Miracle Sunday

There are seasons in life when a man feels abandoned by his own choices.

For me, the months after the tourism season often become such a wilderness.
From April to September, the roads grow quieter, the travellers disappear, and the income slows almost to silence. What was saved during the busy months must somehow stretch across the monsoon season. Many times it has broken my spirit. Many times I have questioned the day I chose tourism as my bread.

Yet life does not stop because money becomes uncertain.

The roof still has to be cleaned before the heavy rains arrive.
The garden must be prepared.
Vegetables must be planted.
Unfinished manuscripts wait silently on tables and shelves.
The house itself asks for attention.

This morning, as Sunday broke, I rose early, took a sickle in my hand, and walked toward the old mango tree hanging heavily across the gate. Thick green branches had overgrown everywhere. One by one I began cutting them down carefully, almost surprisingly, like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

And perhaps that itself was grace.

Sometimes God does not begin by changing our future.
Sometimes He first asks us simply to begin the neglected work before us.

While I was finishing, a phone call came unexpectedly from a friend and senior manager from my earlier life in accounting. We spoke for nearly an hour. He spoke clearly, practically, almost urgently — about writing, about organising oneself in the modern world, about using opportunities wisely, even social media, and about not allowing gifts to remain hidden.

What moved me deeply was this:

In earlier years, he had always believed one should never leave the profession one had trained for. Yet today, it was he who encouraged me to continue forward.

I could not ignore the timing.

There are moments when encouragement arrives with such precision that it no longer feels accidental. It feels sent.

Later, when I reached — the shrine loved by generations, where even two hundred years ago women like Meenakshi came with devotion to Mother Mary — my heart felt strangely light.

Not because all problems had disappeared.
Not because the future had suddenly become secure.

But because, before reaching the shrine, I had already received something sacred:

the strength to work,
the courage to continue,
and the quiet assurance that God had not forgotten me.

Sometimes divine intervention does not arrive as thunder.

Sometimes it comes as a cleaned garden path,
a sharpened sickle,
an unexpected phone call,
and the strength to keep going one more season.