life with a compassionate heart. He understood human nature and was ready to forgive. He played the game of life with honor and integrity. The elders of our village respected him, and the younger men looked up to him. He was an example to all that success can come to an honest man.
Father celebrated life. He savored the wine of the present moment, and danced in step with the rhythm of life.
The Seer
M Y FIRST MEMORIES ARE of my dear mother, Nadia. She wore a kerchief tied under her chin that accentuated her chiseled facial features. She was calm and aloof, with a gentle smile.
As a child my sleep was troubled. Many nights I lay awake, tossing and turning in my bed. Feelings of foreboding overtook me. On the far side of the horizon a dark storm was brewing. The sunshine of my childhood would be blotted out by a torrential rain of terror.
Pulling back the covers, I got out of bed and tiptoed to the parlor. Standing in the arched entranceway I peeked into the tranquil room. In the quiet of the night I saw my mother, contemplating. She was seated in a high-backed chair, a quilt folded across her lap. A candle flickered on the bureau, light chasing shadows across her face. Mother gazed out the north window, entranced by the sparkling starlight, in awe of the wonder of God’s creation. The stars spoke to her in the silent language of the universe. What was she doing? Receiving messages from the stars? My child-mind wondered what the stars were telling her.
The stars are her teachers
, I thought.
They are teaching her the Language of Light
.
The womenfolk took particular notice of my mother. They saw that she was different. They recognized that look in her eyes: she knew things. The village women called her “the Seer.” Her piercing eyes saw through illusion. Like a hawk, she watched over the landscape of life. But there was a blind spot in her vision. She did not see what was to come.
My path was laid out before me. By acts of grace, signs from heaven appeared to guide me. But Mother did not see her future fate. A vision of destruction would have tarnished the happy moments of the now.
Race and Nationality
O NE AFTERNOON I WALKED slowly home from school, troubled by the biased opinions voiced by my teacher, shocked by the anger expressed by my classmates. What had begun as a discussion about European history quickly escalated into heated arguments among the students. Sparks of anger ignited latent prejudices, and a sense of self-righteousness filled the air. My teacher was overwhelmed by the uproar, unable to maintain order in the classroom. The subject of our lesson was “race and nationality.”
I sought counsel from my mother. I found her working in the garden, watering flowers of many colors. She offered me clarity of vision that helped me see in new ways.
“Mother,” I asked, “The Bible says the Jewish people are chosen by God. My teacher says that in Germany, Jews are considered inferior, and the Aryans are the master race. Who is right?”
Mother answered, “Neither one is right in the sense that no race or people is superior to another. God loves all people equally. He does not care what color skin a person has or what religion he follows. He cares about what is in a person’s heart. Each race and each nation is like a flower, of a different kind and color, planted in God’s garden. He wishes for all to flourish.”
My mother had the courage to speak what she considered to be true. She listened to her heart rather than following the dictates of popular opinion.
A Sacred Mission
C ARRYING A HARVEST BASKET of carrots and parsnips, Mother left the garden to prepare the evening meal. I sat down under my favorite tree, leaning against the strong trunk. Deep roots reached into the earth, and tall branches stretched out to meet the sky. As I felt the healing power of nature, I knew that I was safe in God’s kingdom. Sitting under the protective umbrella of leaves, I reflected on what had happened in
Father celebrated life. He savored the wine of the present moment, and danced in step with the rhythm of life.
The Seer
M Y FIRST MEMORIES ARE of my dear mother, Nadia. She wore a kerchief tied under her chin that accentuated her chiseled facial features. She was calm and aloof, with a gentle smile.
As a child my sleep was troubled. Many nights I lay awake, tossing and turning in my bed. Feelings of foreboding overtook me. On the far side of the horizon a dark storm was brewing. The sunshine of my childhood would be blotted out by a torrential rain of terror.
Pulling back the covers, I got out of bed and tiptoed to the parlor. Standing in the arched entranceway I peeked into the tranquil room. In the quiet of the night I saw my mother, contemplating. She was seated in a high-backed chair, a quilt folded across her lap. A candle flickered on the bureau, light chasing shadows across her face. Mother gazed out the north window, entranced by the sparkling starlight, in awe of the wonder of God’s creation. The stars spoke to her in the silent language of the universe. What was she doing? Receiving messages from the stars? My child-mind wondered what the stars were telling her.
The stars are her teachers
, I thought.
They are teaching her the Language of Light
.
The womenfolk took particular notice of my mother. They saw that she was different. They recognized that look in her eyes: she knew things. The village women called her “the Seer.” Her piercing eyes saw through illusion. Like a hawk, she watched over the landscape of life. But there was a blind spot in her vision. She did not see what was to come.
My path was laid out before me. By acts of grace, signs from heaven appeared to guide me. But Mother did not see her future fate. A vision of destruction would have tarnished the happy moments of the now.
Race and Nationality
O NE AFTERNOON I WALKED slowly home from school, troubled by the biased opinions voiced by my teacher, shocked by the anger expressed by my classmates. What had begun as a discussion about European history quickly escalated into heated arguments among the students. Sparks of anger ignited latent prejudices, and a sense of self-righteousness filled the air. My teacher was overwhelmed by the uproar, unable to maintain order in the classroom. The subject of our lesson was “race and nationality.”
I sought counsel from my mother. I found her working in the garden, watering flowers of many colors. She offered me clarity of vision that helped me see in new ways.
“Mother,” I asked, “The Bible says the Jewish people are chosen by God. My teacher says that in Germany, Jews are considered inferior, and the Aryans are the master race. Who is right?”
Mother answered, “Neither one is right in the sense that no race or people is superior to another. God loves all people equally. He does not care what color skin a person has or what religion he follows. He cares about what is in a person’s heart. Each race and each nation is like a flower, of a different kind and color, planted in God’s garden. He wishes for all to flourish.”
My mother had the courage to speak what she considered to be true. She listened to her heart rather than following the dictates of popular opinion.
A Sacred Mission
C ARRYING A HARVEST BASKET of carrots and parsnips, Mother left the garden to prepare the evening meal. I sat down under my favorite tree, leaning against the strong trunk. Deep roots reached into the earth, and tall branches stretched out to meet the sky. As I felt the healing power of nature, I knew that I was safe in God’s kingdom. Sitting under the protective umbrella of leaves, I reflected on what had happened in
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