Book Publisher | Vasz Books

A Mother of Sorrows by Eniko Nyerges

In Author on November 24, 2014 at 10:48 pm

My dear Mother, sorrowful Lady, how I would like to console thee. I utter a prayer
for Thee hoping to weave a crown of roses without the piercing thorns. My heart
gravitates towards Thee , but in my humanness I can only take a faint glimpse of Thy

Eniko Nyerges

Images of Faith Bookmarks

sorrow which Thou hast endured for me and humanity. I too being a mother, can only
feel Thy pain to a limit and no more. I too dear Mother have a son and my heart
goes out to you. It is mind bugling to contemplate the fact that in Thy womb God’s
only son’s heart was beating under Thine wow……What joy and privilege. What
perfect vessel for His Majesty. I have no words….To give birth in a stable , well
that belongs to the animals, yet was the site of the Holiest birth ever! What
poverty, what splendor, I fall silent again…..Thy tender heart was anxious about
the day when like any mother has to let go of her child and hand him over to the
world. A wound had opened up and there is nothing to say anymore……The ultimate
sorrow was the long walk to Calvary and the agony of thy beloved son. Only a loving
glimpse between mother and son consoled each other. The utter helplessness of Her
who loved her son so much…..too much to endure, but the ever quiet resignation to
God’s will was present in Mary’s heart…….yes Lord thy will be done. To see her
son crucified standing under the cross……we’ll there are no words to tell, but
only silent tears to shed and share with another. Sorrow untold, contemplated by
many , but lived only by Mother Mary. Oh, my dear Mother how I wish to hug Thee to
my heart and console Thee , but that is impossible . Only a loving glimpse between
two mothers will speak volumes. No words needed……No mother wants to see her son
on the cross. Thy generosity was and is limitless, unselfish, for that is who thou
art. Oh, great Mother of God, all I can do is to contemplate Thy sorrows in utter
silence and shed unseen tears inwardly. My Mother and my Queen.

This story was written by Eniko Nyerges, author of Images of Faith. Her book can be purchased online at and

A promotion video for Images of Faith

The Wood of the Cross by Eniko Nyerges

In Author on November 21, 2014 at 4:09 am

Out of nowhere a tiny seed falls to the ground into a crevice and just lays there,

Images of Faith

Eniko Nyerges

waiting for help from the sky above. Soon the rain starts to fall gently and the
seed sprouted hair like roots to get a foothold in the crevice. Life begins . At
first it looks like any other seed, but God knows that this one is special. It just
grows and grows until one day it was cut down for an ultimate purpose for what was
created originally. The loggers were looking upon it as if it would be another tree
for another criminal to die on, but wait……this tree will not hold a criminal,
but God’s only son. This tree is very special. Blessed is the tree which was bathed
in Jesus’ blood which cleansed the world of sin. How terrible, yet so beautiful. On
this had hung our salvation. This tree had to be strong enough to hold our Savior’s
weight. What privilege and what sadness all in the same time….for this very
purpose had God created His own tree. Mind bugling and I have no words. I stand at
the foot of the Cross, staring at Jesus without words with open mouth while my heart
with every beat says; thank you my Lord for redeeming me and all humanity. Oh
blessed tree , which held my Jesus.


Eniko Nyerges is the author of Images of Faith. Her book can be order online at Amazon or at Barnes and Noble.

October 2011 Writing Contest Winner Announced!

In Contests on October 26, 2011 at 11:59 am

I have to say, I tried to throw a curve ball at ya’ll by giving you a particularly challenging writing prompt, and what do you do? You knocked my socks off.

Seriously, hats off to all of our entrants for this month. We received some really great stories, which of course, made judging very difficult. I’d really like to encourage you guys to continue submitting stories every month, because so many of you have awesome talent. In fact, I might crumble later this week and post our runner-up story because I enjoyed it so much. Keep your eyes peeled.

In the end, we chose the winner for this month based on its authenticity and ability to relate to an audience. To put it shortly, it’s “real.” I’m a sucker for a simple concept that speaks volumes, and this story really did it.

The winner for the October 2011 Writing Contest is:

Dana Bartley from Peekskill, NY!

Dana Bartley, 32 years old, wears many hats. She is a home care aide, daughter, sister, aunt, and friend. In her spare time, she enjoys writing, horseback riding and trying new activities. In the future, she hopes to start her own blog for empowering women.

On behalf of Vasz Books, we hope that you love this story.

Tales from the Kitchen

I’m in the kitchen, where you always jokingly say I belong. You should be home any minute now, and my anticipation is growing.

In our home, I’ve painted a picture-perfect representation of paradise. There’s a cherry pie resting in the windowsill. When you step out of your car, I want you to know—with all of your senses—that I’ve been home thinking of you. I’ve tidied up the room, and laid out the sports section on the table at your seat. Next to the paper, I place a glass of water. You’re always thirsty when you get home.

Click, click, click. I turn the stove on to prepare our dinner. Fatty, marbled, seared Ribeye: your favorite. Mine too. I start the pan with a dash of red wine to create a glaze. Today is a special day, even though you think it’s any old day. Unfortunately, I ruin the moment as soon as you step into the house by burning my finger on the pan. You tell me to run it under the water, and it will make me feel better.

Masking my pain, I still greet you with a smile. “What’s all this?” you ask me. I tell you I made your favorite. Uninterested, you say “no thanks. I’ll just take the water.” No thanks? It wasn’t really an option. It was a statement. You grab the glass of water and head for the living room, unappreciative and unaffected. I’m stunned.

I eat my special dinner alone at the table, still wanting your approval. I approach meekly, “Baby, do you want me to fix you a plate?” You ignore me and walk through me into the kitchen. You turn on the faucet and pour more water.

I made you a pan-seared, red wine glazed, perfect cut of Ribeye, and you choose tap water. I can’t help but to stand by while you stray onto other paths, other women, and water. You’ll drink any old water, but you demand perfection of me.

 Now I know. Over a simple meal of steak and us, you’ve chosen water and told me everything I needed to know.

Maybe someday I’ll cook for another. For now, I’ll cook for me. Not you.
By the way, the steak was delicious. I hope you enjoyed your water.


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