Sharon Eappen

(Things I wish someone told me. Things I wish someone told all of us. Things I wish all of us told someone.) If you saw things my way, would you let me in? I want to see the scars that shaped you, the stories that made you. Would you let me in if I begged you? Tell me what you fear even if it's something as silly as spiders. Tell me what keeps you awake when you try falling asleep. Tell me what music you like- the ones that you cry and the ones you dance to. I want to see your eyes sparkling with passion when you talk about your favourite things. I want you to show me an old art of yours that you no longer create. I want you to show me pieces of you that no longer exist - those dead passions that you couldn't feed. I want to know what races your mind or what was that one thing you knew was worth living for when you lost hope. I want to know if your interests are as bizarre as mine. Did you know that I talk to trees? Or that I cry, out of a mixture of happin...

Keeping Quiet  was the poem that was being taught when this happened. Pablo Neruda wanted his readers to spend some time in silence, meditating and introspecting and it was like Anjana Teacher fulfilled his wish like it was her duty as a Literature teacher. She told us to close our eyes and place our palms on our thighs. I did so, willingly, because I badly wanted to leave my confinement. "Feel yourself breathe" or something like that. I did. She asked us to feel our heartbeat in different parts of our body and I did. My mind was only beginning to grasp the power of this practice. Then she told something a little more vague. "Expand your consciousness" or something like that and I did and it felt like something within me started to inflate. Was I expanding? " Concentrate on the noises around you." I did. The wind was my favourite. I could even hear noises from the school's playground. Then I started to hear birds, just faintly. "By now yo...

       Why do I have to cover my hair when in worship? Is it because I'm a woman? Is it because it is written that I must? Oh, do you not read Scripture with contextual understanding?       Am I, then, a disgrace if my head is uncovered but my dress still modest? Are you assigning a certain costum onto me - that has no relevance right now - just because I belong to a certain gender? Why are we expected to have our dupattas draped over our hair then? And why only us, women?       Don't teach me to cover myself with a shawl over my head. Teach me, instead, to cover myself with humility, respect, love and compassion. Don't teach me about women submissiveness. Teach both the men and the women about the same humility, respect, love and compassion.       Teach us both to stand in reverence and have a heart of purity as we stand in worship beside each other, facing the same altar. Teach us to bear with each other...

Teach me. To walk in holy paths To seek your face To use time. Teach me. To walk away From vibes negative To cut the unnecessary. Teach me. To love Even when it's hard Even if it stabs. Teach me. To let go. To distance from Burdens unnecessary. Teach me. To be wise To know the difference The fake and genuine. Teach me. With patience and love. A fountain of mercy An ocean of grace. Teach me. Painfully mould me. This time I won't Complain or whine. Teach me. Within my heart Stir a burning desire To know you more. Teach me. The light and darkness And the circle Of contextual ethics. Teach me. To drink pain Willingly as it Cleanses my heart. Teach me. The unknown and Less known Unveil whatever is To be known, Creator and Master Of all things, Known and unknown. 25.09.17

We're broken pieces You and I. May be we could fit in Do you have enough room? We're broken pieces Stabbed with friendship And love that was Only a lesson. We're broken pieces May be together We could be A pretty mosaic. We're broken pieces But aren't mosaics pretty? The random scattering, The visual playing with your mind. We're broken pieces The ones that need  No mending Only time will. We're broken pieces You were always there When I broke down Even when you didn't know why. We're broken pieces May be I'll tell it to you Some other day When it hurts lesser. We're broken pieces Let me cry  On your shoulder. Let me hold your hand Safely in mine Through the bumpy ride. Let my tears speak For all that is to be said, As I feel the pulse of Your palm beat against mine. 22.09.17

      Being an MK (Missionary Kid) is quite an adventure. So why not talk about it? " Being a missionary kid is a unique, precious and beautiful journey. Ok, so there's my statement. 'Yeah,' you look at the screen, 'suuuure... Let's start at page one, shall we?'  If you're an MK chances are  you've got 'THIRD CULTURE KID' stamped on your forehead as well. Yes, I'm the son of a Malayalee father and a Dutch mother and yes, neither of their ethnicities blend with the people God has called them to work with. However, that certainly doesn't mean I feel like I've just stepped out of a UFO every morning I exit the front door. Growing up with two or more coinciding cultures is, in my opinion, the healthiest environment for growth, learning and a widening of perspective. I admit it's a sort of roller coaster ride- there are peaks and not-so-high-peaks  (ahem...) but every time I look back on my seventeen-year-short missiona...

Lie down, won't you? Let us watch the stars As they travel across the sky From east to west. See the nothingness surround them And surround us. I've never seen anything Prettier than this. Stand by me, won't you? And look up for them. Search for those constellations An astrophile yourself. May be, beneath it I may open up Just a little more May be you'll see My rawest side And I'll see yours May be we could Pray beneath the stars If no one's around. Or just stay silent Listening to the sound Of silence. Can you see how those lights Have endless reaches between them? But down here, they're complete. One artistic piece of beauty. Can't you see how Gazing at them can be addictive? Are we rather different If we find their beauty Something that consoles Whatever is within us? Are we strange  If we'd stargaze all night, Either in solitude Or with the right compa...

I stop mid sentence Where the words I truly want to utter Evaporate. Everyone feels this way, They say, but no one shows it. We're all a facade Of beauty, happiness and satisfaction. Poke us a little and you'll see Oozing out of it a trickle of loneliness, A scintilla of pain and chunks Of brokenness all sprinkled With sorrow, embarrassment And messed up tales. But it's all covered. We don't show the wound, Not even the bandages For our stories are submerged in layers Of concealer that has nothing to do With cosmetics. It is Polished and edited, When it doesn't need any, The honest and raw ones are What we require. But if brokenness was a person, You'd see it being ostracised. In your home, school or church, it'll Be the last person to enter, Because you don't want to see it. It senses the unwantedness, the feeling Of awkwardness running in your veins. While many face the fear Of rejection, we reject our whole selves O...

It's the feeling of feeling nothing, however hard you try. It's the feeling of an aching heart that's had too much, a chest that's too tired to take deep breaths in or a body that's too tired to get out of bed. Numb. But not numbness of the flesh, numbness of the mind. It's when there's so much to do and you don't know how to. It's when there's too little to think about and hardly any time to write something like this down. It's the feeling of pain, pressure and expectations succumbing you to the point where you actually need air, where you can truly appreciate going out for an evening walk. It's when you think you'll be the luckiest person on the planet if you get time to watch the sunset or stargaze because it's one of those therapies that can fill what you've lost and with what you love. It's when you feel you can't feel anything because you've become a robot - mechanically fulfilling your task...

Why are you tearing apart So easily When you're the first in which I've scribbled so much? Is a little less than four years Already tiring you? Or is it my ink and graphite That's too heavy For your thin pages to hold? The pages that could make Any gel pen or highlighter Bleed through. The pages that are so thin, I could see the ink of the Next page, if I tried enough. But is staying with me, Staying intact, for a few more Years, a little too much To ask for? Is your aging faster Than mine? Probably. Because what you Hold inside is so deep And so profound and so enchanting. And may be every finger-touch Robs off a little of your Youthfulness. That look you had When I first saw you. But still, dear Bible, Is staying intact For a few more years A little too much To ask for?

Have you seen how the wind lost its energy after an hour or how the trees sway no more? Have you seen how the only energy I can notice are those moving vehicles, the ones that smoke and cease to make the skies clear or overfeed the trees? Have you seen how all those clouds and smoke act as a wall between my lovers and me; the moon and the lovely stars? Or have you seen how darkness engulfing me in solitude could sometimes be my only solace? Have you seen anything, anything at all?                   Have you not wondered how the trees could wither in centuries but my body in just decades? Or have you not seen the mysterious beauty when a streetlight illuminates its boughs? Have you not felt a certain presence, when you stood there staring at it's branches? Have you not wanted to talk to it? Have you never felt it listen? Have you never seen anything, felt nothing at all? Or is it just me, having it all in my head, stan...

      In a faraway place, a nightingale cooes a melancholy under the moonlight. The moon and it are face to face, alone. With an aching heart, the nightingale weeps for the eggs that broke before hatching. Both the nightingale and the moon stare at each other, one in immediate solitude and one in solitude that existed before time. In another place, stands a woman in her early thirties by a window made of wood. A pigeon settles on the window sill and cooes but the woman takes no notice. Her eyes seem to look far on the road that lays ahead. The road that disappears into the city and into the forests. But never had she thought that getting married to a soldier would make her look at an actual road, for days, sometimes patiently, sometimes impatiently waiting for an answer, if she's still a wife or now a widow, a yes or a no. Sometimes, not knowing whether to move on or hold back is more painful than doing either of these. In the same house, locked in a bedroom is ...

Written by: Eappen John (dad) Genre: Devotional, Christianity "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus" (Philippians 4:6-7). Here, Paul is mentioning an important principle of prayer to overcome anxiety. This could be used for those who are anxious about their own marriage as well as of their loved ones. We all do become anxious as time runs out but our dependence on God in prayer can guard out hearts from premature decisions .   The scripture assures marriage as a divine institution and it is God who gives a godly spouse. This is not to say that there is no human role or responsibility in it.  However, i n most part of our country, the major rule is to rush people to get married before they are too old (ranging from 20 to 26yrs), from the available pool of opt...

I couldn't explain all that I felt. Sometimes a scenic beauty, sometimes a pulse in my heart. My mind went fast and my tongue tried to catch up and my tongue went fast and the people tried to catch up. My hand too slow to record my mind and even lazy to record my mouth. My heart in ache of spilling itself somewhere, searching through a thick canopy of trees in the hopes of finding a golden ray of sunlight. My mind too cluttered, unable to keep things away. My body aching, in synchrony with my heart. My lips panting, thirsty, but not for water. I know that to tell that writing everything was tiring was as absurd as telling that breathing was tiring, but I also know that sometimes I did breathe so heavily that I found breathing tiring. My right hand aching with all that I wrote, my heart aching to write some more. The war between my physique and emotions; my physique eventually giving up and letting my emotions take over.

Genre: Christianity | Science I have always loved you, But some people down here say That to love you I must hate science, I sometimes don’t understand why. For how can I love you, And then claim to hate science? Can I truly love the Creator, If I hate Her Creation? To me, science was only His mouthpiece To explain the ‘hows’ when the Holy Book explained the ‘whys’ Of course it never truly explained the Divine, and how could it? When its comprehension itself couldn’t contain the human brain. But its laws and rhythmic mechanisms have always And always pointed out to something Just something out there: a supernatural power, An Intelligent Design, a Divine Energy, the Beginning of all beginnings. And that was you. Although I admit, I can never fully understand you You’ve never failed to fascinate me; The nemophilist and astrophile inside are always in constant amazement. Together they yearn to seek this Designer The Creator of Heav...

After the explaination of a poem titled 'Father to Son' (by Elizabeth Jennings) my English teacher asked me to write another poem from the perspective of the son. So here it goes: Genre: Literature I do not understand this man Though he has raised me for years now In the same house and same land I cannot figure out just what could Bring on his face a smile, alas The distance we share is a couple of miles. I do not understand this man And why should I? For he acts like I'm just a piece of misery And whenever I speak, all he becomes is angry Therefore, I will stay a distance from him Making the ever delicate strands of our relationship even more thin. But do I know this man? He is, after all, my father We can become best friends again Walking hand in hand like we used to And even after I find the woman of my kind I do not think distance would ever separate our minds. I think I know this man And I remember him telling me Stories of the prodigal ...