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Tuesday, 24 June 2008

The Seed

Pics from the 1970's TV series Jesus of Nazareth and a new song by Paul Lisney called 'The Seed'

Monday, 23 June 2008

A Trusting Prayer ..a story from Zaire


Helen Roseveare, a missionary doctor from England to Zaire Africa, told this as it happened to her in Africa. "One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all we could do she died leaving us with a tiny premature baby and a crying two-year-old daughter. .

We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive, as we had no incubator. (We had no electricity to run an incubator.) We also had no special feeding facilities. Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton wool the baby would be wrapped in. Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst. Rubber perishes easily in tropical climates. "And it is our last hot water bottle!" she exclaimed. .

As in the West it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst water bottles. They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways. "All right," I said, "Put the baby as near the fire as you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts. "Your job is to keep the baby warm." The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle. The baby could so easily die if it got chills. I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died. .

During the prayer time, one ten-year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African children. "Please, God," she prayed, "send us a water bottle. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon." While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added by way of a corollary, "And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?" .

As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say, "Amen?" I just did not believe that God could do this. Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything. The Bible says so. But there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever received a parcel from home. Anyway, if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle. .

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time I reached home, the car had gone, but there, on the verandah, was a large twenty-two pound parcel. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly. Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a little bored. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas -- that would make a nice batch of buns for the weekend. .

Then, as I put my hand in again, I felt the.... could it really be? I grasped it and pulled it out -- yes, a brand-new, rubber hot water bottle! I cried. I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could. Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, "If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!" Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted. Looking up at me, she asked: "Can I go over with you, Mummy, and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?" .

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months. Packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator. And one of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child -- five months before -- in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it "that afternoon." "Before they call, I will answer!" Isa 65:24

Wednesday, 18 June 2008

How Many Know ?



Pics from the movie Passion of Christ and a song called 5480 by Paul Lisney , based on revelations given to St Bridget about the Passion..tremendous song

Tuesday, 17 June 2008

Jesus Wept ... a story from India

One of my earliest childhood memories is of hearing sounds. Not the loving caressing sounds mother’s make to little babies, nor even the chatter of brothers and sisters at home; but rather the shouting and yelling of hordes of children. For my childhood began in a convent as my parents had abandoned me. As I grew up, I was sent to school and lived in a hostel run by the sisters. Even at that age I realized the closeness and belonging that other children had towards their parents. As per the hostel rules, parents were allowed to come over at weekend and meet their children. As he weekend would approach, I used to wait for my parents, longing to see them and give them a hug, as I saw my friends do with their parents. With tears in my eyes, I would have my gaze fixed at the front gate hoping that they would come some day. But they never did. When I asked about my parents, I was told that they would never come, as they did not want me.

I felt lonely, forsaken and angry with my parents. As time went on I subconsciously developed anger towards God for having allowed me to grow up without parental love. Hurting deep inside myself, I channeled my energy and time into my studies and became a top student. I prided myself on my intelligence and independence, with never so much as a thank you to anyone, let alone God. I went to college in Shimla and had many friends from all parts of India. I looked up to them to fill the emptiness I had within me. In order to remain updated to the worldly standard, my friends and I would not miss a single ball in cricket matches, watch the latest MTV hits, get the latest fashions etc. I knew these pleasures were temporary but I depended on them to fill the void of a lack of love in my life.

In 1999 I attended a retreat in Kerala, a life in the Spirit seminar. The last day was the Baptism of the Holy Spirit session and as I progressed I could here people shouting and crying. The Priest leading the session explained that Jesus is present in the Blessed Sacrament. I wondered to myself why nothing was happening to me. He quoted from Isaiah 49:15 “can a woman forget her own baby and not love the child she bore ? Even if a mother should forget her child, I will never forget you” I was shocked; the words seemed to be spoken specifically to me. They burned a lasting imprint into my mind and heart. Tears welled up in my eyes and as I looked towards the blessed sacrament, I saw a figure, with arms outstretched towards me. It was Jesus and He also was weeping. Believe me friends, Jesus wept. He wept with me..He wept for me...I had a deep sense of being understood by someone at last. And not just understood; here was someone who was crying along with me.

From that moment I was a changed person and my relationship with Jesus has been growing everyday. He gave me guidance and strength to walk in His ways. I spent time with Him and the desire for worldy pleasure died down. I received the grace to forgive my parents and to pray for them and love them. I feel no pain now.

Mary's Garden



Pics form England's National Shrine of Our Lady in Walsingham and a song called Mary's Garden by Paul Lisney