INTERNET ROMANCE…OR TRUE LOVE?

I suppose it is a very common thing nowadays, for people to meet online, but back in 2001, when I first got on to a “Christian Chat” I had no idea what I was doing there. I was experimenting and learning about my new computer. I was a newbie in every sense of the word.  But it was the one thing I could do in my wheelchair that kept my mind busy.  I had no intentions of actually “getting to know” any of the strange people that were asking me to chat.   I realized right away that they were asking “ASL” age, sex, and location, as a process of eliminating those who were basically a waste of time for them.  As soon as I told them my age (51) most of them disappeared off the screen.  What a strange new world I had stumbled onto!

My online name was “Lady Wheeler,” which I thought was appropriate for a lady in a wheelchair.  I soon immediately answered the ASL question with “short, fat old lady in a wheelchair.” This eliminated them immediately from wasting my time. I thought myself very clever. Nearly everyone that heard this left my computer screen abruptly.  There was one Pastor in Africa that chatted with me now and then, and a young woman in Malaysia who was crippled too, but for the most part, no one wanted to just chat about being a Christian…they were looking for online romance. I wanted nothing of the sort!

Then this young man in India came to chat with me. He didn’t seem to mind that I was a short, fat, old lady in a wheelchair and he seemed to be lonely and sad. He told me that his life had turned for the worse and that he was online that night just to pass his time.  He knew that he needed to change his life and didn’t know how. We talked online for nearly an hour as I encouraged him to leave wherever he was and to go back home to his village, where his family was. It is never too late to change.  He thanked me for my advice and I felt like I had somehow had connected with him in a motherly way.

The next night I got back into the chat room and connected with him again, wanting to know how he was doing.  Again we chatted for over an hour and he asked if I could meet with him online on a regular basis because I was so encouraging for him. He told me that he was taking my advice and going back home to live with his parents.  I was so happy that he had listened and truly was sincere about changing.

Well, that is how it began.  Vishal and I became fast friends and for the next 4 years we shared our lives together.

 It was in about the second year that I realized that Vishal had become an important part of my daily life.  I looked forward to our chat times and reading the e-mails that he sent me.  Sometimes he would call me and we would talk about anything and everything. 

I suppose it was inevitable, but I never even dared to think about it…Vishal was the first to say it. “Janice I love you.”  “No you don’t.” I told him. “I am too old for you and I am just your friend.”  “No!” he said emphatically, “I am not a child and I know what is in my heart. I want you to be my wife!”  I hung up on him. I turned off my computer and didn’t answer the phone when it rang all night long and for the next few days.

But the truth had finally been spoken. Once the words were said, there was no turning back. No matter how hard I tried, I could not deny that I had fallen in love with him too.

 “Ridiculous!” I would say to myself. “Impossible!” I would yell in my empty house as I wheeled around in that wheelchair.

Determined to stop this nonsense, I wrote a scathing e-mail to him, telling him to just grow up and find a nice Indian woman his age and get married. I didn’t want anything to do with India or with him. I accused him of manipulating me over the years just to get a ticket to the U.S. and his green card. I told him to stop calling me and stop writing to me.

But I missed him terribly. How can I be in love with man half my age living on the other side of the world? I suppose it is like living inside a romance novel, I justified myself…it isn’t real.  What harm would it do to just love each other in the surreal world?  It wasn’t like we were hurting each other or anyone else….I finally contacted him. I confessed my love for him with tears running down my face as I wrote it.

That was the moment in time that changed our world. He began calling me “Mrs. Kashyap” and writing me e-mails addressed to “My wife” and signing them with “Your husband”  It was a wonderful romance, full of everything a romance novel contains. He was my prince charming who came galloping up on his white horse to rescue me from the sickness, the wheelchair and the loneliness. He made me feel young and beautiful in our imaginary world.  And like a good novel, the more time we spent inside the story, the more time we wanted to live there.

There was another element to our story that had entered in…it was God.

I am not sure how it happened, but each of us had, without telling the other, began reading the bible and going to church. One night I happened to mention that I went to church. Vishal said, in amazement, “You too? I went to church today as well!  I enjoyed it, but was afraid to bring it up because we both said we weren’t really interested in it.”  “I know…but something has changed inside of me and I have been reading the bible.”  “I can’t believe this!” he replied, “So have I! Every night I have been reading until late.”  There was a long silence between us as we both absorbed what was happening.  Finally I said, “Maybe God is trying to show us something?”  “Yes he is. He is showing us that He loves us and wants us to share our faith.” Vishal said.

It was the tiniest of miracles, really…or was it just a coincidence?  But no, over the next two years we shared scripture and even prayed together online. Our lives now included God in almost every conversation. Both of us were caught up in a change that neither understood, but it was powerful and it was wonderful!

Then I was healed.

 Our little romance novel suddenly opened up into a reality that God was orchestrating our lives and bringing us together. I was going to India.

This is what happened after the wonderful healing…..

Excerpt from my book: “As Angels weep”

"How little chance the Holy Ghost has nowadays. The churches and missionary societies have so bound him in red tape that they practically ask Him to sit in a corner while they do the work themselves."�
- C.T. Studd

 The church tried everything to discourage me from going to India, to follow God’s call.  It was all practical, common sense words.

“It is a dangerous place. You don’t know this man, Vishal, at all. He could be just using you to get money, or his green card.”

 When I asked about becoming a missionary for the church they told me that I was too inexperienced. That only seminary students trained for the mission field were qualified… They only sent married couples. ..I was too old… I heard it all and indeed it sounded very “practical” and “of the world” wisdom.  But it was not God’s wisdom. 

But just in case, I set about a “plan B,” which was to contact other missionaries in the area and let them know I was coming. This was more to appease the doubters, but also I felt it would be a good idea to have fellow Christians for Vishal and I to lean on for support.  Unfortunately, these missionaries only had addresses. They were not in India, but nearby countries.  I wrote them down and tucked them inside my wallet along with my passport.

 When the church realized that I was going ahead with my plans to go to India, they had the church matriarch and a friend call me. She told me to stay and find another way to serve God, here, where it is safe. She talked on and on about it not being my calling at all. I listened politely.

 “No sister,” I said firmly, “God has called me to go to India and that is where I am going.” She flew into a rage. “I tell you that if you insist on taking this trip against my wishes and the pastor’s advice, you will never arrive there! That plane will crash!”  “Well then,” I said calmly, “If that is the way the Lord wants me to die, so be it. But I will follow God’s lead and not the coercions of you or the church. Thank you for your concerns. I will be praying for all of you.”  I said, and hung up.

 Though I didn’t realize it then, I now see that God was closing doors in my world so I would be willing to step into another one.  It was a painful process for me, but so rewarding in the end!

The church where I was healed decided that I was “shunned.” which meant that they were not allowed to speak to me. I ran into them now and then in the town and they would avoid me. I was sad for them, not for me.

I ran into the pastor of my first church one day in Walmart. He was obviously shocked to see me walking. I had heard that he had been recently diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. “What happened? You are out of the wheelchair!” he asked. “Yes,” I said, with a big smile on my face. “God healed me a few weeks ago Sunday.”  His reaction was unexpected. “Well you haven’t been coming to church lately.” He grumbled. ‘Yes, I am sorry, but I have been going to another church. I said awkwardly.  He grumbled and walked away. It seemed no one could see the miracle or feel the joy I was feeling.

In my conversations with God, I would explain to him that, just as in Jesus’ time, no one wanted to listen to me. My “Good News” was falling upon deaf ears.

He just kept telling me to “Go out and tell the world.”  And oh how I wanted to!  I wanted to shout it on the roof tops. “Jesus is alive and real! See how he healed me!” It was like an itch I could not scratch. It was no longer about me, but about the glory and grace of our living God!

In my naïve mind I thought that my healing would bring people to the Lord. I now know that healings do not bring great faith. But it is great faith that brings healings.

When I told Vishal, in India, about my wonderful miracle, he was so happy and told his family and friends. They were all amazed and joyful to hear of the healing. Vishal again told me to come to India and give my testimony. He arranged for me to give my testimony in a local church as soon as I arrived. “How long can I speak?” I asked him. He laughed, “As long as it takes to tell your story.”  How strange, I thought. My own world did not want to hear about God’s miracle. But evidently Vishal’s world believed more than mine.

I had many obstacles to stop me from going to India. But somehow each one of them crumbled away and I just watched as the doors opened for me to leave.  I rented my house out to my niece. She was my younger sister’s daughter. I stored away the things that I wanted my children to inherit, but kept everything else inside the house. When I was getting ready to leave, I jokingly said, “Well if I don’t come back, I guess everything here is yours!” I gave my car to my son. I got a six month visa for India and a mess of shots at the health department.  Every detail was taken care of. My soon to be ex-husband gave me the money for the plane ticket. He knew I had been healed by God and he believed in my calling, even though his own relationship with God was very distant.

There was another battle going on within me, the smoking. You see, it was such an addiction that I had for over 30 years. I confessed to others and asked for prayer about it. I tried and tried to quit, but could not.  I asked God to remove it from me. How can I stand before others and tell them of this great healing when I still had this addiction?  “My grace is sufficient for thee.” Was the reply in my heart. But why did he heal me and not take this away?  The answer came to me much later, but for that time I knew that I could not let it stop me from following the Lord.

I landed in Kolkata, India on June 1^st, 2005 just 4 months after being healed.

Stay tuned to my posts for “the rest of the story!”

Janice

While I am working on a long story to post soon, I thought I would share a bit of writing that I did years ago. Hope you enjoy!


 

Not a poem here, but a moment of reflection

 

 

What am I going to do with my left over dreams when my life slips away like a sunset that I forgot to watch?

What am I going to do with all the left over love that I held inside for fear of frightening someone with it's intensity?

What do I do with the laughter and the tears that were mine and mine alone to tell the world,

"I am here!  I am alive!  I am!?"

When I am gone, there will be no other dreams or love or tears or laughter that is the same.

For they were given to me as a gift from God to share with everyone who touched my life.

And when my life ends, I know that there will still be so much left over to share. What will I do?

I will ask God to send all of those special gifts, the dreams and love and laughter and even the tears, to the ones who loved me most.

Maybe then, when they feel the joy of being alive, they will remember me.  And I can live forever within their hearts!

What I Learned From a Chicken

What I Learned From a Chicken

In the mid 70’s in Southern California, it was the current craze for people to leave the bustling city and move out into the country.  Communities were carefully planned with ½ acre lots, with zoning for animals and farming for these ex-pats of city life.

We were one of them.  I was lucky enough to find a rental house in one of these communities and set to task to create a mini-farm. My vision was to become totally independent from buying food at the grocery store, to live as the pioneers had lived, to become totally self-sustaining.

Our first step in this new adventure was to get animals. I mean, what would a farm be without the animals?  So, I decided to start small. Chickens…and visions of farm fresh eggs and chicken stew motivated me over the next few weeks.

We built chicken houses and fenced in an area for the chickens to roam around. But these weren’t just ordinary chicken houses. We built them to look like condo’s . Six mini condo’s lined up with ramps going into each section. Then I painted a sign across the structure saying; “Ye old Hen House.”  It was painted white with blue trim. When it was finished, I stood back admiring the aesthetic look and the cleverness of the slanted roofs that opened up for easy access. I was quite proud of myself.   Now we were ready to buy the chickens.

With a quick trip to the local roadside feed store, we purchased six plump hens and two roosters. We also bought straw for the hen houses, chicken feed and oyster shell mix, two automatic feeders and two water feeders.

My two kids, Tracy and Andy, had their first experience handling chickens as we carried them into the chicken pen and watched them getting acquainted with their new home. The kids also got acquainted with the word “chores” as I told them that their job was to make sure the chickens were fed and watered.

Spring was the perfect time to buy chickens, as it was breeding time. It wasn’t long before all six hens were sitting on a full nest of eggs. We were all waiting anxiously for the eggs to hatch.  In a few weeks, we had baby chicks running around.  I counted them one morning and began to realize that we had too many chicks. If all of them survived, our little chicken coop would have to be expanded.

 Five of the hens were new mommies, but the sixth one somehow didn’t produce any babies. Her eggs lay lifeless and began to smell.  I felt sorry for the poor thing, wondering if somehow the other hens were mocking her, or that she felt shame for her failure.  We took the rotten eggs out of her nest when she wasn’t looking.  I told the kids to start collecting all the eggs each morning and night. It was time for us to start enjoying fresh eggs at our breakfast table.  

It became quite evident the following morning, that one motherless hen wasn’t about to give up on having children. Each time Andy or Tracy would go into her house, she became loud and violent, attacking anyone coming near her nest. After a few attempts of my own, I had to wear leather gloves to retrieve her eggs.

I admired her tenacity and her determination. Over the next few days she tried to hide her eggs in other parts of the hen house. It became a sort of game for the kids to find her hiding places.

 I knew it was crazy to apply human emotion to the situation, but I watched her as she now stood alone in the yard while the other hens and their chicks happily played about. She had also stopped eating. It was obvious that depression had set in heavily in her heart…..then she disappeared.

 One morning we got up and discovered her missing.  It haunted me. I thought of that little hen often and wondered, should we have just let her keep her eggs?

But new additions to our little farm were coming and we had to prepare a solid fence for their arrival. We purchased a litter of six pigs.

 The pig pen was built between the chicken coop and the metal shed which we used to store the feed. Old pallets donated from a warehouse created a strong fence for the baby pigs. We worked on this project for over a week before finally getting the pigs and bringing them to their new pen.

We were all so excited about these cute little guys, the kids climbed into the pen  and played with them, giving them each a name.  I warned them not to get too attached, because one day they would become bacon and ham.

Several weeks had gone by and we were now into a daily routine of feeding and watering the animals. We learned quickly that there was no sleeping in, or the animals would begin to loudly complain, snorting or clucking their discontent.

It was early in the morning when my daughter ran into the house excited. “Mom!” she said breathlessly “That chicken is back and she’s got babies!”  We both ran out to the yard, Tracy pulling me along.  I couldn’t believe my eyes. The proud mommy was strutting around in front of the metal shed with five baby chicks around her!   I had never seen a chicken so protective of her little babies and I swear she was going to each one and clucking at us, as if to say “This one is Joey and this one is is Sara. And if a chicken could smile, that one was beaming. She was triumphant!

“Momma. Where has she been all this time?” Tracy asked. “Good question honey.” I said. “And I am sure if you watch her closely, she will take her chicks back to the nest and we will find out.”   It wasn’t long before we discovered that the hen had hidden underneath the metal shed. It was amazing to me.  All the time we were building the pig pen, pounding nails and spending hours right next to that shed, she stubbornly remained on her nest hidden just a few feet away from us, the thieves that stole her eggs…us humans.  

“She never gave up, did she?” Tracy said, with a smile. “I think she is a very smart chicken!”

“Yes, she is, and a very happy one now!” 

We were all happy as we shared the good news with friends that evening. They all agreed that it was an extraordinary chicken.

Something woke me in the dark hours of the following morning. It was a sound that I had never heard before. It was a haunting, sad cry, like a wailing, coming from the farm yard.  I slipped on my robe and grabbed a flashlight then made my way out into the yard in the direction of that terrible sound. 

 

What I saw was in the light of my flashlight took my breath away. It was the momma hen.  She stood on the edge of our water trough, crying out in that loud mournful sound.  There inside the trough was three of her chicks, drowned, floating in the cold water.  Tears formed in my eyes as I stood above the scene.  “I’m so sorry, momma.” I said softly, reaching down, petting her head. “You are such a good mother.”   Somehow that seemed to comfort her and she stopped crying.  There was no way that I was going to leave and break this moment of bonding, or to leave her alone in the dark, so I sat down on the ground and quietly petted her until the morning sun began to rise. For that moment in time, we mourned together, that chicken and I.   Then suddenly she got up, shook herself,  gathered her two remaining chicks together and shuffled back under the shed. 

 I am sure I looked rather silly sitting there in the dirt, in my robe, all alone, but I was lost in the moment.  I watched the sun come up in the soft glow that announces a new beginning and I felt…renewed…hopeful…and a little sad.  I reached into the water and gathered the three dead chicks in my hands. No sense in leaving them there for my children to see when they woke up.  I dug a hole in the corner of the yard and buried them. As I walked back toward our house, the rooster crowed, I heard the sounds of my children waking up as the new day began.  

 That chicken taught me the most important lessons in my life. First, she showed me that animals DO have human emotions and that they were “thinking” creatures. I have never forgotten that.  Secondly, she showed me that when faced with problems bigger than we are, keep trying. Never give up!  You many suffer some losses, but in the end, you are better off than you were.

Over the years there were many times when I wanted to give up, to just curl up and die. But then I thought of that chicken and I would say to myself, if a chicken can do it, why can’t I?

2  November 24, 2012

Thanksgiving.

As I sit in my office, here in Kathmandu and gaze out at the snow capped foothills of the Himalayas, my mind drifts back to another time in my life…another Thanksgiving long ago…

Location: Visalia, California. 1970  I was 20 years old, married, mother of two. My little daughter was one month old. My son was just over two.  My husband had disappeared..again, no doubt spending our only paycheck on beer and women.  No money, no food in the house except one half a box of powdered potatoes.  For two days I had prayed for a miracle, for food to feed my babies, but nothing came. 

That morning I woke up with an idea born out of desperation and a determination that no matter what, by the end of that day, we would have a good Thanksgiving dinner.

  I made the powdered potatoes into patties and fried them. I found a small chunk of processed cheese with green mold on it.  I packed these, our last bits of food, along with some water, and bundled the children up.  I grabbed my old fishing pole and wedged it, sticking up from the baby stroller.  We set out for the destination of a man made pond about 3 miles away.

As I walked, I prayed again. “Lord, help me to catch enough fish to feed my family! Make my children quiet and my son obedient, while I fish.” 

  Three miles is a very long way when you are recovering from giving birth and a extremely long way for a two year old to walk.  Often I would have to pick up my son and carry him, struggling with the stroller one handed. Thankfully the sun rose up in the sky giving off the warmth we needed. 

The pond was more of a cattle watering hole, but I had heard that some fish were being pulled out of it recently.  I knew that it was probably filled with boney perch or carp, but it didn’t matter to me. What mattered was that I catch fish. My own stomach burned with hunger, but the cries of my children set a determination burning inside me, greater than any hunger that I could endure.  I was thankful that I could at least breast feed my daughter.

The pond was carved out of the land with a deep embankment.  It took several trips down to get the children and the stroller to a flat spot near the water. I spread out a thin blanket, placed some toys for my son

I took the small chunk of moldy cheese and pinched off a tiny bit, forming it on the hook.  With another prayer, I cast the line in the water.   “Lord, if there is a big fish in this pond.” I said out loud, “Let it have my name on it!”  Almost instantly there was a tug on the line.  I reeled in a small perch. That’s ok, I could fry it up. No problem. Thank you Lord!. 

Two hours crept by slowly. I caught three small perch. It was hardly a meal.  My son was getting restless and his bundle of energy sent him running around like a race horse up and down the banks of the pond. He had already managed to tangle in the fishing line and fall into the water.  I set him down on the blanket and gave him a potato patty.    My daughter began to cry. She was a good quiet baby who seemed to be content looking around and cooing. Her cries and my own body were telling me that it was time for a feeding.

 I can still picture this moment in my mind so vividly. There I was, nursing my daughter, trying to get my son to lie down and watching that fishing pole like a hawk.  The late morning sun had long ago lost its comforting heat and began piercing our skin into a pink hew.  My son was tugging at my arm. “Mommy, more!” he cried after finishing the last potato patty. Tears began to form in my eyes as discouragement flooded through me.

“Catching anything?” The voice startled me out of my self pity. Shading my eyes, I looked up on the high bank.  It was a man in farmer’s coveralls. “Just a few small perch,” I replied. “Watcha using for bait?” he hollered down.  “Ummm, cheese.” I shouted, trying to cover up the fact that I was nursing a baby. 

“Mind if we join you?” he asked.  “Wife kicked us all out of the house til turkey time.” He shouted as he shuffled his way down the embankment.   I watched as he and three boys, carrying fishing rods, and ice cooler manipulated their way towards us.

The man stood above us smiling. “We got a bunch of worms.” He said. “Me an’ the boys dug em up this morning. You are welcome to use those.”   “Uh, thanks.” I said awkwardly.  One of the boys plopped an ice chest down on the ground just a few feet away. Before I could stop him, my son ran over to it and said. “I’m hungry.”  I felt my face turn crimson.  But before I could say anything, the oldest boy opened up the chest and pulled out a bag of potato chips, sat my son down and poured some in his lap.  Relief flooded through me. “Thank you Lord.” I silently prayed. 

My daughter had fallen asleep and I softly laid her in the stroller, shading her little body from the sun with a thin baby blanket. 

“We’ve got some sandwiches in the ice box and some soda’s too.”  The man said. “More than enough for everyone!”

I have never forgotten that Thanksgiving day.   We had a wonderful time filled with stories, laughter and the biggest ham sandwiches I had ever seen.  Not only did we fill our stomachs, but we filled our souls.

The fish began biting on those worms like crazy!   Some perch, some catfish, and a few bass obliged us.  And…I did catch the biggest cat fish I had ever seen!  At the end of the day, the man and his boys loaded us up in their pick-up and drove us home. As we were saying our goodbyes, the man handed me his stringer of all the fish they had caught. “It ain’t Turkey, but it’ll feed you and the babies for a few days” he grinned. “God bless you!” he hollered as they drove away, the boys waving and smiling from the back of the pick up.

Our God answered all of my prayers…and more!  I wonder if Jesus was sitting there with us that day?