A Touch From The Creator

A Touch From The Creator

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

My life is something you may not truly know, and even if you tried to capture it all, it would take seven terabytes to hold the memories, the stories, the pain, the victories, the tears, the laughter, the lessons, and the blessings. I, Kateb, come to you today not as a man who is better than you, not as one who is perfect, not as one who knows everything or claims to hold wisdom above another, but as a humble writer who stands because The Creator has given me this assignment. I did not choose this calling. I did not chase after it as a child. Writing was not the dream of my boyhood or even the desire of my young manhood. No, I ran from the pen. I resisted it. I turned away from the pages that kept following me, thinking I could hide myself in other pursuits. But no matter how far I went, The Creator kept pulling me back. He always found a way to sit me down, to still my restless feet, to place me in the presence of words that demanded to be spoken, stories that refused to be buried, truths that would not be silenced.

I ran, but He kept sending me Gabriel.

And before you dismiss me, before you shake your head with contradiction in your heart, let me explain. I do not mean Gabriel in the simple image many imagine. Gabriel to me is not bound in paintings or stories. Gabriel is a force, an energy, a vibration that carries the frequency of the divine. Gabriel is the reminder that The Creator is near, that inspiration is not random but a heavenly spark, that revelation does not come from our minds alone but from the breath of spirit that hovers in unseen places. Gabriel whispers when we want to quit. Gabriel shouts when we are too distracted to hear. Gabriel reminds me and reminds you if you listen that faith doesn’t make sense, but it makes miracles.

But here’s the truth about us as humans: Gabriel speaks and we ignore. Gabriel nudges and we resist. We hear the soft call of guidance and we convince ourselves it’s just our own thoughts. Pride creeps in like smoke, telling us, I did this. I made it happen. I am self-sufficient. I need no one’s direction but my own. Pride wears a crown that shines in the sun but rots in the shadows. I wore that crown once, and the scars it left on me are ugly. Trust me, I could show you those scars and you would see how pride lowers your vibration, how it makes you stumble in darkness while pretending to walk in light.

But the prayers of my grandmother and mother held me when I didn’t know how to hold myself. My grandmother, Celestine, prayed for me every day of her life. My mother, Marva, prayed for me in the midnight hours when the world was quiet and in the early mornings when dew still kissed the grass. Their voices lifted me even when I was wandering, even when I was running. And before she left this earth, my grandmother spoke words to me that still echo through my bones: “The Creator gives His strongest soldiers assignments. Kateb, I can’t do God’s work. I have to let Him do His work. I pray for wisdom, not for money. You must let God fix your problems.”

She also warned me with another truth that time itself has proven over and over: “The devil will tell you ninety-nine truths just to get you to fall for one lie.” And how many times have I lived to see that play out? The enemy will clothe deception in garments of truth, and if your eyes are not sharpened by wisdom, you’ll take the bait, thinking it is good. But wisdom...wisdom born of prayer, of humility, of brokenness is the light that reveals the hidden hook in what looks harmless.

I will not pretend to you that my life has been easy. I have faced storms that tried to sweep me away. Winds have tossed me, carrying me from place to place with no rest. Waters have risen up, threatening to drown me in stress, depression, anxiety, hopelessness, and frustration. There were nights when I thought I would not see the morning and mornings when I did not know how I had survived the night. But through it all, The Creator never let me drown. My ship has been destroyed in storms, splintered and torn apart, but I have made it ashore clinging to broken pieces. And let me tell you, broken pieces are enough when The Creator is the current carrying them.

It was His grace, always His grace. A touch from The Creator makes all the difference.

My grandmother used to tell me stories, and there is one in particular that has never left me. It was the story of the fisherman, a folklore that was whispered in our family, a tale not written in books but carried in the hearts of those who knew how to listen.

There was once a fisherman who lived by the restless sea. His boat was old, patched with wood and rope, worn by storms but still floating. Every morning he pushed it into the waves, praying for a catch to feed his family. One day, the sky darkened without warning. Winds roared and waves rose like mountains. His boat was tossed until the planks split apart. He clung to one broken board, drifting as the storm swallowed everything he had built. Days passed. The sun burned him. The nights froze him. Hunger gnawed his belly. Thirst cracked his lips. The waves mocked him, rising and falling, as if they wanted him to despair.

At last, when his strength was gone and his fingers were loosening their grip, a small bird landed on his plank. It sang a song so soft he thought he was dreaming. But when he listened, he realized it was no ordinary melody. The bird sang, “The sea can swallow your boat, but it cannot swallow your breath. Hold on, for what is broken can still carry you to shore.”

The fisherman wept and found the strength to cling just a little longer. And in time, the currents carried him to land. Weak but alive, he crawled onto the sand and kissed the earth. He realized that The Creator had not abandoned him the storm had been his teacher. He learned that sometimes the boat must break so that you will learn the power of the hand that holds the sea.

That story has become my story. I have been that fisherman. My boat has broken more times than I can count, but the broken pieces have carried me when I thought I was finished. The Creator’s grace was the current, and His touch was the difference between life and death, between despair and survival.

And so I stand before you today not as a man untouched by storms but as one shaped by them. Not as one who found strength in pride but as one who learned humility through scars. Not as one who sought the pen but as one who was hunted down by the pen because The Creator would not let me run forever.

If you take anything from my life, take this: storms will come, ships will break, pride will scar you, and the devil will whisper ninety-nine truths to trap you with one lie. But if you humble yourself, if you listen for Gabriel’s vibration, if you hold on to broken pieces with faith that doesn’t make sense, then you will see that miracles are not myths. They are the quiet mercies that keep you afloat when you should have sunk.

And when you finally reach the shore, battered but alive, you will know what I know: a touch from The Creator makes all the difference.

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