Dedicated to Sri Sarada Devi

A Place where devotees gather to share inspiration.


"Holy Mother" painted by Swami Tadatmananda

Used courtesy of the Vedanta Society of Southern California

http://www.vedanta.org




Dedicated to Sri Sarada Devi
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Re: Who's Mother is She?: She is MY mother

Dear Brother Paritosh,

RE: "[Sister] Jayanti speaks like a true child of the Mother"

Comment:

Is this meant to imply, that there are 'untrue' children of the Mother?

After all, Sri Sarada Devi claims to be 'The Mother of All".....the wicked and the virtuous....

Who are we to judge, pray tell, whether someone is a
'true' child of the Mother?

I think perhaps, we should let Mother decide that
for Herself....

Om Shanthi Om

Re: Re: Who's Mother is She?: She is MY mother

I'm not sure what speaking like a true child of Mother means.

But I know that in Mother's view, every one of her children are truly hers, even those who do not know her or of her. The mother who watches as a child plays happily is just as much a mother as when she takes a crying child in her arms.

I think it's time to stop making qualifications of any kind.

We come to Mother's Courtyard in order to share holy company in Mother's presense. We are Mother's children. Our practice is to try to remember this always. Our prayer is that one day we may realize this fully.

Keep in mind also that each person's relationship with Mother, or with truth or with God -- Reality however one may conceive it -- is uniquely one's own. We may encourage each other as we make our way along the Path, but we each must make our own journey.

Location: San Diego, California, USA

Re: Re: Re: Who's Mother is She?: She is MY mother

Dear Sister Jayanti,

RE: "I know that in Mother's view, every one of her
children are truly hers"

Your lovely comments, about Mother's unquestioning Love:
remind me of a story remembered from
early childhood; which to this day,
brings a tear to my eyes:


"THE LITTLEST ANGEL"

A Short Story Especially For

Our Littlest Angels

Once upon a time...

Oh, many, many years ago as time is calculated by men--but which was only Yesterday in the Celestial Calendar of Heaven--there was, in Paradise, a most miserable, thoroughly unhappy, and utterly dejected cherub who was known throughout Heaven as The Littlest Angel.

His halo was permanently tarnished where he held onto it with one hot little chubby hand when he ran, and he was always running. Furthermore, even when he stood very still, it never behaved like a halo should. It was always slipping down over his right eye.

The time of the Miracle was very close at hand when the Littlest Angel at last decided on his gift for the Blessed Infant. Then, on that Day of Days, he proudly brought it from its hiding place behind a cloud, and humbly, with downcast eyes, placed it before the Throne of God. It was only a small, rough, unsightly box, but inside were all those wonderful things that even a Child of God would treasure!

The Hand of God moved slowly over all that bright array of shining gifts, then paused, then dropped, then came to rest on the lowly gift of the Littlest Angel! The Littlest Angel trembled as the box was opened, and there, before the Eyes of God and all His Heavenly Host, was what he offered to the Christ Child.

And what was his gift to the Blessed Infant? Well, there was a butterfly with golden wings, captured one bright summer day on the high hills above Jerusalem, and a sky-blue egg from a bird's nest in the olive tree that stood to shade his mother's kitchen door. Yes, and two white stones, found on a muddy river bank, where he and his friends had played like small brown beavers, and, at the bottom of the box, a limp, tooth-marked leather strap, once worn as a collar by his mongrel dog, who had died as he had lived, in absolute love and infinite devotion.

Then, suddenly, The Voice of God, like Divine Music, rose and swelled through Paradise! And the Voice of God spoke, saying, "Of all the gifts of all the angels, I find that this small box pleases Me most."

There was a breathless pause, and then the rough, unsightly box of the Littlest Angel began to glow with a bright, unearthly light, then the light became a lustrous flame, and the flame became a radiant brilliance that blinded the eyes of all the angels!

Excerpted From:
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Acropolis/6182/thelittlestangel.html


The moral of the story is simply, that we may only 'guess' what pleases
God; although we have been a given a pretty good idea:

I Corinthians 13, "Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not charity, I am nothing."

Om Shanthi Om

Re: Re: Re: Re: Who's Mother is She?: She is MY mother

I too heard this story when I was a child. How beautiful to recall it now. Thank you, Tom. :)

Location: San Diego, California, USA