Reading Chapter 3 — The Night a Mother Fought Heaven and Earth

This chapter tells the true story of the night your mother refused to let you die. From a boutique robbed clean, to illegal street hustles for survival, to the moment you drank kerosene at age two — this is the chapter where a mother’s courage becomes a miracle. Running through the streets of Palembang with you in her arms, she begged the temple doors to open, prayed to Guan Yin, and fought for your life with nothing but faith, desperation, and coconut water.
It is the chapter that proves one truth: God Cannot Be Everywhere — That Is Why He created mothers.

Leadership Motivation is hosted by Bobby Sajutie, author, motivational speaker, and faith‑driven mentor. New episodes every Monday (motivational lessons) and Thursday (cinematic stories).  

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Transcript

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Good morning leaders. Today is Wednesday at six AM. We are going to continue reading chapter three for my book God Cannot Be Everywhere That is Why He Created Mothers Okay Chapter three God cannot be everywhere that is why he created mothers I was born in Palembang on january five, nineteen eighty two into a modest middle income family. My parents were not wealthy, but they were rich in determination. They dreamed of something more, not just for themselves, but for me and my older brother Tommy. A life worth living, a future worth fighting for. But dreams do not protect you from reality, and in Palembang, reality had sharp teeth. In the years of my after my birth, my parents worked tirelessly to build something stable for our family. My mother especially carried more than her share of the weight. When I turned one, she opened a small boutique shop in the heart of Palimang. It was not glamorous, but it was hers, a narrow space with peeling paint, a creaky wooden door and a single oscillating fan that clicked every time it turned. The shop sat between a tailor who smoked clove cigarettes all day and a good stall that sold fried tofu and sweet iced tea. Inside the boutique smelt of fabric dye, perfume samples and the faint musk of humidity that clung to everything in the tropics. Mannequins stood in the window wearing sequined tops, lace dresses, and shimmering skirts that caught the light from the street. My mother arranged them carefully every morning, adjusting their poses like they were her silent employees. Her customers were karaoke nightclub hostesses, women who lived in the neon lit corners of Palembang's nightlife. They came in wearing heavy makeup, bright lipstick, and a kind of confidence that hid extortion. They trusted my mother. She had an instinct for fashion and even sharper instinct for people. She knew that what would make them beautiful make them feel beautiful, powerful, unforgettable. Jobayamini, she would say, try this one, and they always did. While she worked, Tommy and I played behind the counter. I was still a baby, crawling between boxes of inventory, tugging on fabric scrapes, babbling nonsense. My father drifted in and out, sometimes helping, mostly not. He was a presence without weight, a shadow that passed through the shop without leaving fingerprints. But for a moment life felt stable. For a moment my mother was winning. For a moment came the night everything changed. My mother arrived one morning to find the lock broken, the door pried open and the mannequins stripped bare. The racks were empty, the drawers overturned. The air inside felt violated as if the room itself had been assaulted. She stood there in silence, holding me in her arms, her breath trembling. The police came, took a quick look, and shrugged. It's just a bad tragedy, they said. A phrase that meant we won't help you. But my mother knew who did it. She knew the neighborhood. She knew jealousy. She knew the risk of confronting them. So she swallowed her anger and kept moving. Six months later the money was gone. I was still a baby, I needed milk. Tommy needed food. The rent needed paying. My mother did what desperate mothers do. She found a way. She partnered with one of her brothers and began selling adult books. It was illegal, it was risky. It was not something she was proud of, but survival rarely asked for permissions. They sold the books in alleys, behind markets, near bus terminals, always watching for police. More than once, officers chased them. My mother ran through narrow streets, clutching the small earnings she had made, praying she would not be caught. She was not running from the law, she was running toward me. With the little profit she saved, she went to a public market and bought clothing she could resell. It was not much, but it was honest. It was safer. It was something she could rebuild from. But life was not done testing her. The day I almost died. I was two years old when it happened. My mother needed to work, so she asked my uncle, Uncle P, my father's younger brother, to watch me. He was not responsible, he was not attentive, but he was available. He was gambling with his friends, he had been drinking, he was not paying attention. I was thirsty, I did not have the words yet, and just said Unko, my baby way of asking for milk. In many Indonesian homes, kerosene is stored in large drums for cooking. My uncle, drunk and distracted, thought the kerosene was water. He put it into a cup and handed it to me, and drank it. Hours later he brought me home around seven in the evening. The sky was darkening, the street lights flickering on, and the air thick with the smell of fried noodles and motorbike exhaust. My mother was sorting closed under the dim yellow bulb when she saw me, pale, weak, struggling to breathe. What happened to him? she demanded. My uncle shrugged. I don't know. But she smelled it kerosene, sharp, chemical, deadly. She pressed him until he broke. He admitted everything. My mother's fury was volcanic. If anything happens to my son, she said, her voice shaking, I will make your whole family suffer. She did not wait for a response. She wrapped me in a thin cloth, held me tight and ran. The hospital smelt of disinfectant sweat and fear. The doctor examined me, listened to my lungs, and shook his head. He needs the liquid removed from his lungs, he said. It's a major procedure. Then came the cost, a number my mother could never afford. Her hands trembled, her breath caught, her world narrowed to a single thought. I cannot lose him. She thanked the doctor even though she had no solution, and walked out with me in her arms, not defeated but determined. The temple She went to the temple of Goddess Guan Yin. The temple stood at the edge of the neighborhood, red pillars, stone steps, lanterns swaying in the night breeze. The air always carried a faint scent of incense even when the doors were closed. Tonight they were closed. She knocked and knocked and knocked. Her fists pounded the wooden doors with the desperation of a mother who had run out of earthly options. Her cries echoed through the quiet street. Tolong Muka Pintunya Tolong Muka Please open the door. Please finally, the keeper, an elderly man with tired eyes and a thin white beard, opened the door. He did not ask questions. He simply stepped aside. Inside a temple glowed with a soft golden light. The statue of Guan Yin stood tall, serene, compassionate. Hands open in eternal mercy. The air was thick with incense, the kind that clings to your clothes and your prayers. My mother fell to her knees. She cried with a sound that tore through the silence, raw, loud, unrestrained. Her voice filtered the temple, spilled out into the street, and reached anyone with an earshot. She begged for my life, she begged for mercy, she begged for a miracle. When she finally stood, her face was streaked with tears, but her eyes were fierce, the eyes of a mother who had handled her child to heaven and demanded him back. Outside the temple sat a pedicap driver at Tukambecha. His pedicap was the classic Indonesian style, a tree wheeled bicycle with a white passenger seat in front, covered by a faded canopy. The paint was chipped, the metal rusted, but it was sturdy, the kind of vehicle that had carried thousands of stories through the streets of Palimbung. The driver himself was thin, sun darkened, with a towel draped around his neck and sandal worn down to the shape of his feet. He had been waiting for passengers, half dozing, half listening. He had heard everything. I see I had a clappa. Ma'am, give him coconut water, he said gently. It was simple advice. But it was the lifeline she needed. She climbed into the paddy cab, holding me close and told him to go. When we arrived here, the coconut stall was closed, wooden shutters pulled down, the street empty. But my mother refused to accept closed as an answer. She banged on the shutters until the seller woke up. She begged, she demanded, she insisted. Finally, the seller opened the stall. She bought ten coconuts right there on the street under the dim glow of a single lamp. She fed me coconut water cup after cup until my small body began to react. I vomited and vomited and vomited. The smell was sharp, oily and unmistakably kerosene. My mother did not flinch. She helped me, she wiped my mouth, she whispered prayers, she kept going, and then slowly my face changed. The pale grey faded, a flush of red returned to my cheeks, my breathing steadied. Life returned. My mother believed God as Guadian heard her. She believed the paddy cab driver was heaven sent. She believed that the coconut water was divine intervention. And she was right. I survived because she refused to let me die. I survived because she fought heaven and earth for me. I survived because God cannot be everywhere. So he created mother. My mother was God sent. And that night she prolonged my life with her faith, her courage, and her refusal to surrender. Thank you for listening. We will continue chapter four and five on Thursday at six AM. See you next time.