Leaving a satsang, a mother and her six year old son were waiting in the car for the motor to warm up. Still humming and singing the songs which everyone sang together during the satsang earlier in the afternoon, the mother started singing out loud, "He's got the whole world in His hands; He's got the whole world in His hands; He's got the whole world in His hands; He's got the whole world in His hands."
When the car had sufficiently warmed up, mother and son joined the lazy Saturday afternoon flow of traffic. While the mother was still singing the same tune over and over, "He's got the whole world in His hands," to herself, her son pensively interrupted her.
"Mom," he asked, "Does God really have the whole world in His hands?"
"Yes, son." his mother answered positively, "He does. He holds everything in His hands."
"Well", replied her son, "Then we're driving on His fingers."
* * *
Brindavan, beautiful, peaceful Brindavan. Thursday afternoon—Bhajan day—new arrivals were welcomed by uninterrupted singing. I was enjoying the wait for Swami to appear when a lovely Indian woman and her three year old daughter gently sat down beside me. Tucking her sari in around her, the mother immediately was taken in by the singing. Closing her eyes, she began to sing and sway, a blissful look playing on her face. Clapping rhythmically, she was lost in her worship of Sai. Sometime later, I noticed her daughter stand up, look around, her large brown eyes gleefully darting here and there. With drums pounding, cymbals clapping, and incense swirling, the crowd seemed to become one in love and anticipation of seeing the Lord. Uninhibited, as only a child could be, the young girl began to dance and swirl. Soon, she was dancing where Swami was to walk, up in front of the massive crowd. Elderly women with bright saris nudged one another and nodded towards this daring beauty. Her mother had not noticed the child leave. Eventually, pulling herself back to the world, the blissful mom searched feverishly for the child, never looking forward to where Swami would stand, but behind towards the crowd which had gathered and grown. Finally, in desperation she turned towards the dais area and gasped out loud as she saw her daughter in Swami's place dancing and playing. Shyly, she approached her daughter and tenderly guided her back to her place among the crowds.
The mother knew that her daughter was tired of waiting and took the perfect pink rose she was carefully holding to offer to her Lord and gave it to her young daughter. "Sit still and hold this rose," she said. "Then when Swami comes out, if you are sitting quietly, He may take it from you," suggested the mother, to occupy her daughter for the wait.
Taking the rose from her mother the child replied with assurance, "That is not Baba, mother, that is God."
* * *
Each night before bedtime Russ and his mother would kneel beside his bed to pray. Like a Bhajan, they would pray in response and repeat. The mother would say a sentence and her seven year old son would repeat it. The mother had chosen Swami's teaching, "There is only one caste - the caste of humanity; There is only one religion - the religion of love; There is only one language - the language of the heart; There is only one God and He is omnipresent", as her prayer.
The mother would recite each line, and Russ would repeat the same line in prayer. One evening as they were getting ready to close the day with their prayer, Russ turned toward his mother and said, "Mom, I think I can pray this by myself tonight."
"Oh, son," replied his mother proudly, "That would be wonderful."
Kneeling, Russ began to pray with confidence. "There is only one caste - the caste of humanity; There is only one religion - the religion of Love; There is only one language - the language of the heart; There is only one God and He is our new President!"
I pray we may all be innocent and pure in our minds and our hearts, in our search for the Lord. May we all see the funny side of living and may we all trust in God as children. Baba for President? Not a bad idea, do you think?
—by Joy Ziegler from Sanathana Sarathi, Oct, 1992