03:45, Thursday, November 24, 2009 the ‘biggle’, oh, that horn had its effect on me. Not long after....., “if you are still on the bed you’re wrong......”, “HOW?!!!!!!” “Is it day-break already?”... “I still need more sleep”, but right at that time my options were limited, at least for this day. I had to stand up from my so-called mattress and get out for the drills! “KILLER” is his name, at least that’s what we know him by, a paramilitary with a God-given talent – his mouth. He made ...

My country weeps through the night My country weeps in deep fright My country weeps and prays to see the rising of the sun
For my country has its land – its own Zarephath We have our place of Refinement But we live in our land like a widow For our widowhood signifies desolation How Ironic and painful That desolation thrives in a place of Refinement
My country’s case is like a child who resides on a pasture-covered ground A ground flowing with water, milk and honey “Go on child, eat of your refinement!” But he can’t for the pasture-covered ground is covered by a steel sheet of corruption, filth and worst of all, ignorance…
This child starves and goes more hungry as the days go by The elements don’t favor him but add to his peril And standing afar off is a vulture waiting for the child to breathe his last so it can feast on its frail frame
So my country weeps My country weeps for agony of this child of promise My country weeps for the one whose life is about to fizzle away My country weeps for...

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the two pots had a crack in it, while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long work from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full. For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and the half pots full of water to his house. Of course, the perfect one was proud of its accomplishments, perfect for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you. I have been able to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work, and you don’t get full value from your efforts”, the pot said.

Harrowing moments later, a weary traveler takes sure steps towards his new home. By his side is his friend – a little mutt with a lisp in his bark. At his back is a country he once sought. He had found his way with a choice: he’d rather leave the place where tears aren’t orphans of a grieving heart than leave the ordinariness of friendship. Only then does he experience something truly frighteningly magical. A few feet from the gates, his faithful friend falls limply to his side, convulsing violently as his tender frame strikes the dust. The dog’s eyes are cold as stone, his paws as lifeless and rigid as a desert tree branch. Just then, stolen by a fright and angst, knowing that something is utterly wrong, the traveler rises in protest, and would be foolish enough to attempt to kill two immortals if not that something else happens. Suddenly, the convulsing violence of his friend’s carcass dematerializes, and like smoke from a writer’s cigar – heavy and erotic – a much grander being materializes. Out of awe or fright or necessity, the seeker’s knees give way, and he falls like his friend – who is no more – once fell.

I know a story with dusty feet, mud and dreams; a story with pearly gates, a dog and an experience. It is the song we sing about a journey, a journey with one man – restless and seeking – on the way to heaven. With nothing more than a little sack of nothings and a bigger bag of hope, this little man goes in search of heaven’s famed doors, Orún. He sought that place where tears aren’t truant orphans of a grieving heart, where the stars smiled back at you. He heard he could find this place on a mountain. So he starts to climb up towards the blue sky. And though, sometimes he has dust in his eyes, and other times the skies turn black with despair, he will not let off. Well, the gods don’t seem to agree with his contrived journey in their high councils for they send rain and frightening clouds.

In your throat A heavy chest, windy sighs Despair at living Plodding on with muddied feet towards prairies we haven’t seen Striving to dance to echoes of tunes we haven’t heard Have you ever feared to be alone And then groaned when company came? Have you ached to noisy innards But hated the silence thereafter Pored through a theology book and came off With neither questions nor answers but

After he had led a numbed tax-collector through the prayer, the Rabbi stood, prompting others to rise quickly, and then marched right out the door, but not before reminding his host to attend a crusade in seven days at the town of Galilee. The room quickly grew empty, leaving a confused midget standing with one hand held up – boy-scout style. Josephus had peeped from around the corner, disappeared, and then reappeared with the other servants. They got down to work immediately – clearing the crumbs and cleaning the spills of wine. Perhaps it was how his master looked; Josephus knew better than to interrogate Zacchaeus.

‘And my question is this, Zacchaeus...’ Jesus continued, as soon as the tax collector had fidgeted into his seat, ‘do you have a question for me?’ he asked peering into his eyes, his head turned, his beard flayed playfully over his right fist. Zacchaeus searched within his heart. He once heard a Rabbi say that the one who really knows asks questions. Zacchaeus realized he knew nothing. But he knew himself. He knew his struggles and doubts. He knew his fears. He knew his desires. He knew his conscience. The others in the room. His servants. What will they think of him? All his life he had fought to stand tall – taller than any man around him. He fought his own inadequacies by denying them. Now, he knew he had to let go of his trees and branches – all those things that made others look up to him. He had to come down – just like the Master had said earlier in the day. Come down Zacchaeus. This day, we will dine in your home. What did it matter what others felt? He had come down then. He will do it again – for good. He found his voice. ‘Master, how...what...how ought, how ought I to live? What is this, this way, this life you speak of? What must your servant do to live?’ A reassuring smile ran across the Rabbi’s gaunt face. His beard looked fuller, more inviting. Still, Zacchaeus’ heart raced faster than Roman chariots of Pontius. What will he tell me? Will he tell me about my past or my future? Will he ask me to give all I have to the poor, to return what I have stolen? What will he say? The night came slowly. A full moon – brighter than usual. Zacchaeus, in his night clothes, wandered from the window and dropped himself nimbly on the very seat he had occupied during the daytime. The guest was gone. Josephus and his subordinates had cleared the remains of the feast well. Except for a splurge of wine in one corner of the room. The ants were helping out with that. He looked through the window again. A full moon. Does God mock me? All is brighter than usual, and yet I cannot clearly see. My heart is yet as dark as it always has been. He buried his head in his hands, trying to make sense of what the Rabbi had said to him. His memory told the story impeccably. After he had asked the question through stuttering lips, after he had thrown caution to the wind and voiced his heart’s deepest longing, the Rabbi entered into a discourse that he’d never forget: ‘It’s simple Zacchaeus’, the Rabbi had said, glassy-eyed. ‘There is only one way to live’. Zacchaeus grew very quiet. Everything became silent – the voices of his fears, his consternation – his guilt. Everyone felt the sacredness of the moment. Even the wind stopped blowing as fiercely as it was a few seconds ago. It had been like creation stood still. The rumors must have been true, Zacchaeus had thought. This man can calm storms. Might he calm the storm that is my life this day? ‘Do you know about the Trinity?’ ‘The three...?’ ‘The Trinity, Zacchaeus! The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit? You know? Three persons, one being and all that stuff? Do you believe it?’ ‘I...forgive me Master, I do not understand this ‘trinity’ you speak of. Is...’ ‘What about the baptism in the Holy Spirit? Speaking in tongues – do you believe that, Zacchaeus?’ ‘Tongues? Does the Spirit speak in other tongues your servant must...’

There he was. Sitting in his own house! What wind had favored his abode that day? Who was he that a Rabbi of such repute, one most others thought to be the Messiah himself, would come and dine with? He? The tax-collector? It didn’t add up. Most things in his short life didn’t add up either. His father was tall and strongly built; he, a splitting image of his father, had the body of a fourteen year old. It was well enough that his pocket had heights and depths others could only dream of. Still, in spite of his wealth, there were no obvious reasons why the Rabbi picked him. Perhaps it was to mock him, and create mirth for the people trying to catch a glimpse of him outside the window. The scoundrels! They had mocked him as he grappled with that winding tree branch, creating a stir as the Rabbi passed. He had much to thank them for though. He got noticed. Now the one all of Israel thronged after, the young Rabbi that straddled the thin line between the Pharisees’ wonder and deep hatred, found his abode fitting for luxury. Life does have its ups. He smiled as the Rabbi, from the corner he had come to observe him, delicately downed the rich bread before him. He observed his peculiarities – like dipping bread into the cup of rich wine or sticking his finger into the concomitant mixture and stirring, crumbs et al. Water...he’ll need water... ‘Josephus! Water! With a white cloth, now!’ he whispered forcefully to his servant – trying to remain oblivious. He failed – the Rabbi turned and his eyes found him out amidst the frantic movements and the loud din that had enveloped the room.

When we listen We will hear the ancient waterfalls A million teardrops over haughty crests When we listen We will know the colors of joyful wings Swarming over maiden earth and sea When we listen We will find the common treasure house The inheritance of the sons of Eden