Jesus

My grandmother clutched her rosary in Srivilliputhur, whispering prayers my mother carried across oceans to our Toronto home. Every Sunday, that wooden cross watched us struggle, earn, survive. When my daughter asked why Jesus mattered, I showed her the photograph of our old church, its painted walls fading like our memories. "He teaches us bold compassion," I said. In diaspora, faith becomes currency—not money, but meaning. We worked relentlessly, sent remittances home, held traditions sacred against forgetting. That compelling image of sacrifice reminded us why we endured distance, why heritage wasn't burden but blessing. Our community gathered again last summer, finally whole.