unspoken, wrapped in the deeper understanding that all paths lead to the same light.
Now, returning home, she felt a deep connection in the simplicity of her purpose – to live in her ancestral home, to care for her parents, to accompany them to the temple they loved, and to share love with the children just as her parents had done. She would help young children realize it is okay to dream differently and find their own path.
After several hours, the plane banked gently, and as the first glimpse of the Indian coastline appeared through the clouds, Vaidehi smiled with a certainty she hadn’t known in years.
Chapter 2 – Return to East Chithirai Street
The taxi wound through the narrow streets of Srirangam. The sounds of Tamil movie songs echoed through the speakers on the street corners, mixing with calls of busy street vendors. The taxi took a sharp left and passed the familiar government higher secondary school where children in blue and white uniforms still poured out of the gates just as they had in her time. A little further down, the St. Josephs convent school’s distinctive yellow walls came into view.
As the taxi turned onto East Chithirai street, memories flooded back – walking these routes with Amma to school, stopping at the corner for kulfi ice cream. As familiar landmarks passed by, Vaidehi’s mind wandered to the home awaiting her. In her mind’s eye, she could see their home’s distinctive red oxide floors (kaavi tharai), always cool even in harsh summers. The mutram, their central courtyard, collected rainwater in the monsoons and moon light in the Pournami nights.
She could almost smell the morning rituals of her childhood – the sharp freshness of camphor from Appa’s early prayers, the sweet incense from their small puja room, mixing with the earthy scent of wet floors as Amma drew her intricate kolams. Every morning, without fail, her mother would wash the front entrance of their home, a ritual as sacred as prayer itself. The kolam-making that followed was more than art – it was her mother’s daily offering to the universe. First, the careful sprinkling of water to clean the floors and settle the dust, then the rhythmic flow of rice flour between practiced fingers, creating patterns that welcomed prosperity while feeding tiny insects and ants. “When we honor the space, we live in,” Amma always said, “we honor all forms of life that share it with us.”
These memories washed over her as divine songs reverberated in the atmosphere – traditional nadhaswaram music floating from the temple. Flower vendors selling jasmine and marigold lined the streets. Vaidehi’s lips parted with a smile as she lowered her window, letting the familiar fragrances flood in. Just a few more turns and she would be home.
Vaidehi’s heart quickened as the taxi turned into the Agraharam – this ancient neighborhood that wrapped around Sri Ranganathaswamy temple like a protective garland. These narrow streets had witnessed centuries of life, from the times when the kings gifted this land to the temple Brahmin community.
“Stop here,” she called to the driver., her eyes immediately drawn to the intricate kolam outside their house. The traditional rice flour design was enhanced with pink, yellow, and green, creating a welcome message more eloquent than words.
Stepping out and wrestling with her two large suitcases, she noticed the familiar brass bucket with water and copper mug by the doorstep – the age-old reminder to wash the feet and hands before entering the home, signifying entering one’s home is by itself a sacred act. Before she could reach for the mug, a warm voice called out. “Vaidehi! Vandhacha?” (You’ve come?)
It was Malathi Mami from next door, her face lighting up with joy. Within moments, other neighbors emerged from their homes, drawn by the sound of her arrival. As she quickly washed her feet, remembering Amma’s words – “Our home is our temple, kanna. We enter it with pure hearts and clean feet.
“Amma! Appa!” she called out, and there they were – her parents appearing in their doorway, her mother’s eyes already brimming with tears. As Appa helped with her luggage, his hands trembling slightly, the reunion became a blur of tears and smiles, of Amma’s tight embraces and Appa’s trembling hands on her head blessing her.
Once the neighbor’s warm greetings subsided and her bags were settled inside her room, the family fell into their familiar evening routine. Yet, Vaidehi noticed the familiar sadness in her parent’s eyes when they thought she wasn’t looking. She recognized that look – the weight of unspoken concerns about their unmarried daughter.
Later, as Amma served filter coffee in the old brass tumblers, her hands lingered a moment too long while passing the cup. “You look thin, Kanna,” she said, her voice carrying years of carefully contained worry.
Vaidehi covered her mother’s hand with her own. “I’m fine, Amma. Really.” She meant it this time, unlike those first dark years after her divorce when ‘fine’ had been a shield against their worry. Five years of marriage to the man they had chosen – a marriage that had crumbled under the weight of betrayal and emotional abuse – had taught her that some kinds of loneliness were far worse than being alone.
“If only you had someone… a child, a companion…” Amma’s voice trailed off.
“Then there would have been three broken hearts instead of one,” Vaidehi replied gently. “Sometimes what seems like our biggest regret is actually our greatest blessing.”
She watched her father in his familiar spot by the window. She knew he carried his own burden of guilt about the marriage he had arranged. “Appa” she said softly, “You taught me to dream. To believe in myself. That’s what helped me survive, what helps me thrive now.”
“But after we’re gone…” Amma began.
“I have plans, Amma,” Vaidehi said, her voice stronger now. “Teaching… Maybe someday, when the time is right, I might even start my own small school. And yes, perhaps adoption too – giving a child the same love you both gave me. And.. maybe someone will come into my life naturally, organically. But this time, it will be on life’s terms, not society’s.”
In the small puja room, Anandan folded his hands before Lord Narayana’s picture. “Avar parthipaaru,” he whispered (He will take care of her). Tonight, these words carried not just worry, but also a father’s gradual acceptance of his daughter’s different path.
Later, Vaidehi found him alone in the mutram. “Appa, my meditation practice, my work – they give me peace. Real peace. Not the kind we pretend to have to make others comfortable.”
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “You were always different, Vaidehi. Stronger than we knew.” He smiled looking at Vaidehi, and gently touched her cheeks, assuring her that he was okay and trusted his daughter’s decision. The evening bells from the temple rang in the distance, as if affirming their quiet understanding.
After saying goodnight to her parents, Vaidehi settled into her childhood room. The familiar space felt both comforting and new, like everything else about this homecoming. She changed into her nightclothes and sat cross-legged on her bed, opening her journal – a practice she had maintained for years now. She picked up her pen and began to write:
February 6, 2018
First day back home. Strange how familiar everything feels, yet different. Seeing Amma and Appa at the doorstep today – I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed their faces until that moment.
Amma’s concerns about me being alone don’t trigger me anymore. A few years ago, I would have been defensive and angry. It’s remarkable how our experiences change us. I feel grateful to attend the therapy sessions to help me understand my anger, my emotions. I feel grateful to practice meditation that has helped me to distance myself from what I am experiencing. I can empathize with Amma now, I see her worry comes from love.
I was so different when I left this house. So rigid, so sure about everything. The divorce changed a lot in me. Taught me life isn’t simple, people aren’t either.
Seeing Malathi Mami today brought up old memories. The way they’d compare Vishnu with me – him being labeled “average,” while I was the “model student.” I remember feeling uncomfortable during those conversations but didn’t understand why then. I just smiled, being secretly proud. Now I wonder how Vishnu is doing. Did those constant comparisons affect him the way I see it affecting children I counsel? Those grades we obsessed over mean nothing in life’s bigger picture.
Being the “perfect student” didn’t prepare me for real life. Didn’t teach me how to handle betrayal or rebuild myself after my marriage ended. I had to learn that the hard way.
Working with traumatized children opened my eyes. I see now how I was affected too – that need to be perfect, to be the best. The anger I carried for not seeing the signs sooner in my marriage, for not having the courage to follow my gut initially.
It took a lot to make this decision to come back. I’m grateful for these years of working on myself. The journey hasn’t been easy, but it has transformed me. I want to pay forward the privileges I’ve had – loving parents, education, the opportunity to be independent and to be self-sufficient. The teaching position at Sri Vivekananda School feels right. I want to help children understand themselves better, something I wish someone had taught me, Vishnu, and many of my other friends.
I will continue to work on my book about mental health in education after I settle in.
For now, I am just glad to be home.
Vaidehi closed her journal and placed it on her desk. She spread the cotton blanket on her bed, wondering if jet lag would let her sleep.
Vaidehi’s mother walked into the room with a glass of hot milk. “Drink this, kanna,” she said. The familiar aroma of pepper, cardamom and turmeric with a hint of sugar brought back childhood memories. Every night without fail, Lakshmi would give her this sleep-inducing home remedy.
“You remembered, Amma.,” Vaidehi smiled, taking the glass.
“How can I forget? You couldn’t sleep without it.” Amma smoothed the blanket and sat by her bedside.
As Vaidehi sipped the comforting drink, she felt her body relaxing. The jet lag didn’t stand a chance against this familiar comfort.
‘Sleep well, kanna,’ Amma whispered after taking the glass from her, and closed the door softly behind her.
Vaidehi felt her eyes growing heavy, jet lag no match for the comforts of home.
Chapter 3: The Taste of Home
The first rays of sunlight filtered through the east window of Vaidehi’s childhood room. Vaidehi woke up to the sounds of the temple bells and morning prayers. The familiar rhythm of steel containers clinking announced the arrival of milk at their doorstep.
After her morning shower, Vaidehi found her mother in the kitchen, the brass filter coffee setup already in progress.
The morning ritual of filter coffee was sacred in their home. Even before sunrise, Amma would begin her ceremony – measuring fresh coffee powder (a precise blend of 80% coffee beans and 20% chicory that gave the decoction its distinct character) into the brass filter’s upper chamber. The slow drip of hot water through the coffee grounds extracted the rich coffee essence, which would become their morning brew.
As Amma handed Vaidehi the perfectly foamed coffee in the brass tumbler-davara, Vaidehi smiled in joy.
“I missed this coffee for so long now. Thanks, Amma.”
“American coffee never quite got it right, did it?” Amma asked with a knowing smile, watching Vaidehi take her first sip.
“Not even close, Amma.,” Vaidehi replied, savoring the perfect blend of bitter and sweet, the creamy texture of properly pulled coffee.
“Wait here,” Amma said, disappearing into the kitchen where the whistle of the pressure cooker meant breakfast is getting ready. The aroma of fresh idli batter being steamed filled the house.
“Lakshmi, did Vaidehi eat breakfast?” Appa called out from the puja room, having finished his morning prayers.
Minutes later, Amma appeared with a plate of pillowy soft idlis, accompanied by her special thenga chutney and a small bowl of idli podi mixed with gingelly oil. “Eat while it’s hot, kanna,” she said, watching with satisfaction as Vaidehi’s face lit up at the sight of her favorite breakfast.
“Wait till you see what I’ve made for lunch.,” Amma added with a smile. Appa chuckled, happily watching his daughter savor each bite. These simple moments, Vaidehi realized, were what she had missed most in America – the taste of love in home-cooked meals, the quiet joy in her parents’ eyes.
Mid-morning brought a surprise visitor – Raman Mama, her maternal uncle, who had always been more like a second father.
“Vaidehi, yepadi ma irukka?” he greeted her warmly, his face brightening with genuine pleasure at seeing his niece. As they caught up on family news and memories, the delicious aroma of Amma’s cooking drifted from the kitchen, promising a feast.
By lunchtime, the banana leaves were spread on the floor, a practice Vaidehi had sorely missed abroad. Amma had outdone herself – golden-brown medhu vadai, crispy appalam, creamy vendakka mor kozhambu and kothavaranga paruppu usuli seasoned just right. Then came the surprise that touched Vaidehi – pineapple rasam with ginger, made exactly as she had discussed with her mother months ago during one of their phone calls. Such a small detail, remembered and recreated with love. A bowl of spiced buttermilk and semiya payasam completed the elaborate meal.
“Amma, you didn’t have to make so many dishes,” Vaidehi protested weakly, even as she delighted in each taste.
“First day home,” Amma said simply. “Everything should be perfect.”
After Mama left, patting Vaidehi’s head with a blessing, the afternoon settled into its familiar rhythm. Appa retreated for his customary nap. Amma busied herself with her post-lunch routine, humming softly as she worked.
Vaidehi sat in the mutram, watching the afternoon light create patterns on the red oxide floor. The perfect time, she thought, to share her plans with her parents once they gathered for evening coffee.
Chapter 4: A Different Approach to Education
“I have some news,” Vaidehi said, looking at her parents.
“Sri Vivekananda School confirmed my position. I’ll be teaching social studies and creative periods, and they’ve agreed to let me be a counselor too.”
“That is wonderful ma.”, Appa said happily.
She paused, then added, “This actually aligns perfectly with the book I’m working on.”
“A book?” Amma’s eyes widened with interest.
“Yes, something I’ve been writing based on my experiences counseling children, my psychology studies, and what I’ve learned about teaching with empathy. It’s about how we can make education more than just academics – helping children understand themselves and others better.”
“Tell us more,” Appa encouraged, leaning back in his chair.
“Well, take how we teach social studies. Instead of just memorizing facts and dates, what if we helped children understand different perspectives? When we study World War II, beyond battles and dates, we explore human choices. Like Chiune Sugihara, the Japanese diplomat who defied orders to save Jewish refugees. What makes someone risk everything for strangers? These discussions help children think about courage, conscience, and doing what’s right.”
Appa nodded, listening intently. Amma, however, looked uncertain. “But the syllabus…”
“We’ll cover everything required, Amma. Just in a way that encourages understanding and empathy.”
“These are such complex topics for children,” she said, still hesitant.
“They grasp more than we think”, Vaidehi assured her.
“First, we give them the historical facts. Then they reflect – what would they think about, worry about, hope for in that situation? When we studied Nelson Mandela, one student wrote letters he might have written to his children from prison. Another wrote about being a prison guard whose views changed after meeting him. Their insights were remarkable.”
“Isn’t that too heavy for them?” Amma asked.
“We handle it sensitively, Amma. Take Oskar Schindler – a businessman who initially just wanted to profit from the war but ended up spending everything he had to save his Jewish workers. Students explore what makes someone change so fundamentally? When does conscience overcome self-interest?”
Appa, deep in thought, asked “And, you think this helps them understand better than just facts?”
“Yes, because they connect emotionally with the situation. When studying environmental issues, they might write from different viewpoints – a farmer watching his land turn barren, a factory worker whose family depends on that job, a child imagining the future they’ll inherit. They share these writings in class, listen to each other’s perspectives. They learn there’s rarely just one side to any story.”
“And they’re learning to express themselves too,” Appa nodded.
“Exactly. Some prefer to present their writings dramatically, others quietly read them. We respect each child’s way of sharing.”
“But kanna, how will you handle children’s personal struggles? These days, there’s so much pressure on them.”, Amma asked with concern.
“That’s where the counseling helps, Amma,” Vaidehi explained. “I worked with many children struggling silently.”
She continued after a pause, “Like this bright fourteen-year-old girl –always scored well, very responsible. Suddenly her grades started dropping. Teachers labeled her ‘distracted,’ parents were frustrated. But when I spoke to her, I realized she was having panic attacks before exams. The pressure to maintain her ‘perfect student’ image was crushing her.”
“In my counseling sessions, I helped her understand that grades don’t define her worth. Taught her simple breathing techniques, ways to handle anxiety. Most importantly, created a safe space where she could talk about her fears without judgment.”
“Tell us more, Vaidehi”, Appa asked.
“There was this twelve-year-old boy avoiding school, claiming stomach aches every morning. Classic anxiety symptoms. Turned out he was being excluded by his friend group. He felt completely alone. So, we worked on building empathy in the whole class. Started a buddy system, had group activities where everyone had to work together.”
Appa sighed, “These children today face so many pressures.”
“Yes, and sometimes they don’t need solutions right away. They just need someone to listen. Like the girl whose parents were divorcing – she didn’t need advice, she just needed space to process her feelings through art therapy. Or the boy who lost his grandmother – we created a memory book where he could write letters to her, share his grief safely.”
“I want them to understand that every person’s journey is unique. There is no single right way to grow, to learn, to be.”
“Meditation and self-reflection help a lot to create self-awareness. A minute of quiet reflection helps students to center themselves. Children can regulate emotions better when they practice self-awareness, by noticing where in the body they feel different emotions. Or having them write about a time they felt angry versus a time they felt peaceful. It’s about making them aware of their inner world.”
“Vaidehi, this is important work. We are so proud of you.”, Amma smiled with pride.
“It’s good and important to give back to the community. How wonderful it is you get to do this through your job!”, Appa beamed.
Vaidehi smiled. “You both have shown me the beauty of giving in your own quiet ways.”.
After a pause, Vaidehi added.
“Appa, I would like to start evening tutoring sessions when summer break begins, I need help finding a space. I plan to teach mathematics and social science.”
Appa face lit up. “I could help with the mathematics,” he offered. “These children need strong fundamentals.”
“The old library space might be perfect for this,” Amma suggested practically. “It’s close by, and many families who know your father used to teach there.”
“That’s wonderful, Amma.”, Vaidehi smiled.
“One step at a time,” she said softly, assuring herself.
A comfortable silence settled between them.
“Shall we go to the temple?” Vaidehi asked, rising from her seat. “It’s been so long since I walked there with both of you.”
“Let me just change into another sari,” Amma joyfully said, already heading to her room.
Appa folded his newspaper with a smile. “We missed going to the temple without you, Kanna. I am so happy you are home with us now.”
As they walked together through the familiar streets – Vaidehi in the middle, her parents on either side – the temple bells began their evening song. Tomorrow would bring new beginnings but tonight was about these precious moments – walking to the temple with her parents, just as they had done countless times before.
Liah had just turned fourteen, and nothing in her world felt right. Her drawings were the only things that made sense anymore; everything else seemed wrong. School was tough, her parents just didn’t understand, and lately, even the sunshine bothered her.
She fell into a vicious cycle: the more she complained, the more unhappy she became, the more she withdrew from others. Making friends became increasingly difficult.
It was almost summer break, and she was looking forward to visiting her grandmother. Her grandmother lived a few hours away in a quaint town. Her grandmother had a gentleness about her that Liah always found comforting.
Liah’s grandmother lived alone in a small house. Her house was simple and minimalistic. Being an avid gardener, she enjoyed growing herb plants in her kitchen. Her backyard was a beautifully tended garden – where she grew everything from roses to potatoes. She also had pet fish in a small outdoor pond. Since Liah was little, their special bond had grown through these quiet moments in the garden, watching and feeding the fish and nurturing the plants.
The first weekend of summer break arrived, and Liah eagerly packed her bags, looking forward to seeing her grandmother. Her parents drove her through the winding country roads and as they pulled up to the familiar white house with its beautiful garden, Liah could see her grandma waiting for her. Liah ran and gave her grandma a big hug. Her parents came home and stayed that night and left early next morning.
That evening, over cups of chamomile tea and homemade cookies, Liah found herself opening up to her grandmother. They sat in the cozy kitchen, where the fading sun cast warm shadows through the window.
Her grandma listened quietly, her gentle eyes encouraging Liah to continue.
“Everything makes me so angry lately”, she confessed, staring at her tea.
“Mom asks how my day was, and I just… snap at her. Dad tries to help me with homework, and I tell him he doesn’t understand anything.”
Her grandma listened quietly.
“The worst part is”, Liah’s voice shaking slightly, “I know they are trying to help. I can see it on their faces when I yell or slam the door. But at that moment, I can’t stop myself. It’s like… something takes over, and later I feel terrible about it.”
“And then”, she continued, picking a cookie without eating it, “Mom leaves little notes in my lunchbox or Dad offers to take me out to a movie, and I feel worse because I was so mean to them. But the next time something happens, I get angry all over again.”
She looked at her grandma, with tearful eyes.
“What’s wrong with me, grandma? I am unable to make friends too.”
Her grandmother reached across the table and held Liah’s hand.
“Nothing is wrong with you, my dear. You’re fourteen, and these feelings… they are like waves sometimes. I remember those days. Everything was so intense, so overwhelming.”
“You felt this way too?”, asked Liah surprised.
“Oh yes”, her grandmother smiled softly. “And that’s why I want to share something with you… something that helped me when I was your age.”
Her grandmother got up and walked to an old wooden cabinet, pulling out a beautifully painted ceramic bowl.
“This is my gratitude bowl.”, she said, running her fingers along the rim.
“When I was your age, I went through difficult times too. My grandmother gave this to me and asked me to write at least 5 things I was grateful for – no matter how small – and put them in this bowl, and I did. My notes would be about the warmth of sunshine, seeing a dancing butterfly, the smell of freshly baked cookies or a kind word from a friend. It helped me, dear.”
Liah picked up the bowl, turning it in her hands.
“Would you like to try?”, asked her grandmother, placing some fresh paper and pen beside Liah.
“Start with just one thing today. What made you smile today?”
Slowly, Liah began to write:
Opening up to grandma
The taste of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
The cute fuzzy cat I saw in the garden
Summer break
Being here at Grandma’s
As she dropped each note in the bowl, something began to shift inside her – somehow Liah felt lighter, happier. She was surprised she had a lot of things to be happy about despite feeling sad.
“I already feel better, grandma.”, Liah said with a smile and squeezed her grandma’s hand.
“I will practice this.”
Over the next few weeks, Liah found herself noticing small blessings – the scent of garden roses, a successful drawing, gardening with grandma, watching the orange fish in the pond. With each note she added, she realized something: her days weren’t as empty as she had thought. Good things had always been there – she just hadn’t been looking for them.
When it was time to leave, her grandmother insisted she take the bowl home.
“It’s yours now.”, she said with a warm smile.
Liah hugged her grandmother and promised she will continue the practice.
Liah had placed the gratitude bowl on her desk in her room. She continued to write gratitude notes every day. She began to appreciate little things around her and found there were many things she was grateful for, to feel happy for.
One evening, as her mother placed a cup of hot chocolate beside her, Liah hesitated for a moment, then picked up the gratitude bowl.
“Grandma gave this to me”, she said, smiling at her mother.
“It is helping me a lot, Mom.”
Her mother listened, intrigued, as Liah explained how the simple act of writing down little joys had changed her perspective.
To her surprise, her mother wanted to try it too. That night at dinner, her mother suggested they all share one good thing from their day. At first, it felt just words spoken out loud but soon, it became their favorite part of the evening. A quiet warmth spread their home, unspoken tensions softened, and they began to feel closer in ways they hadn’t before.
Over time, Liah noticed a shift not just in how she felt, but in how others responded to her. She smiled more, and in turn, others smiled back. Conversations felt easier, friendships blossomed naturally, and she felt no longer trapped in the cycle of frustration. The gratitude practice that started as a simple habit had quietly reshaped her world.
Writing Down Gratitude: Why It Works
When we write down things we’re thankful for each day, it helps us in several ways:
First, it makes us pause and notice. Instead of rushing through our day focusing on what’s wrong, we take a moment to spot what’s right – maybe it’s a good meal, a kind word, or just a peaceful moment.
Second, it changes how our brain works. Just like Liah discovered, looking for good things becomes a habit. Even on difficult days, we get better at finding small positives – not to ignore problems, but to remember that good and bad can exist together.
It’s especially helpful when we’re feeling down or stressed. Reading through old gratitude notes reminds us that we’ve had good moments before and will have them again. These written reminders become powerful when our mood tries to tell us everything is wrong.
The Science Behind Gratitude Practice
When we regularly write down what we’re grateful for, our brain actually changes in several important ways:
Brain Chemistry: – Increases dopamine and serotonin – the “feel-good” chemicals – Reduces cortisol – the stress hormone – Activates the hypothalamus, which regulates sleep, appetite, and mood
Neural Pathways: – Creates new neural patterns, helping us spot positive aspects more easily – Strengthens these pathways through repetition, making positivity more automatic – Reduces our natural “negativity bias” (our brain’s tendency to focus on threats and problems)
Mental Health Benefits: – Improves sleep quality by calming racing thoughts – Reduces anxiety by shifting focus from worries to present moments – Helps manage depression by providing evidence of good experiences – Enhances emotional regulation – making it easier to handle stress
Research shows that consistent gratitude practice for just 21 days can: – Improve overall mood – Increase optimism – Enhance decision-making abilities – Boost problem-solving skills – Strengthen resilience during challenges
Just like physical exercise strengthens muscles, regular gratitude practice strengthens our brain’s ability to notice and appreciate positive aspects of life. This doesn’t eliminate problems, but it helps build mental resources to handle difficulties better.
In Liah’s case, her gratitude practice didn’t change her circumstances, but it changed how she experienced them. She became more aware of the love in her life, the small joys she had overlooked, and in doing so, found a sense of peace that had felt out of reach before.
Once upon a time, in a distant realm, there was an enchanting forest. The forest, home to evergreen trees, birds of many kinds, animals, and insects, sang with beauty, happiness and mystery in its full splendor.
Tall and ancient sequoias, which had lived for thousands of years and stretched endlessly to the sky, were the eldest guardians of this forest. All the beings in the forest believed their emerald crowns could touch the heavens and sing praises of the Creator. These giants bore the wisdom of ages, having witnessed the first of many creations in the forest. Their massive trunks symbolized strength, their firm roots on Earth showed their humility. These humble giants knew every flower that bloomed, every bird that sang and understood all languages of the animals, insects and birds. All beings in the forest called them “the elders” and revered them with love and admiration.
Among these giant sequoias, Eirene was the forest’s eldest guardian. At over 4000 years old, Eirene stood tallest and wisest. On full moon nights, the whole forest gathered at her feet, where Eirene would sing songs of creation, of love, and of divine purpose.
On one such night, Eirene sang – her voice soft as rustling leaves, while all the beings listened with reverence and open hearts.
Bumble bees buzzing on golden daisies Butterflies hovering on delightful pansies Fireflies glittering in evening’s glow Dragonflies hovering in starlit snow Thank you, God, for your beautiful artistry
Zebra galloping swift and strong Deer leaping with graceful joy Monkeys swinging between trees in glee Majestic lions roaming wild and free Thank you, God, for your strength divine
Woodpeckers drumming on sturdy tree bark Owls hooting tales through moonlit dark Hummingbirds dancing with whirring wings Sparrows greeting morning as they sing Thank you, God, for this heavenly chime
Red and white roses in bloom, their passion unfold White jasmine’s intoxication, a treasure to behold Gardenia’s creamy petals whisper deep forest essence Lavender purple, calming peace in twilight presence Thank you, God, for each fragrant prayer
Nature’s symphony – wind, water, song Whispers of hidden stream that gently hum along Distant roar of waterfalls, reminding of a thunderous rain Cool breezes dancing to ease summer’s strain Thank you, God, for Earth’s eternal hymn
Listening to Eirene’s deep and soothing voice, Reya felt peace settle in his heart. Gratefully, he touched his chest with his wings, a tear dropping from his eyes. Majestic and watchful, he perched on Eirene’s ancient branches, his yellow beak shining like shimmering gold. His sharp yet gentle eyes gazed at his family nest, where his young chicks slept peacefully.
Reya had immense gratitude for the forest. In the shelter of Eirene’s roots lay the beginning of Reya’s story – an egg tossed by a mighty storm, found and protected by the entire forest. Eirene felt motherly towards this egg and whispered to her forest friends, who kept the precious egg warm and safe. When the chick hatched, Eirene named him Reya, and the forest became his first teacher.
The forest creatures became Reya’s family, each teaching him in their own way. The sparrows shared their joy of flight, the lion taught him courage in silence, and Eirene, with her ancient wisdom, became more than a teacher – she became the mother his heart needed.
As seasons passed and Reya watched his own chicks grow, a quiet sadness became to stir his heart. Each night, as the forest settled into darkness, questions about his past surfaced. Even surrounded by so much love, there was a gentle ache he couldn’t quite name – especially when he watched his little ones nestled close to their mother.
One day, Reya sat quietly on his branch, deep in thought.
Eirene noticed the sadness in Reya’s eyes and asked:
“What is in your mind, Reya?”
With his eyes lowered, Reya said:
“My heart overflows with gratitude for all I have received. You have been more than a guardian, Eirene – you and the forest have been the family I needed. You taught me not just how to live, but how to understand the Creator’s Love.”
Reya paused.
Eirene said gently,
“That is the Will of God. He wants you to be happy and ensures you get the help you need. We were just His instruments, doing what we were meant to do. Every forest creature who helped raise you was His way of holding you close. He speaks to us through the love we share. I am grateful to Him that you are grateful, my dear Reya. But tell me, what is troubling you?”
Reya looked away.
“I am grateful for everything, but lately my heart feels heavy. When I see my chicks with their mother, I can’t help but wonder about my own parents. There’s a darkness inside me I can’t shake, even though I know I should feel only gratitude. Please forgive me.”
“And, if it is in His Will that I must be happy, why does my heart still ache?” Reya asked softly.
Eirene looked at Reya with kindness as a gentle breeze stirred the air. She spoke softly,
“My dear Reya, what you’re feeling isn’t wrong. Missing your parents while being grateful for your present life – both can exist together. ”
She paused before continuing,
“The Creator gave us free will because love cannot be forced. Each challenge – each life facility – is an opportunity to choose love again. Your sadness isn’t a failure, Reya. It’s part of your journey home to Him.
Life gives us challenges – what I call life ‘facilities.’ Each difficulty is an invitation to grow closer to the Creator. Your sadness about your parents is one such ‘facility,’ a chance to deepen your understanding of true love.
My dear Reya, our Creator speaks to us from our hearts. Beneath every voice that guided you, behind every act of love from our forest family, there has always been one true Parent – our Creator. Listen to Him. When we surrender to His love, joy and peace follow.
As you meditate, you hear His voice more clearly, and you realize He is with you all the time and only we choose to move away from Him due to our own busyness and wants. The act of surrendering ourselves to Him and living each moment completely in the present brings us joy and peace. We act out His Will as we surrender to Him. It is a joy that needs to be experienced. Do not worry, Reya. I will pray to Him for your peace.”
Eireen smiled and closed her eyes for a moment in a heartfelt prayer. When she opened them, the sun was setting, painting the sky in blazing orange and soft pink. The birds chirped joyfully as they returned to their nests, bringing a sense of calm to the forest.
Eireen looked at Reya with gentle kindness and said,
“Reya, just touch your heart. Smile to your heart with the same happiness you feel when you see your chicks. Feel the gratitude. When you feel naturally at peace, close your eyes and meditate. Remember, our Creator has given us everything in this moment. Ask Him for faith, for trust. Pray to him wholeheartedly, Reya. He is always listening to you and helping you.”
Eirene closed her eyes and continued,
“Thoughts are like a web. The more we think, the more we become trapped, like a little fly. The only way out is to relax, smile and touch our Heart. Feel the Love. That Love will free you from your thoughts.”
Reya with tears in his eyes and a heart full of gratitude, said,
“Thank you Eirene. Thank you for listening to me. I feel much lighter. I will do as you say.”
With that, Reya closed his eyes and touched his heart with his wings and sat in deep silence.
Days passed, and Reya meditated each morning and evening. Slowly a gentle peace began to settle with him.
One morning, while flying far from his nest to gather food for his chicks, Reya felt something in his heart – a quiet but clear voice urging him to return home. Without hesitation, he turned back immediately.
As he approached the forest, he saw smoke rising above the trees. He flew towards the danger and discovered flames spreading through the forest. He found young birds trembling in their nests, unable to fly. Without a second thought, Reya began gathering them on his strong wings, carrying them to safety.
Flight after flight, he returned to the flames, rescuing as many as he could. The heat scorched his feathers, and his wings ached, but Reya kept going. He guided smaller creatures to shelter and refused to rest until every creature he could find was safe.
When the fire finally subsided, Reya sat quietly on Eirene’s branches. His body was tired, but his heart was light and content.
“How did you know to come back?”, asked a young sparrow that he had rescued.
Reya was silent for a moment before answering with deep gratitude,
“I heard a voice in my heart. It guided me to save our forest family. It was the voice of our Creator.”
Eirene, who had stood strong through the fire, spoke softly.
“You see, Reya, our Creator’s Love flows through our actions. Today, you were His instrument, just like when the forest creatures were His arms of protection for a lost egg.”
Reya looked at his wife and his sleeping chicks, safe in their nest. He understood now – his story wasn’t just about living but about living with purpose: to serve the Creator and extend love to others.
That night, Reya felt complete. His meditations have prepared him to trust the quiet voice of love within his heart. Reya was finally at peace, knowing his true Parents have been with him all along, residing in his heart.
As all the forest settled into a peaceful evening, Eirene sang in joy:
Praise to You, our Creator of Peace Praise to You, our Creator of Joy Praise to You, the most Powerful Praise to You, the Gentlest Praise to You, the True Source of Unconditional Love
Thank you for giving us all we need without us having to ask Thank you for being the voice in our hearts, guiding us to our True Home Thank you for forgiving us for our mistakes Thank you for healing us Thank you for loving us unconditionally
Praise to You, our Creator of Peace Praise to You, our Creator of Joy Praise to You, the most Powerful Praise to You, the Gentlest Praise to You, the True Source of Unconditional Love
As the laptop screen dims on another workday, Annie feels the familiar call of her evening ritual – that sacred pause between who she needs to be and who she truly is. The shower beckons, promising its daily transformation. She has learnt to trust these shower routines as her daily alchemy, transforming work-worn moments into peace.
Disconnecting from outside chaos, she steps into her bathroom leaving her phone behind. Her bare feet touching the bathroom floor, she is aware of each step. She looks at herself in the mirror, loosens her neck, and takes a deep breath. She brings herself to the moment before turning the shower on.
Steam begins to rise, creating a dreamy veil in the bathroom. A lavender candle flickers in the corner, its gentle aroma mixing with the rising mist. She steps into the shower, letting hot water stream over her like a waterfall of mercy, each drop washing away the digital echoes of the day. The bathroom slowly fills with fog, creating her own peaceful sanctuary.
A variety of soaps wait for her to be picked up, each fragrance in her collection speaks to her differently – lavender whispers calm like a twilight, rose calls for a walk in a lovely garden, jasmine carries echoes of childhood summers when fresh blooms adorned her hair, and citrus sings morning freshness. She holds each bar as if reading a story through her palms, letting the day’s need guide her choice.
Today her hands reach for the rose soap, which melts between her warming palms like a flower opening to morning sun. Each bubble carries memories of garden walks, each fragrant swirl a gentle reminder of beauty in simplicity. She watches the lather trace patterns on her skin, letting the water’s rhythm wash away the digital static of her day.
After the cascading waters release their healing, she envelops her body in a cotton cloud towel, this simple act as a continuation of her evening grace. She walks slowly towards the mirror and meets her reflection with a smile. She opens the drawer and gets a few oils out and carefully places them. She mixes the Vitamin E infused coconut oil with a few drops of lavender oil and rubs them against her palms until warm and gently applies them on her skin passionately feeling every bump. She listens to her skin, her body and what her body tells her. She massages her stomach, legs, hands with oil. Next, she gets her favorite Shea oil and rubs along with a few drops of lavender oil in her palms until warm, and applies on her neck and face in a slow mindful upward circular motion.
Each mindful touch – from trimming nails to brushing teeth – becomes another note in the symphony of self-care. She then gently massages castor oil into her eyebrows and eyelashes.
She pauses and takes a moment to smell the oil from her palms, gazing at herself with gratitude for her body, acknowledging the beauty she is, as she is a child of the Creator Himself.
She wears her sleepwear that her body can breathe in, combs her hair parting sideways, applies her favorite rose scented cologne behind her ears.
Facing the mirror one last time, she sees beyond the reflection to the journey of her evening ritual. The day’s tensions have dissolved like soap bubbles, transformed into something lighter, clearer.
As she winds up in bed to self-reflect with her chamomile tea, she feels restored to herself – not just clean, but renewed. Her gratitude flows as naturally as the evening’s ritual, each word a testament to this daily practice of coming home to herself.
The sky bursts into magnificent shades of orange and red, like flames dancing across the clouds. City buildings stand dark against the brilliant sunrise, their silhouettes sharp and strong. Against this stunning backdrop, Ann stands at her balcony with her precisely made coffee: two specific spoons of instant coffee from different brands, mixed until they create the perfect foam and topped with exactly half a cup of frothed almond milk. These careful rituals have become her anchor in a world that feels increasingly overwhelming.
Nature’s Messengers
On the Eastern Redbud tree overlooking her balcony, four of God’s messengers gather as they do every morning. Their daily ritual of watching over Ann has become their own sacred practice.
“Another beautiful sunrise,” Zeo, the yellow butterfly with blue stripes, whispers as she settles on a branch. “Each new day is a chance to share God’s love.”
“Ann seems more tired today,” Pip the sparrow observes gently, tilting his head. “I’ll sing an extra sweet song this morning – sometimes a single note of joy can lift a heavy heart.”
“We must be patient,” Luna, the grey moth, shares from her quiet corner. “Just as God waited for me to understand that beauty exists in darkness and light, Ann will find her way. Until then, we’ll keep her company in our own ways.”
Rio, the hummingbird, pauses between visiting flowers. “Every bloom I touch is a prayer,” she hums. “Each flower blossoms exactly as God created it – offering its unique gifts with joy, whether it’s color, fragrance, or sweet nectar. They don’t compete or compare; they simply bloom and share God’s love in their own perfect way.”
The Silent Watchers
They watch as Ann puts on her noise-canceling headphones, blocking out their messages of hope. Yet they remain faithful to their purpose, these small angels in nature’s garden. Her golden lab, Tuffy, shares their mission in his own way. During their walks, while Ann hurries along with her headphones firmly in place, Tuffy feels the grass beneath his paws, catches the scent of morning dew, and notices every squirrel and butterfly. He never grows impatient with her hurried pace; he simply keeps offering these moments of joy, trusting she would notice when she’s ready.
The Awakening
Then one morning, halfway through their walk, Ann’s headphones die unexpectedly. The sudden silence feels like a shock. Frustrated, she removes them, and that’s when Pip sees his chance. He flies closer than usual, singing the song he’s been practicing just for her.
“Listen,” he seems to say, “God’s love is in every note.”
For the first time, Ann really hears the chorus of morning songs weaving through the air. She finds herself smiling, surprising herself. She notices the way sunlight filters through leaves, the gentle sway of trees in the morning breeze, the different pitches of birdsong.
The Journey Begins
The next day, though her headphones are fully charged, she finds herself removing them halfway through her walk, curious to hear the birds again. Walking along the trail, she finds comfort in the gentle presence of trees lining both sides of the path. Beneath their canopy, she feels her shoulders relaxing, her steps becoming lighter. She notices how the morning light filters through the leaves, creating patterns that dance with each breeze. Something about being among these quiet giants brings a peace she hadn’t known she was missing.
Each day, she starts looking forward to these moments of quiet discovery. What begins as a simple week-long experiment slowly changes something deep within her. Walking among the trees, she feels a subtle energy, as if their very presence is nurturing her spirit back to life.
The Transformation
Gradually, Ann’s carefully structured routines begin to soften. Her morning coffee ritual remains, but instead of immediately reaching for her headphones, she finds herself lingering on the balcony, watching the day unfold. From their branch on the Redbud tree, the four divine friends watch her transformation with joy.
“See how she notices the small things now,” Zeo flutters with excitement. “Just as God’s love appears in unexpected moments.”
“She’s learning to be still,” Luna observes. “Like how evening shadows teach us that rest is also part of God’s plan.”
“And look how she takes time with each flower now,” Rio adds, “finding sweetness in the present moment, just as God intended.”
Finding Joy
Pip’s morning songs become Ann’s natural soundtrack, more soothing than any musical album. The hummingbird’s focused dance among her flowers shows her how to be present in each moment. Her evening walks with Tuffy change too. She begins to match his unhurried pace, letting him stop to investigate interesting smells, watching how he approaches each moment with fresh curiosity. She begins to appreciate Tuffy’s innocence, unconditional love and finding joy in the simplest moments. The setting sun paints the sky in soft colors, and sometimes Luna flutters past, reminding her that beauty exists in all forms, at all hours.
The Inner Voice
One morning, as Zeo makes her daily visit, Ann realizes something has shifted within her. The heavy feelings haven’t disappeared entirely – they’re part of her journey – but they no longer feel like walls closing in. Instead, like the butterfly that returns despite rain or wind, she has found a quiet persistence within herself.
“Each flower gives what it has,” she hears a voice deep within her heart. Each flower, each bird, each creature has its own way of sharing love with the world. No one better than another, each one perfect in its own right.
Coming Home
As days pass, Ann’s awareness deepens. She begins to realize that these creatures are more than just chance encounters – they’re messengers of divine love, each offering their unique gift. Zeo brings reminders of joy’s persistence, Pip shares songs of morning hope, Luna shows the beauty of quiet presence, and Rio demonstrates how to find sweetness in each moment.
She realizes something profound: she has never truly been alone. All along, she’s had these beautiful companions – the trees offering their steady presence, the birds sharing their songs, the flowers blooming faithfully, and even Luna appearing in the evening hours. She can talk to them, share with them, find comfort in their constant presence.
Together, they form a small choir of God’s love, and Ann has finally joined their song. Now, as she sits on her balcony each morning, coffee in hand and heart open to their presence, she hears the divine melody that has always been there, waiting for her to listen.
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