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  • He had bent to his chore for 40 years when I met him. Hienrick, was the pentenant man. Each day started with gently swinging down off a simple wooden cot and onto his aging knees, where he prayed on a single stone, for an hour everyday, since then.

    He was 19 when he met terror. The year 1942. Like it was tomorrow between yesterdays.
    He prayed. Always , for Everything for others

    So Odd , yet not, that everyone else or mostly everyone had forgotten , it was so long ago. Surely he had used his life to say, I am not this man, this is not my hand. Yet, he couldn't wouldn't didn't find a way to forgive himself, as he cried in german the dreams that ran before him, were always cried, in greek.

    I thought about it for a long time , while working for him without pay. He was very poor, since he used his money to make other peoples lives better there. To pay, with his own life, what he mindlessly betrayed.

    It is not necessary to say what happens in war. Its not any different when a man puts on a uniform and IT orders him , what to do . Nothing has changed throughout time, only the fashion in which it is done.
    It Happened. For him, it happens still.

    His gardens fed 30-40 people in a town of 100, As a gardener, I saw some of the very best , I have ever seen.
    The work it takes a heavy toll on a man. To love the soil that much and then, to offer it up as a prayer has been one of the best doing-quiet - lessons I have ever had. He reminded me of my Mother, for the heart intention of Love, that I have always honored, always kept.

    My red hands
    called war
    suffering, wears me at night
    but in the mornings I swing out of bed towards the floor., and thank Hienrick..

    in my heart and in my acts, I work peace but I will not let anyone destroy love.

    hop
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