A few years ago we had the opportunity to live in the US and the cultural experience was surreal. The midwest cities feature a historical and cultural display each year in summer, in what is called a “county fair”. It’s that time of the year when city blokes like us make contact with country folk, whose life is marked by corn, John Deere tractors, early 1900s costume parties and play acts, really fat pigs appearing on shows, and a lot of fried foodstuff. We got to try everything from corn dogs, deep fried Oreos, deep fried ice-creams and even something called a “garbage burger” (I wonder what they thought the trash can was!)
My first impressions of going to these farm fêtes was that everything from a country horse to a coke can was three times the size I’ve seen in India. Even their trucks and car tires were humongous. The people appeared huge and we seemed like pygmies posing next to them in photos. For once, I could savour the Israelite experience of spying on Amalek’s land – too good to be true yet too small to fit in! Huge people they, I mused.
Caricatures are a bit like my first-time country fair experience – you see the oddities and make exaggerated conclusions on matters that you only get to see or know for a very short span of time. Caricatures are interesting when you first make them, but then, if you’ve never seen the real deal, you mistake it for the worst or funniest representation of reality.
Caricaturing contexts may be more benign than caricaturing people. But what does it mean to caricature people? It means we look at quirks, oddities, or behaviours of people to make exaggerated conclusions about who they are and how they operate.
Take for instance the girl who comes to college with her hair covered in a beanie all the time, books hugging close to her chest, head held low with an occasional eye contact only to give approval. She is the kind of girl who is easily bullied and caricatured as the “nerd” owing to her awkward social behaviour. I once met a girl just like that several years ago. She had no friends at all, talked to cows and dogs and was easily missed in a crowd. But after befriending her, I got to know that she behaved the way she did because she was deeply grieving the loss of her dad. In a fit of anger, she had chopped off her lovely mane and was hiding her sorrows and disappointments under a beanie. What surprised me the most was that she befriended me when I was hurting and lost in my own wilderness. I call her my “bramble friend”.
We hear caricatures of people all the time even in the church. When someone new walks in, we want to get the inside scoop on who they are and where they’re from so as to create a caricature of them in our minds. We exaggerate their spiritual freckles, ruffle up their past, add one to one and come up with bizarre conclusions that often distances the real person from us. And if we’ve gotten to know someone and have been hurt in the process, we once again caricature the person as hurtful or insensitive and pass on that damaging imagery to others around us in a way that keeps that person always at arm’s distance from the rest. “That guy’s a weirdo, he never speaks a word in a conversation!” “She’s loud, brash and is out to take control.” “His English is terrible, he must be illiterate and dumb.” “That aunty is nosy. Better stay out of her way.” “He’s Pentecostal (no comments).” “She’s a Calvinist (make no comments to her)”.
When people get caricatured, a precious part of them gets lost in the assumption.
You may be next door neighbours for years, but have grown to think the other is quite alien, actually. You may be avoiding some people in your church because they just don’t “click” or are not your “wavelength” whereas they may be undergoing the sanctifying power of Christ in areas you think are weaknesses. You miss the privilege of being sanctified yourself by being with those unlike you, as iron sharpens iron.
Did you know that Jesus always welcomed quirky folk into his company? Think about Peter who was quick and impulsive and sometimes just plain silly. Or Zacchaeus the dwarf who got up the tree to see Jesus. John and James were fighting with Jesus like kids for a place on his throne. How about the woman who kept kissing Jesus’ feet in public? Quirky and awkward people like these won Jesus’ hearts everywhere he went. Much less than caricaturing them, he took the time to look them in the eye, listen to them and love them with a deep love.
What about you? Who are your close friends? Are they like you or are there quirks about them you never bother to think about? Does being in their company make you feel stupid or sanctified? Are there people you are avoiding in your church, college or workplace because they have been caricatured as weirdos or touch-me-nots? If so, then here’s a friendly suggestion.
Take a deep look into your inner mirror and see if thou art blemishless. And when you find out, know that Christ has not caricatured you. In fact, He created you as you are, and He calls you to be in a loving relationship with Him. As you walk with Him, He will change you into His image. Becoming then like Jesus, you will no longer caricature people as a sum of their bad behaviours, but look into their soul and love them as He loves you. And hey, maybe some of them will even become your bramble friends!
About two months ago, something spectacular happened in our family (I’m still wondering how I failed to record this moment).
On March 25, 2018, our son Abhi was baptised into the Church (Body) of our Lord Jesus Christ.
That’s it? You may wonder. You call this spectacular? Ah, but wait. We know lots of things that happen behind veiled curtains when baptisms occur. When someone gets baptised, Jesus is right there, putting a seal over the one baptised exclaiming, “Mine!” (Ps 87: 5-6, Rom 4:10-12)
As the waters of baptism were poured over his head by one of our dear pastor friends, there were many who enjoined the scene with tears streaming down their cheeks. After the service, Abhi cut a special cake and everyone shouted, “Welcome to Anugraha Abhi!” It sort of reminded us of Abhi’s welcome party which happened on Jan 6, 2018, when everyone of our friends resounded, “Welcome home, Abhi!” His baptism was nothing short of a warm welcome into Christ’s visible family. It was also a season in life where we wrestled much about his baptism, and were questioned about the validity of infant baptism from various quarters (totally unconnected and random incidents, btw).
Abhi cutting his cake on his baptism
We had no doubt that covenant children needed to be baptised (I’ll explain that in a minute) but we were wondering about the validity of having one baptised at an age when discernment started to grow. Abhi is eight on paper, but really just three of four in his intellectual grasp (mentally though, he is way beyond his league! Sometime, drop in home to taste of the wisdom of this child). So, he couldn’t articulate his beliefs. But he never denied loving Jesus either. Yet, for all that, the most important reason we wanted to see him baptised was to bring his adoption a full circle. He is truly a child on the outside who is being brought into the Church. He is now coming in, not because of the regenerating work of the Spirit, but because of the Fatherly, Providential care which God has always been exercising with him, now being brought to fulfilment in his having a loving Christian family. He is brought into the Covenant through believing parents. When a child of believing parents sits in the church, God does not treat the child differently than he does the rest of the congregation. He does not “cast out” one who has been brought to him. The little children who were brought to Jesus exercised no will, except on the part of those who loved and cared for them. Jesus welcomed the weaklings, and baptism was the sign of their entrance into this precious covenant (Matt 19:13-15)
I’m writing this memoir for two reasons. First, to have a record of Abhi’s baptism and to remind him over and again, of what those waters that drenched him mean, and beckon him to the reality of that act within his little heart. I’m writing this for our family history and instruction. Second, I want to leave a reply for those who have questions. Some are verbal, some poke fun, and many are just silent. I’d rather not be silent but leave an informed biblical response. However, it is not meant to be a treatise. If you wish to get a more robust understanding of this doctrine, you may as well pick up the Westminster Confession of Faith (Chapter 28), Calvin’s Institutes (Chapters 15,16) or Word, Water and Spirit by J.V. Fesko.
First off, there are some basic assumptions.
Tota Scriptura (2 Tim 3:16)
To understand the biblical validity of infant baptism, one has to affirm that the Bible consists of the Old and New Testament, both having equal validity and authority for the church of Jesus Christ. The New Testament does not supersede in authority over the Old Testament but rather clarifies it, and where the New Testament clarifies, it’s intent is upheld. That my friend, is the essence of the latin phrase tota Scriptura. The Old Testament (OT) is not just the archaic history of the Jewish people, but the Word of the Living God for the church.
Israel was the Old Testament Church (conversely, the church is the true Israel of God ~ Gal 6:15-16)
Second, one needs to affirm that OT is the history of the church before Christ, and NT is the history of the church after Christ. Plain and simple. The division then is not Israel-church but rather Pre-and Post- Christ. Much like the division of any secular history. How do we know that? The word church in greek is the word ecclesia which means “called out ones” or “separated ones”. It is also commonly called the “assembly” in the OT, referring to the people of God (Ex 12:6,Deut 23, Ex 16:3, Ex 20:2). So, the church is not merely a NT word coined for NT usage.
Old Testament and New Testament are not disparate but continuous
Now, there are some crucial differences between the Old and New Testaments but it has to do with the degree of revelation and not the substance of revelation. I’ve made a map to illustrate this point.
Redemptive history and Progressive revelation
In both the Old Testament and New Testament, believers were saved by grace through faith in the Gospel of redemption through the Triune God (Gal 3:8, Rom 4:3-4,11-12). Moses considered the reproach of Christ of greater worth than all of Egypt’s wealth (Heb 11:26). Abraham saw Christ’s day and he rejoiced (John 8:56). These men knew Christ in much the same way that we know Christ, just that their light was dimmer.
I remember, several years ago, driving towards the great Rocky mountains. The view was breathtaking all the way through. We could clearly see the mountains, their breadth, their form, their majesty. But it wasn’t until we inched closer to the foot that we could truly see its magnificence, its details. It was awe-inspiring, I could touch it and feel so small in its aged ruggedness. But it was the same mountain that I saw from the distance. It had the same glory, the same majesty. I just experienced it differently later. The Bible is a bit like that. Saints in the Old Testament saw Christ from the distance and welcomed him with joy and saving faith. We now welcome him with that same joy and saving faith, but only looking backward. Our object of faith was and is and always will be Christ.
Now, some may object to this in this way: Paul distinguished the old and new starkly, so did Jesus in the parable about old and new wineskins. So aren’t the Old and New Testaments fundamentally different?
Paul was not distinguishing the Old and New Testaments. For crying out loud, in his time there were no two testaments! There was only Scripture and that was the Old Testament. The Spirit was illuminating the Old so that Paul and the prophets could really understand the same in the fuller light of Christ, as it really was. Paul was using the terms such as old and new covenants to distinguish those under the law versus those under grace. And by that he was not referring to those who lived in that era, rather to those who bound themselves to the Mosaic law for salvation (as most Jews did during Paul’s time). Abraham lived under grace (as Gal 3:8, Rom 4 indicates), and so did everyone who believed in the One to come. Jesus was using the parable of the wineskins to refer to the exact same thing – those who try to fit a square peg into a round hole. Those who thought salvation came by obeying the law (old covenant) instead of by faith in Christ (new covenant). So, the difference between the two was not the Old and New Testaments but the Old and New way (the new really wasn’t new and that was Paul’s main point in introducing Abraham, and the old is not meant to be erased as Jesus put it in Matt 5:17). Theologians have, through systematic study of the entire Scriptures, used some easier terminologies to explain this distinction – those under the Old way are under what is called the Covenant of Works and those under the New way are under the Covenant of Grace. This terminology is very helpful to assess the case of the “old vs new” throughout the Scriptures without dividing them across the eras (which is often the temptation).
So, this makes the case that there is more continuity between the Testaments than discontinuity.
Now, with these presuppositions , let me get onto the case for infant baptism.
Circumcision and Baptism were both signs or marks on those called out by God
In both the Testaments, redemption by God was marked by a sign upon the covenant people, and this sign was to signify the greater reality of the heart change that God wrought in His people. Under the old covenant, the sign that marked out the people of God was circumcision (Gen 17:10-13), and anyone who did not have this sign was circumcised (literally “cut-off”) from God and His people (Gen 17:14). Note that this sign was not a marker for ethnicity but for a covenant relationship, and Jews and non-Jews could enter into the covenant through this sign (we see an example of this in the incident concerning Dinah and the Hivites in Gen 34 as well as the Passover being permitted for strangers who circumcised themselves ~ Ex 12:44-48). Similarly, under the new covenant, the sign that marked out the people of God is baptism (Acts 2:41), and both Jews and Gentiles were welcomed into a covenant relationship with God through this sign (Acts 2:37-39).
Both circumcision and baptism signified regeneration (Deut 10:16, Deut 30:6, Jer 4:4, Mark 1:4, 1 Pet 3:21). Both were external signs on the body pointing to realities within the heart. The signs themselves did not imprint salvation on the individual but they were to mark out God’s visible church throughout every generation. Under the old covenant, children and infants were included in the covenant people through the sign of circumcision (Gen 17:25, 21:4). Under the new covenant this same pattern of continuity was assumed in the many household baptisms performed by Paul and Peter (Acts 16:15, 1 Cor 1:16, Act 16:31-34). Note that not everyone in the household is mentioned as those who “believed”, only the head of the household believed in most cases. The concept of familio solidarity was very strong in ancient near-eastern cultures and covenants drawn up with the male heads more often than not included their entire household (think about your ration card for a minute). If anything, the new covenant was a more inclusive covenant: the Spirt of God was poured out on all flesh, and a huge number of Gentiles came into the family of God, Women had the sign of the covenant too, which was not the case in the Old covenant. So, if all things remained constant, why then would children be excluded? This idea is completely foreign to near-eastern cultures. Moreover, God threatened to kill Moses when he did not have his firstborn circumcised (Ex 4:24-26). This child was “cut-off” from the covenant of God, and God was about to cut off the firstborn of Egypt, of those who were uncircumcised. God cared deeply about the infants of His people!
As you can see, there is hardly any difference between these two covenant signs. They are essentially the same, differing only in their place in redemptive history and in administration. I believe, that is the reason why the sign had to change: to mark the completion of redemption. Jesus had to be circumcised from God. The Holy Spirit had to baptise all flesh (i.e. the inclusion of Gentiles into the covenant). These two monumental events marked the change in covenant signs. But that is all there is to it.
Now, someone may object thus: isn’t baptism more convergent in redemptive history, and does it not mark out spiritual realities than circumcision did not? Was not Abraham’s family a type of Christ’s church, and therefore his circumcision merely a type of the reality of baptism?
To this I reply, let us suppose that baptism is indeed inclusive of the spiritual family of God whereas Abraham’s was merely the type. What then of those like Simon the magician and Nicolas (after whom is named the sect Nicolaitans who left the faith), who were all baptised into Christ? What then of Ananias and Sapphire who both were baptised and included in the church but were wicked in their hearts? If baptism was merely for the spiritually regenerate, why then the weeds in the church? If we cannot then discern the heart of the individual before we baptise, then why handcuff those who for the same reason baptise infants whose hearts no one knows but God? And why do we presume that God cannot regenerate the infants? Why, John was filled with the Spirit in his mother’s womb! When should his baptism have occurred? Until those around him waited for him to be “born-again”? There are umpteen examples of little children in my own church context who all come to Jesus, always believing and trusting Him and having been regenerated without the “crash-boom-bang” of a typical Gentile conversion (like the one I had!). What would happen if we all waited for them to be “spiritually regenerate” to be included? We will force alter calls and coerce charismatic, upper room retreats on these poor souls to prove to us that indeed they are regenerate. And by these very means, the weeds enter the church, who have all the external experiences but have had no heart change. And if Abraham and his family were only a type of Christ’s church, then by that token they are not part of the substance of Christ’s church, i.e., they are a shadow, and not part of the reality. This argument goes squarely against the biblical data provided by Paul in Galatians and Romans.
So, there you have it. A summary of by statement of faith on baptism. Once again, this article is not to debate the position held by my Baptist brothers and sisters, for I love them dearly. Since my position and beliefs have come under attack from known quarters, I have simply provided a reasoned, biblical position for my own belief. I also share this so that my son’s baptism may not be held in derision or doubt from loved ones but that they may know that what we do, we do so on the basis of Scripture alone and what accords with the doctrine of the historical church throughout the ages.
To end, here’s some lighter news to share. Abhi is now through to catechism question 40 in the children’s catechism. He is slowly growing in wisdom and stature, and is having a growing sense of sin, and desire for Jesus. He longs to go to heaven. He understands suffering. He knows Jesus will often be weighed on his balance of the world and he needs to keep trusting in Jesus for everything. More than his red cars and helicopters, Jesus is beautiful and desirable. I see a holy spark in his heart that needs to be fanned into flame so that the invisible work of the Holy Spirit may become more visible int he days an years to come.
This post was first published on GentleReformation as a tribute to my counseling mentor and erstwhile professor Dr. George Scipione.
A few years ago, I was in the US going through my biblical counseling certification. A friend opened up a question to me at that time, “So, what have been your observations counseling folks from our country? Have you found anything different?”
I had mixed feelings answering such a question. My analytical mind was eager to rush in and give my 2 cents, but my Indian-ness was very wary of throwing stones at someone else’s window, especially when my country’s cultural windows were clearly broken to be seen by all. But there I was, pressed to answer.
I remember illustrating to my friend the differences between the two cultures with the analogy of houses in the two countries.
If I’m looking at a neighbor’s house in the US from the vantage point of the road I’m walking on, there’ s at least a few feet distance between the road and the neighbor’s front yard. And if I’m wanting to befriend this neighbor, I would need to cross a huge patch of grass, probably 10 meters wide, then go on to the front porch, and then knock on their doors. And often times, you can’t just make a friend unless you have prior appointment (Americans schedule everything!), and possibly no one’s at home.
Transpose the same scene to India. There may be no road on which the house stands, and if so, no walkway, no yards, no fences. Sometimes, my neighbor may be on her front porch or gate and looking out for a friend. Often times, my next door neighbor is literally, next door. I sport a friendly smile, ask a question or two and usually I’m invited in, sometimes to a platter of savory snacks and a cup of chai.
People in these countries are somewhat like these houses. Sometimes there are several boundaries which a counselor needs to hop over to build trust and finally enter into a counseling process which will benefit the other. As I told my friend that day in the US, in India, which is a co-dependent culture however, people are ready to open up when they know there’s someone around to help. I was ready to help people on my side of the world with my counseling experience.
That picture shattered when I returned to India in 2016. Suddenly, I felt older but not wiser. The world in communal India had changed in the last few years when we were gone. People became more individualistic. Personal spaces and boundaries were erected ironically around the same time private information was parceled far and wide to just about anyone on Instagram and Facebook. Few if any wanted to seek counsel or advice from an older or mature person in their lives. The locus of authority shifted from one outside of themselves to one within. Personal wisdom was traded for information from social media, celebs and blogs. Overnight Lady Gaga became a counseling guru.
At such a juncture as this, I felt useless. My training in counseling flung in the face of a Millennial generation full of ‘dare you tell me what to do?’ sorts. In 2016, I was counseling nearly ten women and went through a season of depression. Apart from my own inexperience in dealing with the struggles of women, I was carrying the burden of hurt and sin of some of my dearest friends. Added to that was resistance to godly counsel from some who wanted to go their way. Somewhere along the way, I snapped.
But I wasn’t alone. I spent close to 60 hours counseling with a mentor-friend. He was there, sitting on the other side of the world, miles apart but often only a call away, listening patiently to my recordings and teaching me how to better counsel hurting women in a changing world. Dr. “Skip” as I affectionately called him, was there to hold my hand and take me through one of the roughest seasons of my life.
One of the remarkable things about studying biblical counseling under Dr. Skip was that he taught me to respect the power and authority of Scripture over someone’s life. He often used to comment, “People say, ‘God said it, I believe it, that settles it.’ But that’s not true. God said it, that settles it.”
I learnt that someone or something always had power over people’s lives and that during the course of counseling, I had to seek to bring the authority of Scriptures to bear on the souls of struggling people. Because at the end of the day, there is no better Comforter than the One who wrote the Scriptures for our benefit.
Often people misunderstand this emphasis in counseling and care-giving circles. Historically, counseling wars have confused the lines between being authoritarian (exerting one’s own authority conditionally and often threateningly) and being authoritative (bringing the Scriptures to question, shape and even change someone). Some would say that counseling ought to be indicative rather than imperative (talking about the Person and work of Christ instead of what this Person demands from a sinner/disciple), and that telling anyone to do anything that Scripture commands would be tantamount to legalism.
But that is not the method I have learnt from Dr. Skip. During classes, Skip would try to role-play the indicative only counseling sessions by freezing for a while in the middle of the classroom, and posturing a sort of “trance” like state, caricaturing those who wait for grace to fall on counselees instead of teaching them to act, trusting that grace would flow. Jokes apart though, he often used to balance the imperative with the indicative in good measure, and model truth and grace whenever he counselled me. At the end of the day, he made sure that I was not bringing myself but Jesus and His word as the sole authority of the counselee’s life. To this extent, a counseling session always began with Scripture, was dotted with Scripture all through and ended with prayer. No wonder biblical counseling ain’t popular!
People can resist this kind of counseling. But what is counseling after all? Isn’t counseling giving sound counsel/advice which the other person confesses to be lacking? Or are we as counselors merely to dart pious suggestions and personal stories across to the other side, hoping they’ll get “picked up” or “cued”? That would not be counseling, that would be suggest-ing. Or is counseling merely quizzing people about their feelings and thoughts and asking them to solve their own problems through intelligent questions we frame for them? That would not be counseling, that was be probing (and a rip off!)
Let’s suppose that I’m a skilled surgeon and you come to me, having been shot in your belly with a bullet. You and I know that the process of opening up the belly and removing the bullet is going to be painful, and in an age where there were no morphines, you would have to choose between getting the bullet removed with much pain and death. But say, I the skilled surgeon, cry with you as you lie dying on the table, ask you how you feel, pour some morphine on the wound to alleviate your pain, bandage your wounds, make you feel symptomatically better and tell you, “Everything’s going to be ok” knowing fully well that the bullet inside you is going to kill you, then what name would you give me?
Biblical counseling is akin to removing the bullet through the Word of God, sharper than a two-edged sword, albeit with a lot of pain in the transformation process. But the counselor does not leave a man in the dark but walks with him through this painful but transformative healing. One would say, the bullet is a man’s sin. But I’d say, the bullet is a man’s problem, whatever it may be (sin, abuse, hurt, etc.). And walking with people in pain is not easy.
Skip used to say, “Sheep are sheep. They ‘baah’ at one end and poop at the other!” I’ve experienced both these ends of sheep during counseling. So, during my last lap of my ACBC counseling certification, I threw in the towel. I quit. I wasn’t ready for this ministry. At the time Skip told me, “Shammi, you can’t quit loving people!” Oh, those words! They pierce my heart even today.
My beloved doctor passed away into glory on January 22, 2020. That same week, God brought some deeply wounded victims of possible abuse at my doorstep. Another young lady was mourning the loss of her youth spent on the cause of caring for one struggling with Schizophrenia. All the while, I kept wondering, “What would Skip say? How would he deal with this?” But he wasn’t there at the other end. During that time, the Lord Jesus reminded me from John 14 about the ministry of the Holy Spirit. “But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.” (Jn 14:26).
What Skip had and I needed dearly wasn’t more of Skip. I needed more of the Soul-Doctor, the Blessed Holy Spirit, who was going to do a powerful work on ailing souls. In his death, we are multiplied, as a pastor-friend reminded me.
Yet in the death of my doc, I was grieving the dying of the art of biblical counseling. Skip gave his life for the cause of biblical counseling. I wrestle with its validity and use in an age of moralistic-therapeutic-deism. But unlike my response to my ACBC certification, I’m not going to quit. More than words, a worthy tribute to my beloved Dr. Skip would be to take his baton and continue his cause here in India. To honor Scripture, to honor the power of the Spirit, to honor precious image-bearers of God labeled as patients, and to honor men who have died counseling – even to his children and unbelieving hospital staff on his death bed – would be a worthy cause to live and die for.
Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much.
Psalm 23 has been a personal favourite for many, for centuries. Often it is the only Psalm still sung in some churches. The powerful Scottish-isle-like imagery takes our imaginations through surreal pastures sprinkled with snowy sheep bleating baahs and savouring refreshing waters by the streams. I confess that such a picture is too pristine and fantastical for my Indian sensibilities. Perhaps it has to be do with my daily encounter with pits and potholes as I drive through the ruggedy Bangalore roads. Perhaps it has to do with the abysmal lack of such patches in our crowded city. Hence reading Psalm 23 soaks up the mind with such earthly bliss that I barely meander the valley of shadow of death before I get to the part about us dwelling in ethereal bliss. I fondly remember hushing my son to sleep each night using this beloved Psalm when he first came home to us. It is a pleasant Psalm of rest, and so it should be.
Psalm 23, however, is not primarily interested in talking about our spiritual road trip. Its aim is underscored in the first verse, which sets the expectation for the rest of the Psalm in motion: The LORD is my Shepherd, I shall not be in want. When the LORD – the God of all created things and the Redeemer of God’s elect – this Christ becomes our Shepherd, it doesn’t matter where we meander. As His sheep, we have signed on the dotted line to follow Him, no matter where the road leads. It is the good LORD we have pledged to follow, not the good road. When young and new to the faith, we find ourselves reposing at the Palace Beautiful in Pilgrim’s Progress, lingering a day more, and casting our comforts on yonder Delectable Mountains. Indeed, there is nothing more comforting, nothing more satisfying than having that mountain-top experience with my Shepherd, we muse. He will lead me on green pastures, He will lead me beside clear waters, we imagine. Life with Jesus is pure bliss, we reckon. Yet the Shepherd makes no such promises. If anything, He promises suffering as the sure calling for the Christian (Phil 1:29, 1 Pet 2:21). The story goes that as Christian makes his journey towards these mountains, he is brutalized first by Apollyon that great Enemy, loses friends, is trapped in Vanity Fair, sees his friend burnt at the stake, slides through the easy by-path meadows and falls deep into the castle of Doubt and is beaten black and blue by Giant Despair. By now all hope of savoring the mountains or reaching Immanuel’s land is gone. Surprisingly then, mature Christian finds himself atop these very mountains, leaning wearily on his staff of faith, yet refreshed by the fountains, the orchards and the pastures of the great Shepherd.
It is the good LORD we have pledged to follow, not the good road.
Mature Christians know that what gives them the resolve on this pilgrim journey is not the pit-stops along the way nor the promise of ease or health; not the vanishing of problems or people, nor their prophetical predictability to see through the future and control it. We are not masters of our journey and the Psalmist doesn’t tell us what will come first: the pasture or the valley of death. Mature Christians follow their Shepherd wherever the staff leads them. They trust their Lord’s direction. They interpret circumstances in the light of their Shepherd and not their Shepherd in the light of their journey. Their hand is steadily on the plough, “Give what thy will”, they say. And such Christians will find themselves, more often that not, on the rugged valley of suffering.
Several years ago, I was running away from a threat to my life from a person I trusted. At 4 am in the wee hours of the morning, I found myself escaping on a dark road, with nothing but the low hum of the engine and the dim headlights lighting my way. I was all alone in a no-man’s land, my car being the only wisp of life on a long stretch of black nothingness. It was a strange irony of my own life, as I found myself wondering at that very moment, “Is this what is means to be a Christian? Is this why I followed you Lord? Are you really who you say you are?” I was ready to give up. Make a u-turn back to my old life. Escape. Then the Lord in no unclear terms whispered into my silence, “I am your Good Shepherd”. Had those words been uttered by anyone but my Lord, I would have fled the scene. I hung on those words as dear life, and they brought the comfort I needed. I couldn’t understand it then, “Why would a Good Shepherd lead me into dangerous nooks?”, yet I dared not to question my Lord. Years later, I understood. I don’t question my Christian journey, but learn from the encounters my Lord puts me through. What matters ultimately is not where I have been, but whom I have been with. I have put my hand into His. My Shepherd is good, even when the road is rough.
He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.
Everyday until his birthday, my son counts down the numbers on the calendar. His excitement knows no bounds. “When is my birthday coming?”, he would ask with bated breath. It seemed as if the only other day that would surpass that excitement in our home was the Lord’s second coming!
His 8th birthday was probably the most special one yet, because on that day, he came to know that he was going to belong, forever. I returned to his foster home to give the best birthday surprise to him. He did not even know that I was coming! When he saw me that morning, he squealed and jumped up and down in sheer excitement.
That afternoon his foster dad (Nathan) and I took A out on a bit of an adventure. We dined at his favourite Pizza place for lunch, and when he cut his little piece of double chocolate truffle, I tuned Venky into the celebration through Skype. He then opened a handmade pop-up-heart card that I had made for him, in which the greatest surprise of his life was written in hand: Happy birthday A! With love ~ your Mommy and Daddy! At first, he was clueless.. I tried explaining that he was coming home with us, and he was still clueless. He probably thought he was moving into a new foster house with us as his new foster parents. Nathan then gave us the secret passcode: Venky and Shammi are going to be your Daddy and Mommy forever. Forever. F-O-R-E-V-E-R. The lightbulb went on. Suddenly, his smiling face became stunned, just for a moment. He kept repeating, “What? Shammi Venky mommy daddy forever??” He just couldn’t believe his little eyes. He was going home, finally! He was getting the greatest gift in his life – a mom and dad to hold, love and protect him forever. Even years later, that reality never ceases to amaze him. Almost everyday, he reminds me, “Mama, I am so happy you adopted me! You will not leave me right?” Tears overwhelm my heart when I hear those words. What a great tragedy and a great redemption all rolled into one little life!
The greatest treasure a child can possess in this world is a parent. It is the most assumed yet underestimated gift, and almost all children take this reality for granted. A child’s greatest security lies within the fold of a family. When a child is born, the womb is his secure space. When he enters a strange and foreign world, the mother’s bosom is his secure space. When he enters school, the home becomes his secure space. Yet a child whose life has been taken away in the womb experiences the greatest treachery there ever can me – the safest place has become a shocking place, a sacred ground has become sacrilegious. A child who has been abandoned into a strange world experiences a great tragedy, for the mother who birthed him has left him alone, forever. This child will probably never experience bosom love, can never have the comfort of suckling a mother’s supple breasts and finding his rest there.
Yet, I want to thank his birth mother. I really do.
To abandon is far better than to abort.
To you dear birth mother of my beloved son, I say this: thank you for not aborting!
I do not know you, you left no trace. You bore a son with great delight, yet you forgot to care for his needs in the womb. Perhaps you had no money for the supplements your ballooning body so needed. Perhaps you were ignorant that these are necessary to birth a healthy and nutritious baby. You must have faced much pressure from your family, perhaps your husband beat you several times. Tears may have been your food night and day. With no money and no help, you may have thought it best to abort the seed in your womb. Yet, you didn’t have the courage. Your husband wanted a son. You wanted the child too, badly. Perhaps he would be the source of your eternal happiness. Perhaps. But when he was born, all hopes were crushed. When you saw his broken body, you were aghast. The prognosis of a bunch of foreign words that have no equivalent in your own tongue, with prospects of surgeries after surgeries for years to come must have caused you to faint. You saw his curls, his doe eyes, his chubby cheeks, his toothless smile and longed for him. Yet you saw his back and loathed him. Should I just kill him? No, that is treachery, murder. Should I just throw him away in the trash? No, I love him too much to do that. You took the care to leave him, a week after he was born, in a local hospital. There he was, pining away with needles pricking his fragile body, day after day, month after month. For nearly two years.
Then another mother entered in. She saw his body pricked with needles and fastened with tubes and took pity on him. Her eyes met his and she knew then that God was speaking this word: Live. Yet all earthly parameters were prophesying his death. She chose life over death and brought him home, where his healing flowed. She raised the money for his surgeries, and became his first real mother. To you, my beloved sister and co-mother, I say this: thank you for choosing life over death, love over indifference. It has made the world of difference to my sweet boy.
To live with the horror of pinpricks everyday is a brutal life. Add to that the trauma of abandonment. And to that the struggle to live with only half your body. And the underdevelopment, and the craving for love, and watching your friends going home. It requires grit and patience to come through such harsh beginnings. Countless volunteers sacrificed their comforts and cried with my son so many nights. They watched over his little soul, fed him with the Bread who is more than life, comforted him in his sorrows and rejoiced in his victories. To these my courageous forerunners, I say this: thank you for loving A for who he is, and not giving up on him. A is the chirpy and silly boy he is, thanks to all of you for dusting your sparkles of life on him.
A loves life. He loves to do life because he has been surrounded with people who love to do life.
He loves to live because those around him live to love.
They don’t see his imperfect body and write him off, but they see his imperishable soul and know there is life and love there. This is the reality of every child, born or yet to be born. They want to live. They are oblivious to their disabilities and imperfections unless you insist on making an issue out of it. Your daughters will prove twice better than your sons if only you cease to compare the two and cherish them from within the womb. They will be your little helpers if only you look at them as productive people and not as burdens for you to carry life-long. They will increase your net worth, not deplete your bank account, if only you train and discipline them. I have met a few who have tried to abort their children just because they are fearful of raising up another child. They fear the economic strain. They fear the drain on energy. They fear the social pressure. They fear the ridicule (could you not exercise self-control?). They fear, fear and fear. Fear breeds death. Faith builds life. Thankfully, these friends restrained their impulse and brought forth such beautiful, precious lives that have gone on to become great assets to their families.
If you are one such who is contemplating ending the life of a voiceless soul within you, may I entreat you to this? Don’t abort, give up for adoption. They will be celebrated by another. As of now, there are ten times more parents waiting in a queue to adopt than there are children. The special needs adoption list is crying out for love. Someone, somewhere acknowledges the child blooming within you. Give it up to them. God will care for this child.
While everyone was singing “happy birthday” during A’s advance birthday celebration, my minion was pumping up and down with jubilation on his Dad’s lap. He didn’t do this earlier when he got the gifts, or when the dance lights zoomed in and out around him. When I quizzed him as to why he was so excited at that moment, he replied, “Because it is my happy birthday!”
Indeed, it is. He can sing thus now, because he lives.
I come from a country where someone sitting on a wheelchair is necessarily perceived as lower than the one standing. Literally, figuarately, socio-economically, whatever. He has no name, no significance, no identity save in that rusty wheelchair. He has already been written off as a loser, unfit for anything good. Some poor soul has to push his wheelchair and his life forward. Therefore ( and therefore ), someone walking by looks down upon him with pity. Almost instantly all of the beholder’s communicative devices begin to shrink and sink low. Eyes droop, smiles dip, heads hang low almost in shame for someone else’s estate.
I know that feeling. I used to do exactly the same. Until God took away a crib and placed a wheelchair into my arms.
Mothering a child with third degree spina bifida opened my eyes to the reality, my earlier assumptions being merely mirages. Some acquaintances around me hear my story and cheer me, “Boy, isn’t he the lucky one for having lovely parents like you?” Mirage. There are some others who hear it and are aghast, “You are not serious, are you? Will this not jeopardize your life?” Mirage. Did I ever tell you that a well known neurosurgeon who specialised in Hydrocephalus surgeries thumbed through my reports and suggested that I go back to a obstetrician instead of an orphanage? Mirage, mirage.
Truth is, my son is a gift handpicked by God for someone as unworthy as myself. This is the reality. The wheelchair is mine, my son stands very tall. Lest you think I portray a false sense of modesty, hear me out.
We often see the outward appearance and conclude that the inside must be hollow. The truth is quite the opposite. Real treasure always lies on the inside, not the outside. Have you ever wondered why rubies and diamonds are found under dark quarries and not above the blue skies? Or why honey is found inside a crevice, or pearls under the deep sea? Because if they were in obvious places, they would no longer be called a treasure. The same is true of people. Great people have to be unearthed. You won’t find them showing off. The most beautiful souls are not obsessed with dabbing powder on their faces. They are busy polishing their hearts.
Getting to know Abhi is like mining the deep for hidden treasures. There is much sparkling glory in him that has been fashioned in the dark places of life that only time and trial will reveal. His disability is physical, true, but more often than not, it is in the eye of the beholder. Truth be told, I often forget that he does have a disability! We do life as normally as everyone else. I must say, sometimes he does life better than many others.
Tuesday mornings, Abhi wheels around his scooter doing room service for our friends who come over for staff meetings. He politely takes their request, then scoots back with glasses of water and snacks. First sundays of every month, our church meets for luncheon at one of the member’s homes. The house is packed with twenty-some guests, and while all the food is gone, people are still hungry for some chatter. So, while they sit around, Abhi goes and picks up all the empty cups and plates with a cheer that alas! I do not always portray. People who see him on the outside give up on him, not so those who know him on the inside.
When I am tired, he kisses and massages my feet. When I am lonely, he comforts me with a warm hug. He always has a kind word, in and out of season. When I get angry with him for something, he speaks tenderly to me. Who taught this child the art of gentle persuasion? Or is it God whispering my wind to silence through a breeze so mellow as this?
He is ever thinking and praying for the ones who are have-nots. He barely owns his own. His friends come once and disappear for a while, but the next time they return, he gladly welcomes them instead of shutting them out. What child is this?
In the last few years of meeting my son, I have met some wonderful souls who are Abhi’s cheerleaders. A mother who first saw his condition and saw hope. A loving paediatrician who sees him as her own son and treats him with a tear tricking down her face. Grandparents who dote on him and pour their lives into him. A church family that has arms as wide for him as her doors are for hurting strangers. Friends who will knock on our doors to come and play with Abhi since he cannot always go and play with them. As his mother, I have the greater blessing of all those who count him more normal than his appearance warrants him.
Yet, I have also witnessed disability in the hearts of some who doubted him. Doctors whose hands hold promise of life yet who prophesy death. Relatives who were aghast at the new addition to their community. Cops who don’t permit the disabled through accessible paths unless they would climb steps and get scanned. Talking about steps, we climbed 3 floors of staircases up the court that declared our adoption decree.
Who is more disabled? My son who could not walk or the men who would not walk? Who is more disabled? An orphan child with arms wide open or the family that folds their arms in return? A child with blindness who walks by himself with his cane on a busy road or the guy who drives down the same, texting?A disabled boy who loves to serve or a fully-abled man slouching on his couch with no desire to work?
For God is fully able to carry him where he cannot go, but a sick heart who can help? It is the sick heart that is more disabled and in need of deeper, costlier treatment than a broken body. And there is One whose bleeding heart can heal even the sickest of hearts, because this heart no longer bleeds but beats with life-giving energy. This heart does not “call out” judgement on the regressive or ignorant but pities them. This heart does not troll the offender but gives him, even him hope. This heart pierced my self-sufficiency and higher estate by handing me a wheelchair and putting me to my place.
It is this very heart – the heart of Christ – that animates the treasure that is my beloved son, who lives in a disabled body.
It is the sick heart that is more disabled and in need of deeper, costlier treatment than a broken body. And there is One whose bleeding heart can heal even the sickest of hearts, because this heart no longer bleeds but beats with life-giving energy.
20th of October 2017 was one of the most exciting days of our lives. It was the day we had been planning for months. A moment when a photograph was going to become a person. It was the day when we took an early morning flight to come and see you for the very first time, unbeknownst to you.
We weren’t sure when we began the journey towards you if you would want us or not. I realise now that that is a strange question to ponder as prospective parents. Most others just go and pick up babies or tiny tots assuming they are already theirs. Not so with us. You were a week shy of being eight years old then. You were fully cognizant of your estate. You were rooted in your home. This wasn’t going to be easy for you. We had to be sure you wanted us as much as we wanted you, so very much. We had to come and meet you as strangers and watch you, and hope that you would desire us too.
The day was as fresh as my memory now. We circled about until we could spot your large, three storeyed pale blue home with sapphire borders. It was situated on a quiet avenue marked with tall trees with fresh leaves. We barely entered through the gates when your friends G*, Milo* and Ian* ran to us, jubilant and eager to be our hosts. They grabbed our suitcases and led us up a steep flight of stairs. Aaron* was beaming with a welcome smile and Riley* the little bear welcomed me with a warm hug. Several others scooted to us and greeted us with exciting grins,yet, there was still no sign of you.
And then you appeared. You popped up sheepishly from behind all the greeters, legs folded on a soft blue scooter, head tilted, eyes wide and wondering who we were and what we were upto. I had to catch my breath! After many months of gazing at one photo and trying to imagine what you would be like, we finally caught a glimpse of the real you! Trying to not take your special attention but raring to throw my arms around you and hear you call me “Mommy!”, I went around greeting everyone and asking their names and finally came to you. I took your tender hands in mind, shook it and introduced myself, and you kept gazing me at with a twinkle in your eye. “Abhi” , you responded in greeting.
Faces of my Prince
We spent the rest of our first day together, without a word going out that we were there only for you. Most of the others were quickly all over us, longing for our kisses and hugs, but you sat a hand-breadth away on that blue couch, speculating the reason for our sudden presence. I still remember our time in the neighbourhood park, where Venky and I took turns to carry you around and find out your favourite things. Cars, helicopters, planes, spider-man. Anything that either ran or flew fast, stuff that gave your immobile feet wings. We even spotted one while we were taking a turn around, and you shouted with such excitement! You had your first ever swing ride on my lap that day. The fear of falling off from the same was palpable. But I held you tight and whispered into your ear, “Trust me, I’ve got you!”. And you did. You hooted and squealed as we swung. We did notice, you asked us the same questions over and over again. Was it the excitement? Or the intentionality to remember us? your love for people? Your lapse of memory? I do not know my dear. We were struggling to understand you, we still do at times, but we wished to enter into your world. Before noon, Venky and I were conclusive that you were going to be our prince.
Daddy carrying Aaround the park
By sunset, you moved onto my lap and became more comfortable with my presence. I took you in my arms and began to sing a love song I’ve long wanted to sing to you, gently swaying your frail body,
If I were a ship I’d sail to your shore Just to see my true love The one I adore I would part all these provinces In my paper boat And I’d kiss you and kiss you and kiss you ‘Til we both just float
At the very moment, our eyes met. And I think you knew then, I parted my province and came just to see you. While you bade goodbye to us without great emotion, we knew you were looking forward to seeing us again. “When are you coming back?”, you quizzed Venky. “Soon”. “How soon?” We felt it best to answer your question with my presence during your eighth birthday. For we knew we were coming back soon to take you as our own. How soon? Sooner than you would imagine my darling boy!
*Online Names have be used to protect identity of these children.
Someone recently commented, “You are not photogenic. You look more lovely in person”. I could never appreciate the sentiment of those well intended words, because I have never seen myself. Others have seen what I look like but not me. You may say, “But don;t you see yourself in the mirror everyday?” I do. The mirror however, only provides a faint reflection of my true image. I still am only as good as being photogenic through a mirror. I miss beholding the real me.
It’s sort of true in life too. People around us see us with better clarity than we see ourselves. When I Instagram the prettiest version of myself and my accolades my neighbour is quick to see the wrinkles beneath the paint. We tend to see our performances through rose colored glasses, while our bosses see the grave error of our works. We think they are critical, but the truth is, we are wishful. We even think we aren’t as stupid or bad as “that person”, always finding a way to make the mirror within tell us we are the fairest of them all.
No glasses are more opaque than pride. It’s hard to break them. It really is.
There is however one mirror that tells the truth better than others or ourselves. James calls this the perfect law of liberty (Jas 1:25) also known as God’s law, naturally revealed and consciously put into our souls by our Maker. When someone looks into this mirror, it reveals not what is outside but what is inside us. Its vision is 20/20. I have found that the more I look into this mirror, the more I see my darkness within. No one else can see this but myself and the One who made me. In more recent times I have been developing a disgust for the things I perceive within myself by peeping into this boundless mirror. At times, it feels like others see the abyss as I see it, but the truth is, no one else can see it as I do. This mirror tells the truth.
Interestingly this mirror is also called the “perfect law of liberty”. How can something that shows my most disgusting parts ever free me? How can the warden who condemns and binds me bring me relief? How can the lock ever be the key? It can’t. It doesn’t. But just as the clue to the key is designed into the lock, this perfect mirror also showed me where i must look for liberty: outside of itself, outside of myself. By looking more into the mirror I wasn’t going to look any better, only worse. By avoiding the mirror and listening to my inner voices I wasn’t getting better, only worse. I must face the mirror and look for someone else. I must look for someone who sees my abyss along with me, but isn’t disgusted. I must look for one who sees the wrinkles and decides to give me the facelift I desperately need. Who else better than Christ, the God-Man? He is God in that He sees me better than I ever can or others ever will. He is Man in that He sees the ugly parts and isn’t perturbed. He becomes Christ by getting down & dirty with me to cleanse me from my sins. But he doesn’t use the mirror. He uses pure water instead. They call it Gospel-love. This love doesn’t make me a princess overnight, uh uh. Instead, this love continues to show me who I truly am, and what Christ becomes for me in my place. The perfect law still shows me that I am the worst person there ever is, but Christ’s Gospel-love takes me back to the mirror and shows me another instead – Jesus in my place. May I take such a view of myself each day, for where I see my dark abyss, may I there find my crucified Savior too.
“This is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief.”- 1 Tim 1:15
Adoption is risky. As someone who evaded this possibility for several years, I know how it feels. After losing our two children in the womb, I became somewhat withdrawn from children in general. Sure, I taught middle school children Sabbath school. Sure, I baby-sat for several of my friends. But that was all on the Lord’s insistence to heal me. Not once was I able to attach myself to any of these children whom I taught of shared life with. That would mean tearing open my womb again. Seeing the blood spill. The grief would be too much to handle. Adoption was a scary thing for me. How would I be able to bond emotionally with someone whom I have not birthed? How can I love when my womb is still bleeding? When Venky and I applied to the central adoption agency in India, I had to trust my husband’s lead. Trust my Lord’s sovereignty in closing all other doors. Lean on His Fatherly provisions. If I had to mother a child, I had to receive an alien love which I did not have. When I first saw Abhi’s photo, the Lord opened a fountain of love from within my bowels. For the first time, after a long season of waiting, I found a new kind of love and affection towards one I had never known. I knew I could love Abhi as a mother. My heart started beating for him. My prayers were consumed with thoughts about this child, his struggles, his sorrows, his needs, his future. And without a doubt, this love came from my Heavenly Father. Adoption is risky, because you cannot love one who is untethered from your womb. You need Christ to pour that love afresh in your heart.
Adopting a special needs child is quite another thing. It is not only risky but scandalous. I know many well-wishers who came to know that we were adopting, early this year. They were all happy for us, rejoiced in this decision to bring a child home. But when they later came to know that we are bringing home a child who had no sensation below his torso, they were appalled. Some were scared for us. My family broke down. Those we looked up too looked down on us in disbelief. It was too much for them to handle. I remember going to a neurosurgeon just two days before meeting Abhi for the very first time, in order to understand Abhi’s special case and future medical needs. His report card was bleak, I knew that. He would need lot of care and support, I knew that. I made a mistake by going alone, or so I thought. At first this doctor was all welcoming and friendly. Once he began looking into Abhi’s files, his countenance fell. His brows frowned. He let out a heavy sigh and started thumbing through my medical reports (which he should not have done), and then gave me unsolicited counselling. This child is a vegetable. Why are you wasting your life adopting him? He won’t be able to walk to do anything on his own. He will be forever dependent on you. People adopt and breed the best, to become the best. Why take up what is rejected? Why take on the challenge of parenting someone who is going to regress you? A medical anomaly? A refuse? You cannot gain anything from him. Gain. That’s right. That’s the word. We rear children so that they will take care of us when we grow old. Pay us back. Karma. In financial terms it’s called, return on investment. What return will I get for my investment? It didn’t make sense to this doctor. It probably doesnt make sense to some of you who may be reading this post.
There were some others who are Christian who had slightly different concerns, owing to our dual vocation as church planters and business owners. While trying to discern God’s will for our family, we realised that we were not going to get a lot of people excited about our new mission. Some of our friends were concerned for our “ministry” and the church, that it would all get sidestepped in our zeal to parent a child with different needs. What would happen to your ministry? What would happen to the church? Who was going to meet their needs? Is this not an additional burden? A hindrance to the Gospel work?
Friends, put the two sets of concerns together and you begin to see that they are not very different. They are two expressions of unhealthy fear. One tries to protect the self and family line from extinction, another tries to protect God and His heritage from endangerment. Of course, I include myself in these fears. I’ve had them too. I’m human, fully human. But listening to Christ’s truths amidst these howling fears has calmed my inner seas.
I remember answering these questions in the concern of one such friend. As tears rolled down my cheek, he comforted me with these words, “You will need a lot of support. He (A) will need a lot of support. This is going to take a lot of your time and effort from ministry.” All very true. One big missing piece. What if this is the ministry God is calling us to? What makes you think Abhi can’t be a vessel for ministry?The Gospel is not paralysed! I began to see this truth while ministering to special needs children in my erstwhile church. At first, I went there to minister to them, but only later did I realise that they were the ones ministering to me. The Spirit of God does not need perfect bodies and bones to penetrate and perfect His work. God was going to use Abhi’s very infirmities as the channel for fruitful ministry. His immobile feet are going to speed the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The weak will shatter the pride of the strong, the foolish the wisdom of the wise so that the boast of the saved are not in the power of their will, intellect or eloquence but in Christ who becomes to them wisdom from God (1 Corinthians 1:27-30). This is the Gospel. And it is scandalous, just like adopting a child with special needs. It is paradoxical, counter-intuitive, other-worldly, senseless to him who lacks sense. Useless to him who values himself. Every true Gospel ministry is scandalous and uncomfortable. It takes effort, sweat and in some cases, blood.
If it were easy, then why preach it?
During this season of reflecting on Christ’s Incarnation, one aspect of his birth comes to mind. When Jesus was a few months old, a very old and godly man by the name Simeon came to Mary his mother and told her something. Something scandalous. He told her that this little baby, this child, was going to cause the rise and fall of many in Israel, a sign that will be opposed, yay, even someone who would pierce her own soul so that many thoughts of hearts are revealed. Notice, God did not use a Roman emperor or an Israelite King of that day to cause the rise and fall of many, no warrior to crush souls, no judge to reveal hearts, but the very God who humbled Himself to take on the form of a man, even an infant. A helpless weakling. It is in His weakness that Christ would shatter the strong. Out of stones God raises up children for Abraham. Out of the lips of babes, He ordains praise. To the little children belongs the Kingdom of heaven. I’ve already seen a glimpse of this truth in and through Abhi’s life. He has disarmed angry hearts with his heart of love, broken down prideful walls with his sweet rest in his present estate, appalled the greater ones with his wheelchair-borne service. Adopting a special needs child is scandalous, but nothing is more scandalous than salvation coming to rebels, from the very person they had put to death. By His stripes, sinners are healed.
