I received an email from Isabelle some months ago… she had written to us here and I was instantly moved by her story. Upon coming across my site, listening to the Armenian folk music I am so passionate about and reading my story, she noticed a connection and wrote to me to explain:

“The mother of my grandmother was also named Mariam Markarian…” she wrote, “Just like your grandmother…”

Of course, I was instantly intrigued… “maybe our families are connected somehow…” she continued.

Isabelle’s family history moved me deeply as do so many stories that I am honoured to hear as I meet people from all over the world. These are people I probably would have never met were it not for the powerful effect of music, a language that transcends all boundaries and draws people together in an incredible way.

I asked Isabelle if I could share parts of her story here and she was so touched and happily agreed…

Isabelle’s grandmother, Zabel, was born in Trabzon in 1912. And then in the years that followed, this helpless babe endured the horrors of the Armenian Genocide. One cannot be sure what happened to her or her family, but she was found, a young babe, maybe 2 or 3 years old, utterly alone, by people who were trying to help the victims of the Armenian Genocide.

The people who found little Zabel tried to locate members of her family, but sadly, could not. She was an orphan. Separated from her family (who were most probably massacred during the Genocide), Zabel’s life would never be the same.

She was placed in an orphanage. She was given a name (Zabel) and an identity based on the research that the orphanage workers conducted on behalf of the child who was obviously too young and probably too traumatized to remember anything. Her name might not have even been Zabel, but this is what they determined it most probably was based on the official papers that they found in the city.

After years in different orphanages, Zabel, at the age of 14 ended up in Marseille, France, in a new orphanage. And then her life completely changed once again.

A young Armenian man arrived at the orphanage looking for a young Armenian girl that he might have as his wife. He was also a survivor of the Armenian Genocide. He asked the director if there were any girls with blonde hair, if possible. And sure enough, Zabel, with blonde hair and blue eyes, was chosen. Too young by French law to be married, the orphanage director changed the date of her birth by four more years. So now, Zabel, a new 18 year old, had become a bride…

“Can you believe it!” Isabelle wrote to me as she recounted this story.

Yes, I can; I can believe this story because I know it is true.

I have heard so many like it from other survivors of the Armenian Genocide. Each story is unique and yet the commonalities are there. And sometimes, I do not want to believe these stories.

My heart is torn again and again as I read Isabelle’s message to me and as I write it out again here. I have tears in my eyes. I am thinking about this little blonde Armenian girl’s own mother, Mariam, separated from her tiny babe, massacred in the Genocide…what horrors did she endure?

I am thinking about little Zabel, too young to remember details from her short but traumatic life. Little Zabel, a witness of the Genocide, separated from her family, never to be held by her mother or father again… never to see her home again…

My heart is torn for the pain here. And at the same time, I am dancing for joy with the hope that comes.
A young babe survives.
She lives.
She begins a entirely new life in a new country with a young man who came looking for a wife… she lives life and has her own children, and grandchildren, one of them is Isabelle… the story goes on…

Isabelle wrote to tell me that her grandmother Zabel just recently passed away.
She was 98 years old.

Ah, Zabel… we remember you today… and your story lives on… thank you, Isabelle.

So I realized something today.

We were in the car, my Little Ones and I, when my older babe took off one of her shoes…. she knows she isn’t supposed to do this, but she did it anyway, and then asked time and time again for me to put it back on for her. But I was driving. And I really can’t do two things at once, especially when I am driving. So, in a gentle voice (by His grace!), I said: “I will put that on for you when we get home.” I continued to drive; she continued to whine.

And at that moment, as I asked for help to remain patient (because I am desperate for help and I can’t do this on my own), I realized something.

I realized that time and time again, I whine to my Father. I ask him: Please, will you do this for me… now? Please? Please? Will you take care of this for me? Will you answer this prayer I have right now? Did you hear me? Right. Now.

And of course, He hears. But He tells me to wait.

Of course, I hear my child. Of course, I answer her. I told her to wait. She didn’t like that answer. And she continued to ask and ask and ask; while I remained silent. I repeated myself once, twice, thrice and then remained silent the rest of the way. But I was still listening to her voice, still loving her, praying that she’d understand…

Sometimes, my Father seems silent, and it seems like He isn’t there.

But He is. He is there; He is listening.

In His loving ability to know everything, He already knows how my story will be resolved… and me, I already knew that once we arrived home, I would indeed put my child’s shoe back on for her. Of course, I would do that. But not just yet.

I know this is far, very, very far from a perfect comparison: a toddler’s shoes and life; me and the Father. The gap is so vast, it is kind of silly! But still. I did realize something today. If I, with all my weaknesses and struggles and faults, am able to care for my little whining babe and love her so much and want to do what is best for her, how much more…

How much more will our Father do for us

How much more…

There is so much to write; I have so much to record.  My heart is dancing…

For some weeks now, I have been sorting through the past whenever I have had a moment.  Letters, notes, cards from years ago.  From my childhood.  I have kept so much!

In (mostly) organized shoe boxes, I find letters that old friends have written to me, cards, old journals, photos…  all of it.  It is all there.  A story, piece by piece…  I have taken the time to read through some of those journals whenever I have a minute or two (with two little ones, that is not the easiest task!).  So the process has been beautifully slow; I never like to rush things anyway.

I am amazed at how this story has been unfolding.  There is such pain on some days; there is deep joy on other days.  Tears, frustration, confusion, clarity, peace, joy…  and through it all, the Hand of my Father holds me still.  I can see that ever so clearly.

My heart dances when I discover this truth again and again:  He has always been here.

I find one tattered piece of paper.  On it, I have written, I will become a teacher one day or a singer.  I am in elementary school when I write this.

This was the desire of my heart.

How did this happen?!

You fulfill the desires of my heart!

I am in the present now, watching my little ones, watching their stories unfold along with mine.  Their stories added onto mine now.  My husband’s story entwined with mine…

We are in the present now.

And my heart is still dancing…

We saw the sea for the very first time, again.

It was the first time, in so many ways.

Watching my Little One discover the water, the beach, the waves, all for the very first time  - she has seen the water before, but not like this.  She has never really noticed it all like this, that is, until now…

Seeing her take it all in… her eyes wide eyed with wonder as she beheld the wide expanse of blue green glory for the very first time… for me this was like seeing the sea for the very first time, seeing it all afresh.

Ah, what bliss!  Just sitting back and watching the pure joy in a young one’s eyes, so far removed from everything that threatens that joy, caught up in the moment, the child-like-beautiful-glorious-wonder of it all…  oh, what joy!

I don’t need to do anything else.  I don’t need to be anything else.  I find deep joy in just sitting here and observing her.  My heart lifts up when I see her loving life like this.

And I don’t need to be anywhere else.  It doesn’t matter who is watching me.

All I want to do is dance and sing and whirl and twirl with her as she takes tentative steps towards the water’s edge… flirting with the sea… coming ever so close and then stepping back again and giggling and giggling and giggling with glee…  I laugh with her, scoop her up in my arms and hold her close…

We dance and sing and whirl and twirl together at the water’s edge… laughing with joy together…  amazed at the awesome handiwork of the Creator.

This moment is forever etched in my heart.

Watching my daughter fall in love with the sea for the very first time…

I have experienced so many miracles to date…  so many answers to prayer… some answers came later than I would have wanted (at the time) but then looking back now, I see how the timing was just perfect, as it always is…

latest miracle?  Having my singing voice in time for my April 17th show at the White Horse in Black Mountain, NC.

I love singing in Black Mountain…  the audience is always amazing and enthusiastic, Kim and Bob at White Horse are always a joy to work with, and of course, the scenery there is just breathtaking: singing amidst the gorgeous mountains, well, what more could I ask for?

The guys from Free Planet were in top form, as usual…  and me, well, I had been battling a cold all week long prior to the show… so many friends and family members praying for me…  and I am humbled by it all.  Just the love that is poured out by folks from all over, offering an encouraging word here and there…  thank you, everyone.  With two babes, finding time to rest is not as easy as it once was, but I wouldn’t trade this for anything… so I had lots of lemon and honey tea, played and danced and laughed with my little ones, and prayed…

The atmosphere on Saturday was electric!  We sang, danced, laughed, and cried together with our beautiful audience.  The evening in my heart was dedicated to the millions of Armenians who endured the Genocide of 1915  - innocent men, women and children who were brutally beaten, tortured, murdered…

yes, every concert I do is connected to the Genocide, dedicated to my Grandmother Mariam, Genocide survivor…  but this evening was different… this year is different.  This year marks the 95th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide.  95 years ago.

It is a miracle people survived the Genocide.  It is a miracle my Grandmother  continued to sing and live with such hope and joy despite all the horrors she witnessed as a child on the death march during the Genocide.

These are all miracles.

And my voice was back this evening so that I could honour my people through story and song.

Another miracle.

Thank you, God, for miracles.