In a quaint village called Koothattukulam amidst lots of brooks and hill tops, there lived a woman named Mrs. Annamma Mathai. Her eyes held a wisdom that came with years of experience, and her heart overflowed with compassion. As the golden sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across her weathered face, Mrs. Mathai uttered words that would echo through time. She spoke to her son, the gentle-spirited Mr. Wilson, with a fervor that could only be fueled by a deep sense of purpose. "Wilson," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a lifetime, "there are those among us, the elderly, who have none to call their own. They wander through the autumn of their lives, abandoned by their kin, with no roof to shield them from life's storms. Promise me, my son, promise me that you will be a beacon for these souls."
These words, like seeds sown in fertile soil, took root in Mr. Wilson's heart. He felt the responsibility of his mother's plea, a call to action that transcended familial duty. It was a summons to a higher purpose, a purpose he could not ignore. In the days that followed, Mr. Wilson found himself drawn to the forgotten corners of society, where elderly parents languished, left behind by their own flesh and blood. It was in those moments, amid the quiet desperation of the abandoned, that Mr. Wilson discovered the true essence of evangelism.
He realized that caring for these lonely souls, providing them with shelter and sustenance, was akin to finding Jesus Christ in the midst of their struggles. The act of extending a compassionate hand to those who had no one else became Mr. Wilson's devotion, his way of connecting with the divine. For him, evangelism wasn't confined to the grandeur of cathedrals or the eloquence of sermons; it was woven into the fabric of everyday acts of kindness. The simple gesture of offering solace to the elderly, who had become society's overlooked, became his sacred mission. Today, our old age home has a government sanctioned capacity of 25 beds.
In this pursuit, Mr. Wilson founded the Bethsaida Charity, a haven for the forgotten elderly. In the eyes of the world, some saw them as remnants of the past, discarded like waste. But within the walls of Bethsaida Charity, these elders were revered as representatives of the Almighty. For Bethsaida Charity, every wrinkled face told a story, every weary step a testament to a life well-lived. And as the charity flourished, it became a sanctuary where love and care flowed freely, echoing the sentiment that in the eyes of compassion, every aged soul was a reflection of the divine.
