#among other things she set English translations of prayers to music

[glompcat]

Toxic trait: sometimes when I am driving by myself in the car I put on Debbie Friedman music and get waaaay to into singing along

[tiarnanabhfainni]

i wrote another fic about generational trauma and the winchesters, this time featuring deadbeat mom extraordinaire mary née campbell, displacement, emigration, the american wake and just really missing your mom.

gonna quickly tag a few mutuals who might be interested but also you can find the fic under the cut

@uhuraha @myaimistrue @nonsensegnomes

American Wake

On a mild summer’s day in 1950, a wedding took place in Normal, Illinois. Dressed in a simple white dress that she had inherited from her mother, Millie Walsh looked up at the man who was to be her husband in daze of transcendent happiness. She had good reason to be besotted. His name was Henry Winchester and he was a dashing young academic of the supernatural with a fascinating air of mystery that surrounded him. They had met the previous year when he had come to her home in New York on a fact-finding mission. Millie fell in love after only two minutes of conversation.

With such a buoyant adoration to carry her through, Millie was perfectly happy to relocate to a state far from her family and friends to build a new life with charming debonair Henry. She knew about the supernatural elements of his life. How could she not? But it was a trade she was perfectly willing to make for the opportunity to create a family with him.

And she paid dearly for that decision. Millie lost a husband and was left to raise her four year old son alone.

It was all entirely avoidable of course. The Winchester name was not her inheritance by birth. No Cupid had ever marked her name for Henry. It was by no means a match made in heaven. If not for love, Millie could have lived a life completely divorced from the less-than-natural.

After her husband’s disappearance her heart hardened and she abandoned the Winchester name and any association with the supernatural. Packing her bags for Kansas, she returned instead to the ways of her own people. For Millie’s family had a long history of leaving their pasts behind them.

--------------------------------

Millie’s maternal line can be traced back to a small town in Limerick, Ireland now known by the name of Patrickswell. The farm where her grandmother was reared would likely have been a fair few miles from the town itself but it’s difficult to be precise about these things since many of the records of the era were destroyed in an explosion during the Civil War of the 1920’s.

Bridget Ó Laochdha lived in a hard place surrounded by tough people. There was no work in the surrounding towns and villages and her family was forced to eke out a living on rented land. Most of the local community spoke little to no English and spent most of their day-to-day lives conversing and working through the medium of the Irish language.

The Ó Laochdha family was no exception to this rule. Bridget - as the sole member of the family with more than a rudimentary grasp on the foreign tongue - had been translating for her father at the market for most of her young life.

The rugged countryside that surrounded them was austere and beautiful but there was darkness around every corner. Violence engulfed the region as the Land War raged around them. The threat of eviction was a constant sword of Damocles over their heads and the precarity of the political situation left a permanent mark on Bridget’s development.

Bridget loved her family, of course she did. She loved the language she spoke with them and the easy rhythm of her life. But she knew that there was a brighter future out there somewhere on the other side of an ocean. Somewhere she wouldn’t hear constant news of Whiteboys, Invincibles and their clashes with the police. Somewhere that was safer, where she might get a job and support her family from afar. All she needed was the means to get there.

------------------------------------

Mary idolises her dad when she’s young as children are prone to do. Her family are heroes who straddle the line between the known and the unknown and keep the world safe from the evil lurking in the shadows.

As a teenager, she joins the family business and she’s a natural. She excels particularly at getting information out of young witnesses. She sits amongst small groups of girls, nodding along to conversations about music, miniskirts and make-up and nudging the topic of discussion slowly around to the subject of her father’s latest hunt. Mary’s good with the guys too, she finds that a well-placed laugh or look can get her most of what she needs.

But intel is not the only area where she excels. Mary’s a sharpshooter and she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. Hand her a shovel and she can dig a grave just as fast as the boys. She even knows the best technique for washing blood off her hands.

She’s on a path to be one of the best in the business. And she hates it.

-------------------------------

Although many people left Ireland to try their luck in the United States in those days, it was still a difficult path to tread. Tickets to get to New York were expensive and hard to come by. Buying a ticket at the harbour was as likely to get you scammed as to get you a place on the boat.

Bridget was fortunate in that her local parish priest was looking to sponsor a few young hopefuls on the trip across the Atlantic and offered her a place. That decision might have been the hardest any in her family had ever had to make. To leave behind everything she knew and understood for the small chance that her life could be better. She made that choice nonetheless.

The tradition of The American Wake was one that dated back to the famine years in Ireland to mourn the departure of a loved one to that far off place across the ocean. There would be no real way to send letters home consistently and economic conditions meant that the emigrants would likely never be able to return home. What do you do when you are setting up to grieve someone who is still alive? You hold a funeral.

On Bridget’s last day in Limerick she cried until her tear ducts ran dry. She sat in the centre of the room and listened to the keening women wail around her. Her father could not speak his sadness but he stood beside her and rested his hand on her shoulder, bowing his head in silent prayer. Her mother held her face in her hands and whispered one last goodbye.

Yet amidst all of the tears and the heartache, a sense of relief made its way into Bridget’s bones and settled in her spine. There was death and loss but a future there too. A brand new life in a brand new land. And while they’d never say it, her family was relieved too, she could see it in their eyes. This was one less mouth to feed, one less person to clothe. The money she will send home in remittances would lighten her father’s load by a considerable degree.

As she boarded the boat in Cobh, she stared at the ticket clutched tightly in her hand and thought not of what it had taken from her but of the life it stood to grant her.

---------------------------------

When Mary meets John for that second date outside his mother’s house, she knows that this is it. That he is her ticket out.

She clutches his body in her lap and cries and she doesn’t know what to do. With death and destruction all around her, Mary makes the only choice she can.

Deanna’s body still lies abandoned on the kitchen tiles. But isn't it better, in a way, that she never had to face her daughter leaving her behind?

------------------------------------

The first impression America made on Bridget was not a positive one. No sooner than she arrived at Ellis Island, did they take the last vestiges of her home away from her. Bridget Leahy took her first step onto foreign soil without even her name to console her.

Her first job in New York was that of a kitchen worker in a large airy home in the employ of a family belonging to the upper echelons of East Coast society. Her hours were long and her fingers near scrubbed to the bone. Since her food and board were covered, every penny that she earned was sent home to Patrickswell.

While her English had served her well in local markets of Limerick, she found that they were quite inadequate here among native speakers. She sat around the table in the servants’ quarters with the others who worked in the home and listened as conversations happened all around her. They all spoke so fast and the topic of conversation switched so quickly that she couldn't quite keep track. Bridget simply did not have the vocabulary to contribute and so she stopped speaking entirely.

The longing for home was like a physical wound lodged just under her ribs and sometimes she wondered how she continued to breathe through the pain.

The only times that she could recognise herself was on her rare evenings off when she made her way down to the local Irish dance hall. There she could allow young men from Inchicore, Kilrush and Listowel to spin her around a room to the music of home and forget where she was for just a few hours.

--------------------------------------

It is impossible to overemphasise how little the role of a housewife suits Mary Winchester. The sundresses feel awkward on her form and the kitchen still feels like a foreign land.

The other mothers in the neighbourhood all seem to speak the same language as they switch tracks fluently between complaining good-naturedly about their husbands and swapping recipe cards. Mary has never felt more out of place.

She doesn’t know where she fits or how to contribute. The loss of her mother is like a crater in her chest and she doesn’t know where to lay down all of the grief she holds in her hands. She thinks she would be better at holding her children without it.

When it all gets too much, she sheds the skin of Mary Winchester and leaves her small family behind to retrace the Campbell path. She might not be able to get her family back but she can pretend to be home for just a small while when on a hunt.

-----------------------------------

In a small catholic church on an intersection, Bridget Leahy married Mick Walsh of Tyrone in a small, private ceremony. As a married woman, she left the world of employment behind and started the task of homemaking in their small Manhattan apartment. She did her best to keep the rooms aired out and clean but the grime of the city was ever present.

When she looked out of the window and saw grey dusty streets she couldn't help but compare the view to green fields and the fresh air of the Limerick countryside. Her husband worked in construction, building monuments of steel to the sky that looked towards an American future while she remained stuck in an Irish past.

When Bridget’s pregnancy first became obvious to the couple, they were delighted. This was their chance to build something of their own on American soil. A family.

When her waters broke, the women of the neighbourhood rushed into her room to oversee the birth and refused to let her husband in so he could hold her hand.

In another life maybe Bridget stayed at home and married a local boy in Patrickswell. Maybe she gave birth at home next to her parents’ fireplace with all of the women of her family around her and her mother stroking her hair.

Maybe she was destined to die in childbirth no matter where she was but at least at home the last voice in her ears would have been in a tongue that was her own.

-------------------------------

Just like Millie Winchester née Walsh before her, Mary Winchester let the supernatural into her home in a desperate grab for the life that she wanted to build.

And just like her mother-in-law before her, a demon crashed through the walls and destroyed every semblance of a family that she had found.

[omgrachwrites]

The Princess and The Duke - Chapter One

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Summary: As the Princess of Spain, you were always supposed to marry King James of England to make an alliance between Spain and England. When he marries a woman at his court for love, you are married off to his best friend, Sirius Black the Duke of Bedford to keep the alliance. However, the court is riddled with secrets and a rebel in the North starts to rise against the Throne. Royal AU.

Warnings: fluff, angst, swearing, Spanish translated by using Google Translate :(

Words: 2395

Disclaimer(s): This gif does not belong to me and I’m so sorry if this Spanish is wrong.

Translation(s): Mantenerte fuerte - stay strong

A/N: Here we are, the first chapter! This is by no means historically accurate hahaha! Can you tell that I miss the Spanish Princess? :( Hope you guys enjoy and please let me know what you think and let me know if you want to be tagged! I love you all! xxx

Chapter One - Oh, What a Circus

It was a beautiful awakening that you had on the day that your life and future changed, when you woke up from your siesta, your chambers were warm and the perfect Spanish sunlight was streaming through your sheer linen curtains. The room was cast in a holy yellow light like God himself was honouring you. You made the most of your siestas now because you had heard that the boring English people did not take them.

Smiling sadly, you plucked a sugared grape from the golden platter and you walked over to your window, relishing in the beauty of the Castile water gardens. You knew that you would never be coming back to this palace of such beauty and splendour again because you were to be the Queen of England. You were to live out the rest of your days in grey old England. It had been a betrothal since birth but you didn’t want it, you never had. Only your parents wanted it.

You felt your eyes fill up with tears – you didn’t want to be the Queen of England – and you prayed to God, telling him so and asking him for a miracle. It seemed like God had heard you and answered your prayer for a few moments later, your father was shouting outside of your rooms, his voice like rumbling thunder.

“How dare he insult us so? Bastardo!”

At the commotion you crept out of your rooms and into the hallway where your mother and father were talking, the hallway was hardly the place to be talking about this, “Madre, Padre,” you called out as you approached them.

Your father’s eyes softened as he looked at you but he still brandished the letter in front of your face, “that son of a whore King James has written to us apologising for he has taken a common woman to wife and made her Queen! We should ally with the French and invade England!”

A soft blossom of hope bloomed in your chest as you realised that you wouldn’t have to marry the King of England. But, you were also incredibly insulted, how dare he refuse you? You, who was the Princess of the Castile, was not to be refused

The Queen tutted as she snatched the letter from your father, “we need to be allied with the English, it’s been 16 years in the making, we cannot throw it all away. King James had been kind enough to propose an alternative match.”

Your father growled, alarming some passing servants, “he offers us the Duke of Bedford, a man who has bastards all over England no doubt. He’s not worthy of our greatest treasure,” your father smiled fondly at you as he cupped your cheek with a large hand and you smiled up at him.

You knew the Duke of Bedford – Sirius Black – by reputation; he held the French lands for the English. He was said to be handsome but had fathered many bastards. Your father was right, he wasn’t good enough for you, “Padre is right Madre. I am a princess and I should be marrying a future King, a Duke is below my station. I won’t marry him!”

Your mother’s eyes flashed with malice as you defied her, she had always hated the fact that you weren’t a boy; she had to pass on her crown to your older sister, “you will Y/N! The Duke of Bedford is the second most powerful man in England; the King heavily relies on his council. You will be a very powerful woman, also no one in Europe will take you now, you’ve been promised to England since birth and now they will get you. We will write of our confirmation and our thanks and you will set sail for England as soon as possible Y/N. the Queen wants to meet you before you go to the Duke’s lands in France,” she looked at you without warmth as she strode down the corridor. She was a ruthless leader but you almost looked up to her.

Your father smiled at you kindly as he kissed your forehead, “Mantenerte fuerte Y/N,” he whispered against your skin.

“Mantenerte fuerte Padre,” you repeated with a smile as you looked into his kindly, weathered face.

The day before you were due to set sail for England you were taking a walk around the Castile water gardens with your lady in waiting, Sofia. You feared that this was the last time you would see the radiant Spanish sunshine and Sofia must have sensed your fear because she took your hand in hers.

“We will see this land again Your Highness, with your children. England is but the next great adventure,” she told you wisely and you smiled at her, squeezing her hand gently as you sat on the stone benches.

“I really hope so Sofia.”

The crossing to England was slow and gentle but the rocking motion of the ship made you rather sick, so sick that you were sure that you would die. Sofia was at your side, sponging your forehead and the back of your neck as you sobbed, you wanted to go home. You missed your parents already. You even missed your mother with her cruel words and scathing retorts, she acted like she was the King herself but she was the strongest woman you knew. You hated leaving your father behind with her.

Finally, after what felt like years at sea, you saw land again and you could have wept with joy, even if it was dreary and dull, it was supposed to be springtime. You disembarked from the ship with shaky legs and you were met by the English army who all bowed low to you, “Your Highness,” they muttered as they sank into the sand. You made the most of the fact that they were using your proper title; you weren’t sure how long that would last.

You chose to ride alongside the army instead of residing in the lavish litter that the English had prepared for you. You wanted to see as much of this new country as you could. The first thing that you noticed about this land was that it was very green and you knew that England must get a lot of rain. That thought did nothing to cheer your dark mood.

Though, you missed Spain terribly, you saw the charm and the beauty of the English countryside and the villages you passed through, you smiled at the peasants as they called your name. You hoped that you would grow to love this new land because you would be coming to live at the English court after your wedding.

The English court – and London - was much more beautiful than you had anticipated even if it was a bit constricting. Nerves swarmed in your stomach as you were admitted into the magnificent Throne Room and you noticed that all the lords and ladies of court were looking at you like you were some sort of strange beast. It was in the Throne Room where you saw the most beautiful and dazzling woman.

Queen Lily had long curling tresses of flaming auburn hair and she had the most beautiful green eyes. You almost admired the King for defying everyone and marrying the woman that he loved. True love was all that you wanted but you were unsure whether you would ever have it, you had been unsure about that fact since you were a little girl. Queen Lily was smiling at you with beauty and kindness in her eyes while the King looked at you warily. He should look at you like that; he should have been ashamed of himself.

You sank into a low curtsey, “your Majesty’s,” you muttered.

“Princess Y/N, thank you so much for coming here and accepting our invitation please arise,” the Queen smiled, she had a melodic voice. You smiled back and stood up straight.

“I apologise for the insult that I must have extended to your family,” King James bowed his head mournfully and you had to admit that he did look very sorry.

You shook your head, if the King started to apologise to his subjects then he would seem weak to those who would want to take his throne, “you’re the King,” you said simply, “I am happy to marry the Duke of Bedford,” you lied.

King James chuckled as he ran a hand through his messy curls, “well, I’m sure that Sirius will be delighted to hear it,” he grinned and the court chuckled obediently.

Queen Lily giggled; it was a musical pretty sound, as she got up from her throne and walked towards you, taking your hand in her warm one as she looked at you with a kind smile. She was as warm as the Spanish sunshine, “I would be delighted if you and your lady would join my household when you return to court.”

For the first time that day you didn’t have to fake the smile, “we would be honoured,” you smiled at Sofia who nodded eagerly. You were touched by her kind words; she smiled and lowered her voice so only you could hear.

“We ladies must stick together; it’s a man’s world after all.”

You smiled as you shook your head, remembering what your mother had told you years ago, “no your Majesty, it’s a woman’s world, men just live in it. I know it’s hard to believe but in time you will see it.”

------------------------------------

Sirius’ springtime dream had come to a rude and final ending, he had spent his days among such beauty and pleasure that he never wanted to stray from it. No man would. However, duty – and his King – called him and he couldn’t refuse the call. He had to leave behind his life of pleasure for a life at court where friends would stab each other in the back. Sirius was getting married and he didn’t want to dishonour his future bride, even if he would resent her. So he had to say farewell to his mistresses. They were sad to see him go.

Sirius had been best friends with King James since they were boys and James had made him such a powerful man than Sirius was only second to the King. James had been betrothed since birth to Princess Y/N of the Castile. At first Sirius was jealous that James was to wed a Princess but then again, he was going to be the King, it was his birth right. Sirius was surprised when James had come to him about four weeks ago to tell him that he had secretly married Lily Evans, a very minor lady at his court.

James’ marriage meant that the contract with England was void unless there was another match for the Princess. At first Sirius had resisted the match, he fought and raged against the King before he stopped and really thought about it. He had to marry well and he couldn’t do any better than the Princess of the Castile, a young woman who had been promised to the King. Sirius knew that he wasn’t good enough for her but he was used to coming in second, to his younger brother Regulus, and to James.

It was a beautiful day in France the day he was to meet his future bride and hoped with all his heart that it was a good omen. He jumped as the door flew open and James strode in, grinning like a Cheshire cat, “come on Sirius! Y/N is here and she’s as fair as they all say,” James beamed, it seemed like he was really happy for Sirius.

However, that didn’t stop Sirius from grimacing, “then why didn’t you marry her?” Sirius mumbled, combing his fingers through his hair as they walked down the hallway.

James snickered as he slapped Sirius on the back, “because I fell in love,” he said it as if it was the answer to everything, “and I wish you and Y/N the same.”

“Not bloody likely,” Sirius muttered as they descended the stone steps and walked out into the glorious French sunlight.

Butterflies swarmed in Sirius’ stomach as he looked towards Lily and Remus – the Earl of Warwick – who both nodded at him encouragingly. Taking a deep breath, he looked towards his future bride and felt his heart jump up into his throat. Princess Y/N was beautiful; it was like she had just wandered from the pages of a fairy tale. She looked just like the Nymph that was featured in the tapestry that hung in the East Wing. Though, Sirius knew that beauty counted for nought if she had an ugly heart.

Y/N’s pretty eyes looked over the beautiful chateau appreciatively before she gained the courage to look at Sirius. Her eyelashes seemed to flutter of their own accord and her lips opened slightly as a pretty flush grew on her face and neck.

Y/N cleared her throat and curtseyed, her ladies following suit, “My Lord, I am pleased to meet you,” her voice had a wonderful little something to it due to her Spanish accent but it was still as pretty as a song.

Sirius smiled as he approached her and he noticed her eyes roam from his feet, stopping at his lips before looking into his eyes. Her eyes sparkled in the sunshine, like precious jewels. He bowed low to her and took her warm hand in his, pressing a feather light kiss to the top of it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness, you are most beautiful,” he said smoothly and her flush deepened, “in my household you will still be treated as a Princess, even after we are married,” he didn’t want to take that title away from her.

“Thank you, My Lord,” she smiled, looking pleasantly surprised, “your home is beautiful, I think that I will like it here.”

“Would you like for me to show you around?” he asked on a whim as he held out his hand.

She nodded, the sunlight rippling through her soft hair as she did so and she took his hand, allowing him to lead her inside. As soon as they got into the cool chateau Y/N let go of his hand. Sirius bit his lip as he rubbed the back of his neck as he nervously looked over at the beautiful princess, searching for the right words.

“I’m sorry Your Highness, you weren’t supposed to come here to be a Duchess, you were supposed to be Queen.”

Y/N looked at him and smiled wanly, in the depths of her eyes there was almost a look of understanding, “I don’t like being passed around England like a prized cow.”

Sirius nodded as Y/N stopped to marvel at a beautiful tapestry embroidered with a mermaid, “I understand, you won’t get passed around England. I promise.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” she smiled graciously as she bowed her head.

“Sirius, call me Sirius.”

------------------------------------ 

@smiithys​ @elayneblack​ @amelie-black​ @siriuslyjanhvi​ @pregnant-piggy​ @lindatreb​

[bellphilip91]

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[listenbang]

TO THE KINDNESS OF GOD

It was with high expectation and emotion that I began my first listen-through of Michael Card’s latest record, To the Kindness of God…

I discovered the music of Michael Card when I was six years old. It was on my father’s CD rack, a compilation album called Joy in the Journey. I remember listening through that CD and being enchanted by the songs. It was the beginning of my adventure with this awestruck troubadour, encountering with him the wonders of God’s Word. Michael has a gift for songwriting: a unique way of weaving the truth and beauty of Scripture into a song. But Michael has given us more than individual songs. He has given us albums; a discography covering nearly the entire Bible, Old and New Testaments. Concept albums, in which the songs are able to tell a greater story collectively, than each could on its own. The beauty of a concept album is that it can approach the subject organically, from multiple angles, taking time to explore and develop an idea.

So why was this particular concept album such a big deal for me? Word has it that To the Kindness of God may be Michael Card’s last album. Listening through it felt like a goodbye of sorts. But if this is Michael’s last album, it definitely makes for a grand end to an era. There is grandness in its soft yet sweeping musical landscape, and in its lyrical theme, hesed: an untranslatable word denoting the inexpressible kindness of God. A theme that spans all of Scripture and in fact, all of history.

A word on hesed (kheh'·sed): it appears in the Hebrew Scriptures nearly 250 times, mostly in the Psalms. In English it’s often translated mercy or lovingkindness, yet these words fall short. King David, in Psalm 23, described hesed as a mercy that would follow him all the days of his life. A mercy that would never let go. Hesed is used in Psalm 136 in the recounting of Israel’s exodus. The phrase “His love endures forever” is chanted over and over again. The Christian Standard Bible translates hesed in that passage as faithful love. Elsewhere, I’ve also seen loyal love.

In To the Kindness of God, the listener is drawn, song by song, into the glorious story of hesed: how God’s matchless might has been revealed in his transformative, covenant love toward his broken creation. Can there be a more epic theme on which to write an album?

Come as You Are

Hymn to the Kindness of God

The Shelter of the Shadow

That Kind of Love

When Dinah Held My Hand / Jesus Is on the Mainline

Gomer’s Song

This Is My Father’s World

I Will Be Kind

Why Not Change the World

The album opens with ascending piano chords, and an invitation: “Come, come as you are, Broken and scarred…” There’s a quiet boldness in Michael’s voice. “…Surrender your fear, It is safe, there is comfort here.” The instrumentation embodies the call. The refrain gives the purpose in the call: “For the LORD is good, And his love is everlasting… Won’t you come?”

A simple message, yet deeply profound. This is what Michael has been approaching in his songwriting for all these years. Hesed is the heart of “El Shaddai.” The power behind the prayer, “Jesus Let Us Come to Know You.” The object of “Joy in the Journey.” This album is the culmination of decades of study in Scripture.

 * * *

 "Come as You Are" is followed by "Hymn to the Kindness of God." In this delicate piece, Michael seeks to express the inexpressible. Attribute after luminous attribute is named, filling out the nature of hesed. The nature of God. "Relentless tenderness, Hope of humankind."

There's a graceful wind and string arrangement (real instruments!) blending with voice and piano. It hearkens back to orchestration on early work such as The Final Word and The Beginning. Beautiful and, for me, nostalgic.

“Who you truly are, we hardly can believe; You know what we are, yet you refuse to leave.” Read the Scriptures and you will be confronted by a God whose goodness and love are so much purer than ours that he may seem, at times, too good to be true. Or maybe as Andrew Peterson says, “too good not to be true.”

* * *

“LORD, please show me your glory.” What a request! What was Moses thinking when he asked it? But there’s a desperation in his plea. To know God in a closer way, he disregards the danger. “The Shelter of the Shadow” recalls the history of hesed, starting before history: “From before the beginning Was a Word that was living…” Next is recounted the event portrayed in the book of Exodus; God revealing his glory to Moses on the mountain in the wilderness. A grand and soaring orchestral and chamber choir arrangement accompanies. Fitting for the events being portrayed…

“The LORD descended in the cloud and stood with Moses there, and proclaimed the name of the LORD. The LORD passed before him and proclaimed, ‘The LORD, the LORD, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in hesed—steadfast love and faithfulness.’” (Exodus 34:5-6, ESV)

That shadowy cleft: what peril, and yet, what safety. For God’s glory was shown through his kindness. And that was just the beginning of God’s revelation…

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth… For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ.” (John 1:14, 16-17, ESV)

* * *

“That Kind of Love” is by singer-songwriter Pierce Pettis. It’s a beautiful song, musically and lyrically, and a natural fit among the other songs on the album. The lyrics are capturing. Michael’s voice is clear and bright.

“It can’t be kept unto itself, It spreads its joy, it casts its spell, Till no one’s safe this side of Hell—That kind of love." The last lines of the song brought the message close to home for me: “So how can anyone deny That kind of love, Knowing every heart is measured by That kind of love…”

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love hesed—mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8, ESV) “…O may we be remembered by That kind of love.”

* * *

Not often will Michael share a personal story in one of his songs, but “When Dinah Held My Hand” is quite personal. Listening to it, I felt like I was right there. It’s an important song because it addresses the issues of pain and evil. It does so looking through the lens of God’s kindness. The God who showed kindness to Moses and the people of Israel is still in the business of kindness. A banjo and a fiddle start out this simple story-in-song: “She was haloed ‘round in kindness, I was nervous and alone…”

Here, hesed takes on flesh and bone, and the kindness of God is seen on a common face. I’ve known people who shine that way. When with them, I felt safe. Ofttimes, the sweetest and kindest people are those who have gone through deep suffering. Instead of the hurt hardening them, by God’s grace, it makes them kinder, more able to comfort and help others who are hurting. Here we see the art of God’s providence: it will take what evil intends for a destructive end, and make something beautiful.

“She reached across three hundred years of suffering and pain, She reached across the great divide of the color of our skins; When she reached across that empty pew, then I understood, That all the hate that meant to harm, The Lord had used for good.”

At the close of the book of Genesis, Joseph says to his brothers, “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good” (Genesis 50:20, ESV; emphasis added). What a comfort it is, that the Lord is working all things for the good of those who love him. Whether Joseph’s slavery, or the slavery of African Americans, no evil or injustice of man can thwart God’s good intentions.

“Life is made of moments we don’t always understand, Sometimes the meaning isn’t clear, there’s no specific plan; Each moment has been set in place before the world began, Like the time that Sunday morning, when Dinah held my hand.”

“Jesus Is on the Mainline” makes for a perfect outro to Michael’s story. Three instruments—a bluesy piano, a bass guitar and a tambourine — back up the vivacious singing of an African American choir! I love the diversity in the choirs featured in the album; international, like God’s hesed which reaches out to all mankind.

* * *

“Gomer’s Song” is from Michael’s Ancient Faith Trilogy, but it’s found a new and fitting home on this record. Gomer is graceless. Even her name sounds unattractive. But is this not the story of every Christian? Where would any of us be if not for the love that called us out of our shame and darkness? Hosea’s love for his unlovable wife is one of the clearest illustrations of God’s love for his rebellious people. Gomer’s story is my story. “Gomer’s Song” is my song.

* * *

“This Is My Father’s World” highlights yet another important facet of God’s hesed. Look around you. The trees, the animals, the blood in your veins—all creation tells of a sovereign, loving and faithful Father. “This is my Father’s world: He shines in all that’s fair; In the rustling grass I hear Him pass; He speaks to me everywhere.”

Those beautiful words are by Maltbie D. Babcock. Many who love this hymn have never heard of the hymn writer. Still fewer know of his tragic end by suicide. I don’t know what darkness brought Maltbie Babcock to take his life, but this I know: No dark demonic power can overshadow the covenant kindness God has for his children.

Michael introduces a couple small yet meaningful changes to this classic hymn text. I first heard Michael sing his version of “This Is My Father’s World” at a concert a few years ago. I was moved by the profound tenderness he had brought to the song. “This is my Father’s world, Why should my heart be sad? He is just and kind, he’s love defined, His grace all the hope that I have.”

This album arrived on the heels of a profound event in my life. In January of this year, my wife gave birth to our first child, a girl. Almost overnight, my understanding of God as Father—as my Father—was transformed. I now see how little I understood dependence, and how far I have to go to be broken of my pride and self-reliance. I see more clearly the pure joy it is to be a child of God, and to rest in his love. The other day we were going for a walk—my wife, our daughter and I. As I was looking up at the sky and the trees overhead, all at once, a thought entered my mind: “this is my Father’s world. My Father.” And it astounded me.

Again I must mention orchestration: the strings on this song are breathtakingly beautiful, like a towering cathedral forest of fir trees. I sense dedication and passion behind its arrangement.

 * * *

 “I can’t explain the mystery, Before I called, you answered me, And showed so great a love That set me free.”

As the album comes to a close, the mood becomes one of reflection. God has shown me kindness. Given his own precious Son, for me. What now? In the stillness, this kindness compels a response. “I Will Be Kind” is that response.

“So now I come and ask of you, To speak the word, to tell me true: In light of all you’ve done, what should I do?” The question is asked, and the response is given. It comes from Jesus’ sermon on the mount, and specifically his instruction to God’s children, on how they are to react to evil.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles. Give to the one who begs from you, and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you.” (Matthew 5:38-42, ESV)

My first reaction to Jesus’ words is to recoil. To give up all my rights, to basically let my enemy run all over me—it seems too much to ask. But this song, “I Will Be Kind,” has helped me better understand the heart behind Jesus’ words.

“I’ll forgive as I’ve been forgiven, I will love my enemies, I’ll be gracious to the ungrateful, That’s the grace you gave to me.”

Christ has set the example for loving my enemies, in loving me while I was his enemy. He loved the unlovable. He died for the unlovable. The greatest act of kindness. This is what it all comes down to. This is hesed. How can I not love as I've been loved? I must love my enemies.

To the proud and selfish heart, Jesus’ way is utterly abhorrent. But when that heart is broken by the love of Jesus, it gladly lays down all its rights. It becomes a conduit of his love. I will “turn the other cheek.” Jesus did first, and he did it for me.

“I gave my back to those who strike, and my cheeks to those who pull out the beard; I hid not my face from disgrace and spitting.” (Isaiah 50:6, ESV)

* * *

To the Kindness of God goes out with a paradox of a song. A light and cheerful melody carries these weighty words: “Why not change the world? Why not set it free? Why not let the change Begin with you and me?”

And so the album ends like it began: with an invitation. We’ve come full circle, and the one invited is now extending the invitation to those around him. A chord modulation, then a choir picks up where Michael left off—a Korean choir! Their voices are warm and so beautiful. “…Why not change the world, Why not make a start?”

* * *

To the Kindness of God is a joy to listen to; lyrically and musically, it’s insightful and refreshing. Just over 30 minutes, this album is short yet so rich in meaning. Truly, if not for the kindness of God, I do not know that I could bear to live. How I long to know it more!

“Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity and passing over transgression for the remnant of his inheritance? He does not retain his anger forever, because he delights in steadfast love. He will again have compassion on us; he will tread our iniquities underfoot. You will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea. You will show faithfulness to Jacob and steadfast love to Abraham, as you have sworn to our fathers from the days of old.” (Micah 7:18-20, ESV)

* * *

Michael Card's new record, To the Kindness of God, can be found here: http://store.michaelcard.com/preorderhesedcd.aspx 

And here’s where you can find Michael’s accompanying book, Inexpressible: Hesed and the Mystery of God's Lovingkindness (which I have now begun reading!): http://store.michaelcard.com/preorderhesedbook.aspx

And Michael, thank you. Here’s hoping for more music…

[minervacasterly]

Secrets of the Six Wives: Catherine Parr - To be useful in all that I do:

Henry VIII’s last wife was a keeper, but she was also someone who walked a dangerous path and often had to choose pragmatism over idealism. On the one hand, she saw herself as one of the top Evangelical leaders, someone who had been chosen by God to spread the true faith on England. On the other, she was also a woman who -like any other- wanted to be loved. After two marriages, and being a widow yet again, she wanted to marry for love. She caught the eye of two men, one the dashing Thomas Seymour, uncle to the future King, Edward VI, and brother to the late queen, Jane Seymour; and Henry VIII.

“He craved female company. It was time for yet another new wife.” Dr. Lucy Worsley mentions that Henry might have still entertained the possibility of having a “spare” born out of his new wife, to further secure the Tudor Dynasty. While this is a strong possibility, it is likelier that Henry chose Catherine Parr because she saw someone who was the ideal wife, but one he could have intellectual conversations with.

Time however, hasn’t been generous to Catherine Parr.

“She might have a reputation for being the dullest of them all. But the real Katherine was far more intriguing. She loved music and dancing … She was actually quite glamorous. She spent lots of money on sumptuous gowns … The Princess Elizabeth spent a lot of time learning from her on how to be a queen, in matters of image, and intellectually. Katherine was real role model.” I couldn’t have said it better myself. Not only that but as soon as she became Queen, she started to surround herself with like-minded women. Smart, well-spoken women. She became a role model for many young girls, among them the future Virgin Queen, lady Elizabeth Tudor and her cousin, lady Jane Grey. In her, they saw someone who knew how to play the game via her sweetness, using her public image and religious devotion to her advantage, and not being afraid to challenge others. Knowledge is power, goes the old saying and there is no better example of this than Catherine Parr. Here was a woman who was outspoken, but who knew when to speak, and how to defend herself. At the same time, her religious devotion made her one of the strictest mistresses in Tudor history. While having as many jewels, clothes and (especially) shoes as any young woman could ever want, she also cut back on some of her expenses, and emphasized on moral virtue to all of her ladies.

“More companion and mother figurehead to his children.” Indeed, she was. And you know how you always have those special friends who despite having different opinions than the general population, they always find a way to be everyone’s best friend? Catherine Parr was one of those people. Her mother was featured in the first episode of “Secrets of the Six Wives”. Lady Maud Parr nee Green had served Queen Katherine of Aragon. Catherine Parr’s family remained loyal for the most part to Henry VIII’s first consort. It is possible that she was named after her, a mistress that her mother had grown very attached to.

“She was the definitely the MOST INTELLECTUALLY curious of his wives. She was one who couldn’t stop reading books.”

Catherine of Aragon made education for women fashionable, so following her lead, lady Maud made sure that her daughter received the best education that a lady of her station could have. Despite being a devout Catholic, Catherine Parr had always been intellectually curious and it was that curiosity that got her to explore the new ideas that had come from across the continent into England. She became a staunch Reformer, and she encouraged her ladies, especially her youngest stepdaughter to read forbidden books and translate old texts. And it wasn’t just them, but one of her best friends at court was none other than the lady Mary, Henry VIII’s eldest daughter, who was motivated enough to translate one of the gospels in the new testament into English. Another thing that Dr. Lucy Worsley doesn’t fail to mention is that no other woman in English history, let alone a royal consort! Had enjoyed the sort of literary success that she did. Yes, Queens translated texts. Some Kings’ mothers were awarded great titles and given precedence over other ladies. Margaret Beaufort and Cecily Neville are proof of that. Both women translated books and were renowned for their religious devotion, but none would have ever dreamed of being a published author, let alone the voice of a new religious movement that was taking England by storm. Catherine became that and more. She published her first book in 1545. It was called “Prayers and meditations”. This book was translated by her stepdaughter, as well as Marguerite of Navarre (who often favored many reformers, but at that time had to lay low because she was already a suspect of France’s conservative faction) “Mirror of the soul”, into English and given to Henry VIII as a New Year present in 1546.

Catherine however, was playing with fire. It isn’t mentioned, but following Anne Askew’s arrest, Catherine knew that it was only a matter of time before they got to her too. She hid her books, disposed of most of them and did the only thing a woman in her position could do: Beg. She caught Henry by surprise, reminding him of her eternal devotion to him and the Anglican Church he had established. She then used the victim card and played the fool. Since she was a woman, could she be to blamed for her follies? She wanted to debate because she wanted to be certain of what religious path to take, and if she made Henry, then she was sorry, but as a woman, she was curious and feeble, and therefore she needed someone intellectually superior to set her right. Henry was touched and Catherine no longer had anything to worry about. From that point until his death, Catherine kept her religious views to herself. A year after Henry died, she published her second book, which also became a bestseller. “Lamentations of a sinner”. Henry was depicted as Moses leading his people to the promised land, away from Egypt which is the Roman Church, that had long kept England in bondage. Now that everyone was ‘free’, they could have access to the word of God in their native language, and not be punished for it. The new King was after all a devout Protestant and as Dr. Worsley pointed out, someone who never stopped favoring his beloved stepmother, whom he considered his true mother.

Besides Catherine of Aragon, a woman that Dr. Worsley refers to as "the warrior queen", Catherine Parr was the only other Tudor consort to be left in charge of England after her husband had gone away, to seek glory in France (yet again). As regent, Catherine Parr had unlimited authority. She still had to answer to parliament, but she could give orders and sign bills as if she were the King. That is how much Henry VIII trusted her. Her youngest stepdaughter no doubt saw how well she handled herself, and used what she learned during her brief regency, for when she became Queen Regnant.

Sadly, Catherine Parr's story didn’t have a happy ending. Dr. Lucy Worsley skims through her story, saying that after she finally gave birth to her first child, she died of puerperal fever, commonly known as childbed fever. The same thing that killed Henry VIII’s mother and his third wife, killed her. But there is also something darker that contributed to her physical decay and that was the stress of finding out that her husband fancied her stepdaughter. She sent her away and reminded her to guard her virtue above all else, the rest as they say is history. Catherine Parr was survived by her adventurous husband and their baby daughter, but not for long. In her biography of Catherine Parr, Linda Porter mentions that it is highly unlikely that Lady Mary Seymour, named after her mother’s eldest royal stepdaughter, lived past the age of two. There is no record of her after her father was beheaded, and she went into the Duchess Dowager of Suffolk’s household not long after. There is even a poem that laments both her death and her mother’s and makes mention of Lady Mary Seymour’s untimely death, suggesting that she died when she was still an infant.

A sad end to a woman who was one of England’s leading intellectuals. But one who isn’t forgotten. In her recent book on the Tudors and Stewarts, Linda Porter highlights the contribution that Catherine Parr made to England through her royal stepdaughter, Elizabeth Tudor. Like her, when she used her wit, so Henry would spare her, Elizabeth I used the rules that were meant to keep women down to her own advantage. In her Tilbury speech, she said that she had the weak and frail body of a woman, but the heart of a King “and a King of England” at that! She won the crowds through her femininity, using her words as her shield, and her propaganda as her sword.

Recommended reading: Katherine the Queen: The remarkable life of Katherine Parr, the last wife of Henry VIII/ Tudors vs Stewarts: The Fatal Inheritance of Mary, Queen of Scots by Linda Porter; The Six Wives and the Many Mistresses of Henry VIII by Amy Licence, the Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser and Elizabeth: The struggle for the throne by David Starkey (Although Starkey believes that she wasn't a reformer by the time that she became Henry's wife, he does highlight her contributions to the Protestant faction in England and how she became a role model for Elizabeth, Jane Grey and Edward VI).

[jewishphilosophyplace]

Haredi Transgender (Abby Stein)

In the depressing and dreary state of our political world in the Age of Trump, this is touching and lovely story about the power of transformation and self-creation is life affirming. For those who can’t get behind the Ha’aretz paywall here I’m posting below the piece by Debra Nussbaum Cohen about Abby Stein, who was born and ordained as a Hasidic rabbi and then transitioned from male to female, leaving her community to find new cultural and spiritual connections.

  By Debra Nussbaum Cohen Feb 14, 2017

NEW YORK – Abby Stein is almost certainly the only ordained Hasidic rabbi who is also a woman. Stein wasn’t female when ordained, of course. She was a young man, soon to be married to a woman also from the strict Satmar community in which they were both raised.

While Stein – then named Yisroel and nicknamed Srully – had long had unsettling feelings about her gender identity, when she married at age 18 in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and moved to Monsey, she had no idea that just a few years later her life would be radically different.

But it is. Today Stein, 25, is a Columbia University student, divorced, no longer ultra-Orthodox – and female.

Abby, as she is now known, is a petite young woman with shoulder-length brown hair, whose religious origins are detectable only in the Yiddish accent and cadence of her speech. Estrogen has made her face softer and her body more womanly, and has even induced PMS-like mood swings.

Abby Stein today after undergoing gender transitioning, leaving the religious world, getting a divorce and becoming a student at Columbia University. Debra Nussbaum Cohen She is happier than she has ever been and plans to work on transgender issues in public policy. She may even one day run for local public office.

The sixth of 13 children, Stein was her parents’ first son. It was an upbringing full of cousins, weddings and Shabbos tisches (Friday night community gatherings) with the rebbe. Her father is related in five different ways to the Baal Shem Tov, the mystical 18th-century rabbi and founder of Hasidism. As such, the family has customs that reflect its status. While in strict Hasidic communities women don’t drive, Stein men don’t either. They don’t eat in restaurants and work only in Jewish education. After bar mitzvah the boys wear white knee socks rather than black ones — something most Satmar men do only after marriage.

When young Stein questioned her father about why they didn’t go to amusement parks during the Passover and Sukkot festivals like most Hasidim, he would respond that those things were “pas nisht” — simply “not done” – by Steins.

Something nagged at the little boy from an early age, although she lacked the language to describe it. In the bathtub at age 4, she’d prick her penis with pins because, as Stein tells Haaretz now, “It just felt like it didn’t belong there. I realized right away that I couldn’t tell anyone.”

She voraciously read articles about organ transplant from Yiddish language newspapers Der Yid and HaMaspik, thinking “someday I’ll get a full-body transplant.” At age 11, Stein added a personal prayer to her bedtime recitation of the daily Shema (confession of faith) prayer: to wake up a girl.

At 15 Stein went to a high-school yeshiva of the Vizhnitz Hasidic community in upstate New York. One day a classmate gave her a Hebrew-language translation of Richard Friedman’s “Who Wrote the Bible?” That led Stein to read “The God Delusion” by atheist Richard Dawkins, and to the discovery in the yeshiva library of books by Rabbi Yitzhak Moshe Erlanger, a scholar of kabbalah, Jewish mysticism.

Students at the yeshiva typically returned home one weekend a month, and Erlanger was in Williamsburg one Shabbat when Stein was there. They spoke for hours and the rabbi gave her an important work about kabbalah to read. “For the first time,” Stein recalls now,

“I realized that gender could be fluid.”

At 17, Stein’s parents conducted the requisite research for a girl recommended by a shadchan (matchmaker) and the two met for a b’show at the girl’s married sister’s apartment. While theoretically either of them could have declined the match, when the prospective groom arrived the table was already set to celebrate their engagement. “It’s extremely taboo” to turn down such a match, similar to breaking an engagement in the non-ultra-Orthodox world, says Stein.

The bride called Stein’s mother every week, but Stein herself had no contact with the bride during the year leading up to their wedding. The night before the chuppah, she went to the rebbe’s son for marital instruction. She was told they were to have sex only on Friday and Tuesday nights, after midnight, in the dark and in one position. Gender identity doubts persisted, Stein says, but “I kept telling myself everything would be fine.”

They lived in Monsey and were soon expecting a child. Stein’s feelings rose up anew, she says. “Gender began punching me in the face.” Stein got her hands on a smartphone and, in the bathroom at a mall, began her search. “The first thing I Googled was boy turning into a girl. Then I found a Hebrew Wikipedia page about transgender. I couldn’t read English” (Yiddish is the predominant language among the Satmar sect and in its schools).

She also found an online Israeli forum for trans people. “I realized, ‘Wow, there’s a whole world out there’ and that freaked me out,” says Stein. This was before Caitlyn Jenner and the television show “Transparent,” when there was relatively open, public conversation about trans people.

The couple’s son, Duvid, was born in January 2012; a year later, Stein told her wife that she was a non-believer. They talked about leaving Satmar for a more modern community because “we were still trying to make it work.”

Stein joined the New York-based Footsteps organization, which supports people leaving ultra-Orthodox communities, started taking English as a second language at a local community college, explored various online trans communities and opened a Facebook account as “Chava.” With a Footsteps tutor she prepared to take the high-school equivalency test.

Eventually Stein and her wife separated. She worked in Williamsburg and lived with her parents, with whom she was still close; her wife lived with Duvid at her parents’. At first father and son saw each other weekly, until the wife’s parents decided they could not meet unless their daughter was granted a get, a divorce, and Stein promised not to change her appearance and agreed to see the child just once a month.

Hard-hitting depression

After enrolling in a college-preparation program offered by Columbia University, Stein started spending time at the Hillel Jewish students’ organization on campus, and later applied to the school at Columbia designed for students from non-traditional backgrounds. On her application, which required a lengthy essay, she wrote simply, “I grew up in New York City but until I was 20, I never saw a movie, went to a Broadway show or listened to music” – and was accepted.

Once immersed in studies, Stein hoped her gender identity issues would fade, but several weeks into her first semester depression hit hard; she couldn’t get out of bed. A counselor at the university said he thought the student was hiding something.

Yisroel “Srully” Stein, before coming out as a trans woman named Abby. She is happier than she has ever been before, she says today. Eve Singer By then she had begun using women’s deodorant and letting her hair grow, but wasn’t yet ready to confront gender transitioning head-on. The depression intensified and she looked for a new therapist. At the LGBT center in lower Manhattan, a staffer told Stein she was trans. After working at a Jewish camp that summer, she began to transition. Stein began taking estrogen and a testosterone blocker in September 2015, and started coming out to friends. One showed up with a bag of women’s clothes, another taught her how to apply makeup. She began going to trans support groups.

Stein still dressed outwardly as male though “emotionally it was getting harder” not to make the full transition. She wanted to tell her parents personally about her decision so they didn’t hear it through gossip. One Shabbat, back at home, Stein says she lit candles — solely a woman’s ritual — which she had been doing privately for a year.

“My mother said, ‘You look different,” says Stein, but didn’t ask any specific questions. Taking estrogen has changed Stein, in the interim. A receding hairline has filled in and her hair has grown thicker. Her cheekbones have become fuller, she has breasts and her hips have widened. Her son Duvid, now 5, started calling her “Mama” as soon as she got her ears pierced, she says.

Stein started attending Romemu, a Jewish Renewal, egalitarian Jewish congregation in Manhattan, and became close to its rabbi, David Ingber. He offered to speak with Stein’s father, and they met in late 2015.

“It was the first time [my father] saw me wearing earrings. He said, ‘It would be easier for me to talk to you while you’re wearing a kippah,’” Stein recalls.

Yisroel Stein with his son Duvid and his parents. After Yisroel became Abby, a trans woman, she was called “Mama” by Duvid when she got her ears pierced. Abby Stein Her father, who runs a Williamsburg yeshiva for troubled youth, didn’t say much. “He stayed frozen,” Stein says. “He said, ‘I don’t believe it [transgender] exists.’ I showed him kabbalistic and Hasidic ideas. He said, ‘Why would you do that – women are so much less than men?’ Then he said, ‘You know this means I probably can’t talk to you ever again.’ He stood up, thanked David for taking care of me. He didn’t say goodbye to me, he just walked out the door.”

Her parents have not spoken with her since. Stein called home before the Jewish New Year last fall but got no response from her mother, who answered the phone. “It is painful,” says Stein, who likes baking challah her mother’s way.

Speaking out

Stein had her name legally changed from Yisroel to Abby Chava. Now her birth certificate, driver’s license and school ID indicate that she is female. In an emergency room recently after being hit by a car, a doctor asked when her last menstrual period was. Stein and her ex-wife haven’t spoken directly since their divorce. The woman’s new husband turns Duvid over when Stein comes to pick him up.

Today Stein wears a triangle charm necklace. Two corners bear symbols for male and female, while the third indicates transgender. She is dating a woman. And she is on a waiting list for sexual reassignment surgery.

At Columbia she’s majoring in political science, and women’s and gender studies. She teaches Hebrew school at Romemu and at the Congregation B’nai Jeshurun, and recently started a part-time community engagement job at the Manhattan borough president’s office.

Stein is also writing a memoir, and someone is making a documentary about her. As the only Hasid in America to come out publicly as transgender, she is in great demand as a speaker from Limmud Jewish education organization, to college and LGBTQ groups. She also runs an online support group for Hasidic trans people.

Most importantly, Stein notes now, she has never felt better.

“I experienced cycles of depression since I was 12,” she says. “Now I have mood swings, but I can deal with that by watching Netflix and eating pickles.”

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[eccentricandanachronistic]

Tuva – Reeking of Mysticism…

I was well into my second week of my dream Trans Siberian Railway ride. So far, I had had a 50 hour train ride from Moscow to Novosibirsk, a couple of days of exploring the town of Barnaul with the help of my Couchsurfing host Sasha, scouting around for tent and camping equipment, and almost a week of trekking up in the Altai mountains. One part of Siberia that needed a bit of a detour, but fascinated me enough to be willing to jump through all hoops required, was the majestic Republic of Tuva...

I took the night train from Barnaul to Abakan, and I knew right away that I was in a part of the country that was absolutely off the tourist radar because, for the first time, I felt conscious of hard stares from fellow passengers. Many curious people came and struck up a conversation (and even took pictures for their Instagram!). I reveled in the attention for a bit, till digging deep into my limited vocabulary and answering with strain in incoherent Russian became a little too stressful, and I feigned ignorance of the language for the rest of the evening and went off to sleep on my berth.

Early the next morning, I arrived at Abakan. There were quite a few 'marshrutkas' (mini-buses) outside to depart for Kyzyl, capital of Tuva. I sat in and more curious stares and questions followed. I felt more conscious than ever, for I hadn't freshened up or even once checked myself in the mirror in the last 24 hours, so I knew I must look a sight (and a downright ugly representative of India, to boot). I refrained from talking much, but before long, was most pleasantly surprised to find one of my fellow passengers come up to me and speak in impeccable English. She introduced herself as Serji, a native of Toora-khem – a small Tuvan village, more than a half day's bus ride from Kyzyl – but having worked in St Petersburg in the past, and volunteered as part of an International Student Run Organisation at exciting places like Colombia! I sensed in her a fierce desire no different from mine to see the world and understand as much as possible of the cultures beyond hers, and was highly impressed. She donned the hat of guide and translator for the rest of the bus ride; I was relieved that all questions about me were now directed to her!

Once we reached Kyzyl, I started looking for a 'Student's Hostel', a reference to which I had found online somewhere on only one page in English. With Serji's help, I now did a search in Russian on Yandex, and she was of great help in mining the exact name of the building and street from among all the Cyrillic the search results bombarded back. Turns out it is the local University students' accommodation, which is let out for tourists during the summer holidays – only there aren't many visiting this part of the country. Serji decided to stay at the same hostel for the night, for she had missed the day's bus to her village. We also met Roman, an ardent photographer originally from the Urals, who had also just dropped in earlier that day.

Right on the opposite side of the road was Vostorg – a place for cheap eats, which is where we had lunch. Later that evening, we walked around the City Centre and took in the sights around – the museum, theatre, and other pretty edifices. The sight that stayed with me however was the mandatory statue of Lenin erected at the Centre and, in the distance inscribed on the hills overlooking the city, the letters 'Om Mani Padme Hum' in Tibetan script, visible in the same frame!

I next walked up to the 'Center of Asia' Monument at the Heritage Park that evening. Right next to it was the Kyzyl Tourist Information Center, the upper floor of which had a lovely Café with a balcony. From here, one could see the river Yenisei running alongside the Park.

Presently I was joined by Roman, who said he had managed to hire a car to visit southern Tuva the next day, and invited me to join him to split costs. I said yes, but was forced to change my mind not too long after when I learnt that the following evening, the National Tuvan Theatre would be playing host to the Annual International Concert for 'Khoomei' – the mystical art of throat singing, and emitting multiple octaves of sound, prevalent in this region as well as Mongolia. I jumped – this was the thing I was most hoping to see in Tuva! And to think the Annual Concert is at the very time I am here – if this isn't serendipity, what is?!

I went out early the next morning to the theatre, and just as it opened, secured a ticket to the concert that evening. The rest of the day was spent at the National Tuvan Museum , which has a fabulous collection of artefacts, and the star attraction of which is the 'Scythian Gold' (no photography allowed unfortunately). Serji took me to an authentic Tuvan café for lunch, where I had some local lamb soup, 'chorba', and 'snezhok', which is very similar to our own lassi! I then saw Serji off at the bus station and thanked her for everything…

The concert began as scheduled at 7.00pm in the evening, and no time was wasted in getting the performers to show off their incredible vocal magic – my hairs stood up from the word go! Over the next two hours, local music groups as well as other national and international participants put up a spectacular show. This certainly goes down as one of the most unique and surreal experiences I have been privy to EVER!

The next day, Roman was bound for Western Tuva, and was kind enough to ask again if I could join in. After the concert, I felt I had pretty much seen what I had come to Tuva for, and now anything more would be a bonus. We were to be seeing some nomadic families in action as well as their 'yurts' (tents), so I was excited about that. My plan was to return that night to Kyzyl and head out by bus or train.

We started with seeing the Buddhist temple of Ustuu-Khuree, which had plenty of prayer flags around it. We'd bought prayer flags ourselves, and tied them along with our 'zhelanie' (wishes). Now that I write this a year later, I can indeed happily confirm that my wish did come true!

Next was 'Aldyn-Bulak', an ethno-village recreation nestled amidst the hills. Pretty, albeit a bit too 'set up' for my liking.

Some breathtaking sights greeted us the rest of the way. I had lost count of the rainbows I had seen on this trip; while the sight of the vast steppes amidst the backdrop of rolling hills looked otherworldly indeed…

Soon after, however, the car broke down, and could not be fixed no matter how hard our driver and co-driver tried. It had turned pitch dark, and there was not a source of light close by save for our torches.  Obviously there was no going back to Kyzyl to catch the bus out now. Roman had a reservation at a 'yurt' that night, and called them for help. Soon after, a car came our help; we were ferried to the closest village of 'Bizhiktig Khaya', where the nephew of the lady who managed the yurt stayed, and we were to spend the night there. The following morning, another car arrived to take us to the actual yurt, which was about an hour's drive away. Once there, we settled in, and I took in every bit of the well endowed tent; there was sheepskin all around, meant to help keep the place warm. We were then treated to a delightful spread of salad, 'lepeshka' (bread), and soup – all lip-smackingly delicious!

We hired yet another car – a 4x4 and quite the fuel guzzler – and went out to see some more places around; first to another yurt, this time not part of a camp, but owned by a real nomadic family. I enjoyed having the spotlight on me all over again, and for good reason – Indians did not drop by in these parts everyday (though turns out they know of the singer Bittu Malik!). It was time to head back – sunset views were a delight to take in, as was the sight of horses and cattle herd returning to their farms.

That night happened to be 'Rakhi Poornima' (August Full moon)… and also my birthday! I kept running over a thousand thoughts in my head, while snuggled in my sheepskin blanket, and couldn't sleep for excitement. I came out to admire the yurt lit up by the glorious moonlight, and froze the frame in my eyes and lens forever…

The next morning, after a wholesome breakfast, we climbed up the nearby hills to see 3000-year old peteroglyphs carved on the rocks.

We were presently joined by an Italian girl, Alessandro, who had just come back from a week-long trip among the reindeer herders, and was heading back that afternoon to Abakan; we decided to take the ride back with her. Just before sending us off, our host performed a shaman ritual on us, blessing us with closed eyes and deeply resonating chants – very mystic, very powerful…

We passed by the beautiful region of Khakassiya on the way, and reached Abakan by late evening. This is where I bid goodbye to both my new friends – Alessandro and Roman – for I would be staying the night at a hostel in town before heading out the next morning. I had the rest of the night to ruminate over the overwhelmingly different and transcendent experience the last few days had been, and marveled at my destiny – I had come seeking so little, and ended up getting so much more than I bargained for; not very different from what they say about God – you take one step towards him with pure faith in your heart, and he will take ten closer to you…

On to Krasnoyarsk next, where more exciting adventures await…!