Why are we here? What is the purpose of our life? Is it only for ourselves? Or is it also for others?
This book is full of uplifting stories from the author's journey from Australia to Nigeria to fulfil her dreams of helping people in Ibadan, Nigeria. Help them be closer to God by creating prayer grounds and providing fresh, clean water for those in need. The journey is full of challenges, difficulties, and risks, coloured with rich emotions of happiness, sadness, hurt, and disappointment.
Grab your copy today and immerse yourself into the collection of inspiring stories from the author's journey. It will warm your heart, enrich your soul, and inspire you to make your hidden desires a reality to have a meaningful and fulfilled life.
Why are we here? What is the purpose of our life? Is it only for ourselves? Or is it also for others?
This book is full of uplifting stories from the author's journey from Australia to Nigeria to fulfil her dreams of helping people in Ibadan, Nigeria. Help them be closer to God by creating prayer grounds and providing fresh, clean water for those in need. The journey is full of challenges, difficulties, and risks, coloured with rich emotions of happiness, sadness, hurt, and disappointment.
Grab your copy today and immerse yourself into the collection of inspiring stories from the author's journey. It will warm your heart, enrich your soul, and inspire you to make your hidden desires a reality to have a meaningful and fulfilled life.
Â
Rachel is my new friend this year. She works in a lovely, serene cafĂ© overlooking the Arafura Sea near my workplace. I love to have coffee after work as it makes me happy and relaxed.Â
Â
I met Rachel when I went to the cafĂ© with my son, Edward, some months after school. We ordered some drinks and snacks, and I paid for them directly from another staff member. When we finished at the cafĂ©, we walked to the car and drove off.Â
Â
While in the car, Rachel waved her hands at us and said something I could not hear. There were other people there who were still waiting on a public bus. I thought, “Wow, the service in this cafĂ© is superb; even though we are already long gone, they still wave their hands to us and say goodbye.” That impressed me.Â
Â
I then waved my hands back to her enthusiastically and said goodbye. However, ‌she seemed to say something else besides seeing you later. My son said, mum, she wants to talk to us, and we stopped the car and waited for her. She ran in our direction, and after taking a deep breath, she said, “You have not paid for your food and drink.”
Â
My mood turned around 360 degrees, and my blood boiled. My son knew me, and from listening to my intonation and body language, he said, “Relax, mum, she is just doing her job.”
Â
I told her calmly that I had paid for our food and drink and described the person I gave the money to. She then walked away. I was still very annoyed, but my son kept calming me down.
Â
When I met Rachel the next day, I felt annoyed and explained that I had paid before. She apologized to me profusely, and this matter was settled. She had just confused me with someone else. From then on, my relationship with Rachel became very close. She always serves with happiness on her face. She recommends the delicious cakes on display and some delicious drinks in their cafĂ©.Â
Â
One day, I went to the café, but forgot my wallet. I thought I had it with me, but it was not there. Rachel saw my stress that day and that I needed coffee; she told me, “Don't worry, Maria, I will pay for you.”
Â
When I hesitated, she said, “You can pay it back when you come again.”
Â
The next time I came to pay her back, she told me it was okay; it was on her. She was very kind to me. Rachel always greets me warmly and tells stories about her family, especially her grandmother. Her grandmother is over 90 years old, but still strong and moving independently. When Rachel asked about her grandmother's secret, it was nothing but prayer. Her grandmother is a devoted Catholic and loves to pray.Â
A glimpse of how Rachel motivates me
Â
Today is the first day of my holidays this year. I don't like to write this story and post it on Facebook, but this is my promise to Rachel, who always makes me happy and smiles. She always lightened my day, especially when I felt the burden was too heavy to bear.
Â
Two days before my holidays, I went to the cafĂ© where Rachel worked to say goodbye to her. When I was just at the door, Rachel already greeted me cheerfully, “Hey Maria, how are you? Is your day good?” I told her that my day was perfect indeed. In addition, I was so delighted because I wanted to go on holiday after being stuck for two years during the COVID-19 pandemic. Rachel asked me about my journey, and I told her briefly, and she was pleased. Since she had to serve other customers, she said that she would come and talk to me a bit later.Â
Â
I went to sit outside the café while enjoying the fresh air, listening to the crash of waves, enjoying the beach's solitude, and observing the graceful movement of pelicans who were grazing for food around the café's garden. The Arafura Sea reminded me of my hometown, Lewoleba, Lembata Island, East Nusa Tenggara Province, Indonesia. So I called my sister in Lewoleba and talked to her. While talking, Rachel came in my direction and wanted to ask me more about my holidays. I ended my phone call and spoke to her. I explained to her my detailed plan for the holiday, and she listened attentively, with excitement in her eyes. Rachel asked me to write my journey and post it from the first day to the end. Initially, I was not interested in her suggestion because I did not want to reveal my holiday activities; why should I have to share it with other people? Do I think ‌other people can't go on a holiday too?
Â
However, Rachel is a petite, forceful lady who persuaded me to share my story with others. When she saw me not very interested in her suggestion, she asked, “Maria, why are you afraid? Why are you hesitant? Are you afraid of being rejected by others? Are you afraid of being criticized by others? It is okay when you post the story, and only a few people read it. Don't worry too much. If they don't want to read your story, it's their right not to do so. But I was hoping you could write it for others like me to see. When you tell your story to me, it makes me thrilled. Although I don't have a holiday as you do, your account inspired me, and if it inspires me, it can also inspire other people.”
Â
As I was still quiet and trying to process her ideas, she continued, “Maria, remember that many people can't go on a holiday like you because of COVID-19 restrictions. Although the COVID problem has decreased and many borders have been opened, many people also cannot go on vacation as you have planned. Some are because of illness, do not have adequate finances, and many more reasons. If you write your story, you can share it with many people; although they are far away from the place you visited, they can still experience it through your story. You can have an activity too during your holidays. Think about it, Maria.”
Â
I just nodded my head while still digesting her suggestions. She gave me time to think while listening to the sound of the waves near the café, just right in front of us. The chirping birds that flew from one branch to another among the eucalyptus trees and many other native trees in front of the café made the situation very serene. Feeling the relaxation and peace on my face, I came to some slight agreement and confidence in following her suggestion. If I could make other people happy, like how Rachel makes me happy with her warm smiles and service, I can also make other people happy with my story. Making others happy is my happiness. Although I don't see the joy on their faces, thinking about how my writing can lighten their burden or help them forget about their everyday problems gives me peace of mind. I want to help other people, like how Rachel has helped me.
Â
But a tinge of doubt comes to my mind. “What if my writing makes others angry, jealous, or envious? Should I still share my story?”
Rachel could see the change in my facial expression and said calmly to me, “Maria, please write your story. If others do not accept it, let them be. They might not want to read it, but I do.” She then continued, “Maria, maybe for you, writing your story is meaningless, but for others like myself, it is meaningful. You have another activity to do during your holidays.”
She's right. When she said my writing could entertain others, she sent me directly to my time in Lewoleba when I was still very young, with my families, relatives, friends, and everyone in my hometown in Indonesia. The people are amicable; they share each other's burdens; there are still some fights here and there but nothing serious. We fight, but we make up. I miss my hometown, family, siblings, nieces and nephews, friends, relatives, and everyone on the island. I miss my homeland. The pain of missing everyone is unbearable; I can feel it to the fibre of my being. I miss everyone and everything there.
Oh, Lewoleba, my beautiful and loving city, the place where I can swim in the ocean with all the colourful fish. I can have coffee in the small cafes on the jetty, walking from one family's house to another. Oh, Lembata Island, I miss you and being there, but I will return one day.
And for my friend Rachel, thank you for motivating me to write this story. I appreciate it. May God bless you always.
Chapter 2: Day 1, part 2
Â
Today, I left my home in Northern Australia to visit my best friend, who lives with her husband and children in Melbourne, Victoria. We have not been together for two years, but we continue to communicate with each other nearly every day. I always wanted to visit her and see her and her family again. Although not blood-related, we are very close and emotionally support each other.
Â
My flight to Melbourne is at 6.30 am. I had to set my alarm for 4.30 am to get ready and leave the house at 5 am, although I usually wake up then. My son Edward and I went to the airport together. Although he was very energetic, I was exhausted and still sleepy. I continued my journey, whereas my son stayed since he had a lot of other things to do. My flight from Northern Australia to Melbourne had a stopover in Alice Springs, Central Australia, for several hours. The weather in Alice Springs is cooler compared to my city in Northern Australia. Although it was chilly, it was refreshing.Â
Â
When we arrived in Alice Springs, I went straight to the airport cafĂ©, got myself a cup of coffee, went outside, and sat on the ground in the shade of a large eucalyptus tree. I liked the spot because the sun's rays were still peering down to warm me up where I was since I was not used to cold weather. I began writing about my journey.Â
Â
Alice Springs is a spiritual place for Indigenous Australia. It is where Uluru, one of the famous icons in the Northern Territory, is located. They always tie Uluru with the storytelling from indigenous Australians of that site. When I sat on the plane to Alice Springs, many passengers were directly going to sleep. Behind me, two young solid indigenous men fell deeply asleep. They were muscular, with a long thick beard and long curly hair flowing onto their shoulders. Their masks covered their chin, mouth, and nose, but their long, thick beard appeared like countless tall trees standing in the dense virgin forest. Their bodies were big and when they walked, they looked rough and ignited an aura of not messing around with these people. Still, when the two young men were asleep, they had very peaceful facial expressions. They looked relaxed, with no worries ‌on their faces. They slept peacefully like two innocent babies.
An old lady
Â
A young man in his mid-20s sat beside an eccentric old lady right before me. That lady looked like she was in her 60s; however, her style was unique. She wore a bright red high heel, ripped jeans skirt with a tight back top, stylish glasses with a golden frame, and her hair was a shoulder-length dyed bright orange. Although she had wrinkles on her face, her eyes always twinkled with a youthful spirit. It was amazing to see her enthusiasm and demeanour.Â
Â
The young man fell asleep, and his head fell many times in the direction of the old lady. The lady was relaxed in her seat while humming some happy notes. When the young man's head hit the lady's shoulder, he got up straight away and was very surprised. Later he realized that he had hit the lady's shoulder and apologized to her. However, there was some saliva drooling down his mouth. This young man's face became red like a cooked lobster, and he quickly wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. He then ran to the bathroom. When he returned, he apologized to the lady repeatedly. Still, the lady waved her hand and reassured the man that it was okay. This lady's kindness reminds me of the life of Saint Monica.
Saint Monica
Â
Saint Monica is the mother of Saint Augustine and patron saint for all mothers. She is from Tagaste, Algeria, North Africa. Saint Monica was born in 331 AD to a devout Christian family. Her husband, Patricius, was a pagan who had no interest in Christianity and was quick to anger. Santa Monica's life with her husband is not very happy. Still, she remained faithful and survived the storm of her household. Even though her husband ridiculed her, especially for her failed attempts to teach their son Augustine, Saint Monica never wavered. She permanently surrendered herself to God.
Â
Santa Monica gave her time to advise her neighbours when they came to ask for her wisdom on how to deal with their husbands. She always suggested that they must read the situation well in dealing with their husband. They should not confront their husband when he was angry or in a bad mood, but when conditions are better and he is in a good mood. She also advised them to always hold their tongue and know when it was the right time.Â
Â
Even though her husband continues to ridicule all her efforts, Saint Monica was not swayed by her husband's inducements, but ignored him and continued to do what she thought was suitable according to Christian teachings. The chief strength of Santa Monica was prayer, and she always puts all this life's challenges into God's hands. For her persistence and steadfastness, Patricius, the husband of Saint Monica, requested that he be baptized before his death. Her mother-in-law also asked to be baptized to live a life of following Jesus.
Â
Although his father and grandmother were baptized, Augustine did not follow the Christian teachings that his mother showed through her teachings and example. He continued to seek worldly pleasures, have fun, and even follow other sects that were different from Christian teachings. Her son's wrong life journey shattered his mother. Her tears of sadness and suffering over her son were countless. Saint Monica went to seek advice from her spiritual advisor, and the advisor said that she should not worry over her son, as her incalculable tears would save her son. Just surrender her son's problems to God through prayers as she always diligently practiced every single day.
Augustine was an intelligent young man who loved learning and later became a rhetoric professor in Italy. Saint Monica followed her son to Italy. Regardless of her son's way of life differing from hers, it did not deter her from continuing to pray for her son's return to the Christian teaching. In Milan, Augustine's mother met Bishop Ambrose, an expert in speech. Besides being a great public speaker, Bishop Ambrose got his legal training before entering politics. He was a senator before being appointed as the Bishop of Milan. When he became Bishop of Milan, he sold all his possessions and helped the poor. Thanks to his mother's prayers and the guidance of Bishop Ambrose, Augustine was finally baptized by Bishop Ambrose himself. Later, Bishop Ambrose was known as a saint and one of the church's doctors in the Catholic church.
Monica passed away on the journey of Augustine's family and his mother to North Africa. Still, before she died, she told his son, Augustine, that she needed nothing in her life. Her son Augustine fulfilled her wishes that he find his way back to God since they baptized him and he then followed the Christian way of life.
My mother
Â
This story reminds me of my mother too. My mother has had a tumour on her left upper lip since I was born. According to my mother, at first, the tumour appeared like a corn kernel, but over time, the tumour grew. He had three operations on her lips when the specialists came to our island. Each time the specialists removed the tumour, there were no lumps. Still, the tumour grew over time and returned to its original state.
Â
When the tumour was small, it didn't interfere with her daily activities. Still, it disturbed her self-esteem because there were people, both new and old, who used the disease to hurt her. With a tumour on her face, sometimes others used bad words, mostly unintentionally, but how they described my mum's condition was quite hurtful. But she continued to put it all back into God's hand through prayers. My mother diligently practiced countless daily prayers. I'm close to my mother because I help sell her goods at the local market. She often sells some people's avocados or buys some fruits and vegetables from people on the mountain and sells it to the people in the main town. Trading in the market enabled her to communicate with her friends and temporarily relieve the suffering she was experiencing.
Â
I'm used to seeing my mother's swollen lips from the tumour. I witnessed her suffering from this condition, and unpleasant words from others regarding her swollen lips hurt her. Even at school, some naughty kids teased me because of my mother's tumour, as it didn't fall into the category of physical beauty. Although it hurt me, ‌I forgave those people. I knew my mother also endured all the nasty words from other people regarding her condition.Â
Â
When I was in primary school, after my communion in Year Four, I was an altar server for the daily and Sunday mass until I graduated from Year 12 and moved out of the island.
I remember when I was little, as an altar girl, I prayed in my heart, “Lord, help me ‌help my mother.” As an altar girl, I sat with the priest right up on the altar very close to me, standing at the holy tabernacle. Usually, after communion, I spent a quiet time with Jesus in prayers through silence. I always whispered in my heart, “Lord, please heal my mother. Her tumour existed when I was born; please allow me to be the one to help her ‌remove it.”
I am sorrowful to see my mother's suffering. When I was in junior high school, my mother's tumour grew and looked like a ripe red tomato. My mother continued to sell in the market because that helps her to lighten life's burden. When I sat with my mother in the shop, a group of nuns walked into the market. The head of the nuns in the convent expressed her concerns about my mother. She said that in the coming weeks, 'specialist' doctors would come to the hospital in Maumere, on another island next to our island, to perform operations on needy patients. She wanted to take my mother there. This head of the convent on the island then came to my house and talked to my father. My father agreed, and our sister, who was married and lived on another island, looked after us. She came to our hometown to take care of my brother and me while our mother's operation was taking place.
My mother's surgery went well. The specialist removed the tumour from her face, and they returned home. Successfully removing the heavy red tumour on her face delighted my mother, and she was beaming with joy. Laughter filled her days with never-ending smiles on her face since she had suffered so long from this illness, and it finally ended. It's always lovely to see happiness in my mother, and I am also happy with her. However, my mother's joy did not last long. Several years later, the tumour reappeared. This time, it looked even more malignant than before. My mother mostly became weak and fell because the tumour blocked her nasal opening, so it was tough for her to breathe. She had to lie down so she could breathe properly again. Sometimes blood and puss came out of the bundle of the tumour. We could see capillaries lined up on her lips like crowded roots of bamboo trees. The tumour lump looked like a ripe tomato that was split open. This time my mother's suffering increased, as she often fainted due to lack of oxygen.
In high school, I was the only child that lived with my parents. All my siblings lived outside the island since they all worked or were already married and had their own families. Sometimes when my mother cleaned her face, she would suddenly faint because of difficulty breathing, and I had to help her. When she woke up, she wailed in prayer, “Lord, please don't take my life just yet. Please allow me to see my youngest child succeed.” I am the youngest child in our family. My mother then advised me to always study hard to be a successful child and help many people. Always remember God and place Him first. I promised her ‌I would.
Seeing my mother's suffering moved some people to teach her alternative medicine, all of which my mother tried; she picked frangipani flowers in the morning, soaked the flowers, and drank the water. I helped my mother pick frangipani flowers in front of our house before going to school in the morning. There were two big frangipani trees whose flowers always filled our home. Every day I prepared frangipani flower water for my mother, which she drank. Still, my mother's tumour never shrunk, but it continued growing.
Other people taught us to take a parasitic plant that grows on a tall tree. This plant was near the priest's house, and the tree is quite tall, so I had to use a long bamboo to remove some ‌leaves. We then boiled the leaves, and my mother consumed the water. She took this drink regularly, but to no avail.
The third alternative medicine I still remember well is a kind of aquatic organism such as a fungus placed in a glass jar that would always grow and develop. We had to replace the water daily from the organism, using it as an external medicine to wash the tumour so it would shrink. But my mother's tumour never shrunk or stopped growing, and my mother's suffering continued. When she was sad about her condition, she always said, "I believe that in the kingdom of heaven, they will also give me a new face from God."
I was heartbroken to see her suffering. I wanted to help her, but what could I do? I had nothing to give her, as I was still in high school and had no job. After graduating from high school, I finally went to Australia and continued my education there. But in my heart, I still remember my mother's suffering. I said to myself, I could have studied as high as the sky, but even if I became very rich in the future, if my mother had died, all my efforts and hard work were in vain. What could I do with all this potential wealth? I might make her grave like a king's palace, but with my mother no longer in this world, all that money and wealth would be meaningless.
I asked my very kind friend in Australia to help my mother because I wasn't working yet. My friend helped with the cost of my mother's surgery, which was carried out at Sanglah Hospital, Bali, again on another island and further than our island home. My sister also helped with my mother's medical expenses.y
My mother's operation in Sanglah was successful. They successfully removed the tumour and gave her chemotherapy to remove the remnants. Still, her cheekbone had to be removed because the tumour had already infiltrated the bone. They wanted to reconstruct her face, but my mother was still weak. First, the family wished my mother to be brought back to Lewoleba, our hometown; later, when her condition was better, she would be back for facial construction. The surgeons took out her cheekbones, which deformed the left side of my mother's face. The specialists used grafted skin from my mother's thigh to replace the skin from the left side of her face that was affected by the tumour. Indeed, my mother's face doesn't look like it used to anymore, and it's not shaping up, but she's no longer suffering like she was before the tumour. She could breathe better and not fall again like when I was in high school.
There was another problem that arose because of her deformed face. With children passing by that saw my mother, I was afraid that someone would stand there for a long time looking at her face. Sometimes I felt bad and had to tell them that their parents called them, so they would stop staring at my mother and move away. I was crying in my heart because I felt that my mother's unusual face was just one of the unique attractions for many to keep them entertained and amazed. My mother noticed that others were looking at her, but she was grateful that God still gave her a chance to live another day. She was happy that she was no longer suffering, since she used to fall unconscious several times a day. Regardless of some sneering, my mother always placed her burdens on God almighty, and she always had hope in God.Â
Besides praying at home, my mother was always diligent in going to church. When I was on vacation from Australia to visit my parents, I often went to church and sat next to my mother. I knew people who entered the church; they mouthed to me, “Is that your mother?” I replied, “Yes.” One man said that he saw my mother always come to church, but did not recognise her because of the operation.
After the operation, my mother still lived for another five years. After finishing my Bachelor of Law and getting a job at a local law firm in Northern Australia, my mother fell ill and later passed away in peace. I was back in my hometown on holiday with my son, Edward, who was just a toddler.
My mother was a strong woman who was resilient and loved to pray. She faced all suffering and challenges in her life with prayers. When we were still in school, she received my older siblings' graduation envelopes; she didn't open them or go straight home, but stopped by the church and prayed before opening them. None of us failed in our school, but seeing her strong faith made us kids try to follow her example.
Saint Monica's desire to see her son Augustinebaptized was the same as my mother's desire to see my success before she closed her eyes. Indeed, my mother was not Saint Monica, but she was solid in her faith. Like Saint Monica, my mother was tenacious in her prayers. However, she did not experience a challenging husband, who was quick to anger and mock her or her child's misbehaviour. Nor did she experience a child like Augustine who followed another sect, contrary to Christian teachings; my mother's suffering derived from her tumour made her a strong woman.
Saint Augustine testified that thanks to his mother's prayers, he finally found his way back to God. After Saint Augustine's baptism, he became the Bishop of Hippo; he did a lot of writing and became a saint and Doctor of the Church like Saint Ambrose. We still use Saint Augustine's teachings today. My father always gave a quote from Saint Augustine, “Qui bene cantat, bis orat,” which means, “singing well is the same as praying twice,” and applied it in his daily life. My father always sings spiritual songs, even though his voice is off-note, but never stops singing when he recites his daily prayers.
The spiritual achievements of Saint Augustine would not come to pass if his mother didn't relentlessly forgive, guide, and pray for him.Â
Seeing the scene in front of me where this old lady forgave her child's mistakes taught me to be quick to forgive others. The old lady in front of me was like the image of Saint Monica, who pardoned her son Augustine's countless mistakes. I then remembered my son, who was already 17 years old. I pray I can be more like this old lady who easily forgives, and follow the way of Saint Monica, who always advises and prays for her child to walk on the right path according to the teachings of Christ. I closed my eyes and prayed that I could be like Santa Monica, who never stopped praying for children, students, and others to return to the right path. After this brief prayer in silence, I opened my eyes and continued typing about my journey on the computer.
A teacher from Gove
Â
My writing was doing well as I sat next to an older man who liked to watch his movie on a mini iPad. I sat next to the aisle, whereas he sat by the window, which he closed to watch his film. This man was very comfortable, reticent, and busy with his movie. We were both engaged in our worlds.
Â
While typing on my laptop beside the aisle, another tall, skinny man with all grey hair tried to talk to me. He wore a black singlet, shorts, a black sandal, and yellow socks. He started the conversation by saying, “I wish I could type as fast as you are.” I only smiled at his comment. While wearing a mask, I don't feel like talking with other people. However, after some time, he said, “Do you write a book?” I told him I was trying to write about my journey for my family and friends. He continued to ask about where my family originated from. I told him about Lewoleba on Lembata Island, Eastern Indonesia. When he looked puzzled, I told him it was a small island next to East Flores. He talked about the “Homo florensiensies”, or “hobbit”, found on Flores Island, and later about the Komodo dragon and other things about Indonesia. After a long conversation about Indonesia, he talked about his job and family.
Â
This man was a teacher in the Gove Peninsula of Northern Australia, very close to West Papua, Indonesia. He said he loved his job because the children were adorable; the principal was very nice too, and his school was right in front of the beach. He knew I love the coastal area, so he always emphasized the location of his workplace. I had to stop writing since it would be impolite to type while listening to his story.
Â
He told me about his two children, one will be in Year Seven next year, and the other will study medicine next year. He loved being a history teacher in his current place, a small town with only 3500 people. Their school is for Years 7 to 12, and around 250 students attend their school. He said that one benefit of being a teacher is that he does not have to pay rent. Teachers get free housing, subsidized power and water bills, and many bonuses. From the way he speaks, this man could be an excellent salesman, since he describes his school so wonderfully for others to hear. However, he later said that if teachers want to teach in remote places like theirs, they need to be prepared mentally to teach outside of their comfort zone, because they often have to wait for some specialist teacher to come teach at the school. In the past, besides history, he had to introduce sports and cooking, but he enjoyed it.
Â
After talking about his kids and job, he spoke about his holiday journey. He told me his ticket to Singapore was just cancelled, so he had to book another flight to Adelaide to catch Singapore Air from there and later continue his journey to Cambodia. He wanted to have his holidays there until mid-January. However, before boarding his plane, he must do his COVID-19 or PCR test. He had to cancel his booking for the test in another city, since now he had to go to Adelaide. I told him about an express PCR test in the Melbourne airport where the result was available within 90 minutes. He seemed interested. Later, when we arrived in Alice Springs, he arranged for a new ticket to Melbourne, rearranged his ticket to Adelaide from Melbourne to take a PCR test there, and then continued his journey with a late flight to Adelaide.
Â
Every time this guy got a positive result, he always came to let me know about it, which made me happy for him. When I boarded the flight from Alice Springs to Melbourne, he sat two rows behind me and later thanked me for mentioning an express PCR test in Melbourne. He is arranging everything for tomorrow's journey to Singapore and Cambodia. He had a massive smile when he told me about that. I am very happy for him as he has what he wants now.
Â
I also think how glad I will be to see my best friend in Melbourne after two years of separation. Suddenly, a warm feeling of happiness surrounded me, since I missed her and her family. They are very close to me in Australia. Even just imagining her cheerful voice already elevated me. I hope ‌I can see her at Melbourne Airport. When I tried to use my laptop, my battery was critically low, so I had to shut it off; however, I closed my eyes and held on to the happy memories we had created together for over twenty years when we were living in the same city. I can't wait to see my best friend again. I then went to sleep and dreamed that I would have a wonderful, happy, warm reunion with my best friend. I had to rest a bit until my plane landed in Melbourne.
Maria made the voyage to Nigeria during Covid, so there are scenes involving the need to bring and show proof of vaccination status and the waiting results of Covid tests. They spoke about the cafe requiring a vaccination card and had to return to their hotel room to locate it. Many people dreaded showing their cards; they saw it as a hassle. I've witnessed people screaming when service was refused because they were unvaccinated. The card, like the vaccine, serves a purpose for the greater good. We all want the transmission numbers to go down.Â
Maria speaks about faith throughout the book, which shouldn't surprise you because faith is right in the title. There's nothing wrong with believing in God and praying to him for guidance and help; however, there's a time and place for science. I liked that Maria's mom didn't rely solely on the power of prayer regarding the mass. I was pleased to read she lived tumor-free for five years.Â
As Maria continued her journey, she reflected on stories from the past. It's nice to see she has many lovely memories of her loved ones. These cherished moments help keep them alive in our hearts and mind.Â
During her final flight to Nigeria, Maria's reaction to the less than remarkable plane food was quite surprising. They ordered an expensive truffle soup and were given something that looked worth $0.50. I've been on overseas flights before, but lobster and truffle soup has never been on the menu. I was grateful for what I had because I could be making the flight without anything to eat.Â
When they landed in Nigeria, the process of bringing a prayer center to the locals commenced, but not without its troubles. Land issues, labor issues, and the Omo Nile were causing a dream to turn nightmarish. During the construction process, I had to walk away from the book for several hours. I couldn't believe what I had read. Maria had instructed their representative to have all shops removed from the land; it didn't happen, so Maria had to look these shop owners in the eye and tell them their shops were to be dismantled. They were devastated, and the writer claims nothing could be done for them. The shops and the prayer center couldn't occupy the same land space. First of all, you could've picked a different location. Second, you could've worked with the community members, the ones you were trying to bring the church to—find a compromise. Third, you could not place the value of your large, solar-powered cross over the livelihood of the Nigerian people.Â
The writer spoke many times of rich food and clothing, but they need to remember the person they worship is a simple shepherd.
While I disagreed with the steps to construct the prayer centers, the free water is a blessing.Â
This book is designed and recommended for those who are highly religious.
Review submitted on 8/11/22.
#KamsPlace