Where feet may fail (to sir, with love II)

My earliest memory of my dad is him coming from school and me running up to him, all dirtied and barefoot and jumping onto him. He’d throw me up several times – and actually let go – it felt like flying. I wasn’t the lightest four year old either. I guess this is like that thing mum says: no elephant is tired by its tusks. We lived in the school compound of the school he used to teach in. Soon after that, mum had to move to Nairobi for work, after the company she worked for went under. Then it was just dad, Aunty Beaty, Sylvia and us. And I remember him sitting over me daily to make sure I ate Weetabix before school, which I hated. Eating in the morning has never been a strong point.

Through the better part of my nursery school and class one at that school where apparently these guys were too, it was dad who was there, when I was sick, naughty, or needed anything. He took me to the doctor and placed in me the fear of God when I was being me. Mum always came at the weekend, with fries she bought from Nairobi, and I used to cry for the last bit, so my brothers started giving me my own plate.

Then mum changed jobs to Western and she took us with her, and now it was he who came over every weekend. With sweet bananas and milk on two bodaboda bicycles. When it was still those hug-me-by-force matatus, every Friday without fail, and he still lifted me, but the throwy-throwy no. We looked forward to the weekend, up until Sunday evening, when we had these devotions led by him, okay we had them daily, but this Sunday one, if you had been bad, it wasn’t good for you.

Why am I saying all these? I wasn’t the exemplary child. I was any typical stubborn child. But I didn’t struggle much through adolescence. I didn’t have many peer pressure issues. I was Christian as soon as I understood what that meant, and I’ve been since. And it’s been hard, but I think it would be harder if I wasn’t. It dawned on me, much later than it should have, that I learnt to accept the love of Jesus because I saw that in my dad. He was no joke when I needed berating, but right after, he was done and back to his zesty jesty touchy-feely self. I learnt to lean on God as a Father because my father taught us how fathers should behave. He did well, considering. He did more than well… I know what I want for my own children’s dad.

It’s his birthday today. Some would know he’s been sick for slightly over five months now. Last month I could finally summon up the courage to make my requests known to God, and I asked that his birthday find him home with us. God has been so faithful. He did what He’s been doing all my life; He worked for our good behind the scenes. And I am so thankful. I have to say I am so thankful. that he is home, and on the mend. My father gave me the one thing I treasure above all else – my relationship with Christ. That train up a child verse, I think it’s true, because I have seen it work for us, through our crises and wild phases. Somehow God was always there. And this man.

So I am grateful. Because he really is getting better. And our family is stronger than it was. I’ve learnt trust anew. I’ve learnt to love anew. I have seen miracles happen before my eyes. I know probably mum and Aunty Beaty can tell a better story. But I only have this. I know He remains faithful. He cannot deny Himself.

You call me out upon the waters

The great unknown where feet may fail

And there I find You in the mystery

In oceans deep

My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name

And keep my eyes above the waves

When oceans rise

My soul will rest in Your embrace

For I am Yours and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters

Your sovereign hand

Will be my guide

Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me

You've never failed and You won't start now

So I will call upon Your name

And keep my eyes above the waves

When oceans rise

My soul will rest in Your embrace

For I am Yours and You are mine

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders

Let me walk upon the waters

Wherever You would call me

Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander

And my faith will be made stronger

In the presence of my Savior

[x6]

I will call upon Your Name

Keep my eyes above the waves

My soul will rest in Your embrace

I am Yours and You are mine

stop blogging and start working

There's this verse in James 4, 'let your laughter be turned into mourning' it says in normal versions. However, there's this version though which just totally watered down that to 'stop laughing and start crying', which, for people who think in pictures like me is just hilarious, and from then on Dinah, Flo and I started calling those oversimplified versions the stop laughing and start crying versions. Like Good News or the Youth Bible. Hence my title. Sorry if you have one of those. There, we can go on...

I have decided that in order to succeed in building a consistent blogging practice slash culture I must approach this from a different and totally radical angle. In addition to asking myself the all-important WWJD question in my dealings with other human beings and/or inanimate objects of any and every kind belonging to any and everyone, I must also incorporate the slightly less important but equally necessary question: CIBAT - can I blog about this?

Since one can blog about anything, I anticipate that most of my dilemmas will be solved by the answer yes, and since I want to be consistent as much as and/or because I want to be like Jesus (who was also consistent), the end result I expect is slightly over one million potential blog posts in a given day. From which I can narrow down to say, five, six a month. 

Or, since also no man is an island, or mum's version “hakuna mtu alilala kwa Mungu akajua ya kesho”, another way to be consistent is to have other people be consistent on my behalf, aka guest writers. This last one though I anticipate a few problems with eventually, since no one wants to guest blog in a blog whose readership constitutes maybe 5 sane people, and a few idle people in the US with long unpronounceable email addresses. Also, because they’ll likely be crazy good, they’ll make me look bad. Sanasana this one more than that other first one.

I’m trying to find another word for ‘blog’ since I once read here that it made the list of the ten most eeky English words there are (apparently top on that list was moist, which I have always found to be quite eeky myself, and have since desisted from applying it to any conversations). Though I honestly don’t get how blog made the list ahead of some conspicuously gross words a la phlegm and orifice. They is even weird to look at. Then I get this lump in my throat because of the cold I’ve had since a few days ago. They were right on the other nine though, so lemme imagine it was the result of a well-researched survey, and not just some idle kid with an unpronounceable email address feeling angst-y and wanting to be heard by the world in manner of Simple Plan in their ‘hit’ complaint Welcome to my Life.

It’s now 3:18 am. There has in the distance been a drum being knocked (yes, knocked) consistently for the past since I woke up. It’s 3 am, so that’s not a service, okay maybe it’s a Praise and Worship kesha, I heard people in Nairobi and elsewhere also, have those. They take their Sunday singing quite seriously, as do I (their singing). Anyway, back to the drums, reminds me of my teacher Mr. Omuhaka’s neighbour and his 4am prayer sessions that were daily punctuated by these… (searching for nice word) passionate claps every two or so minutes. In the dead silence of the night. Brings new meaning to quiet time I imagine. Anyway, maybe the prayers (I sincerely hope that's what those are) accompanying those drumbeats at three in the a.m. keep us from absolute anarchy, so I should be grateful.

Supposed to be working, soooo not working. And now I’m back to sleepy. So there. Let the drum beats sing me a lullaby…

opinions and such...

I’m seated at the salon letting my left-handed hair lady work her magic. I swear, this lady is hands-down my best hair dresser yet. Not because she does marvellous things to my head, well, they are far above average certainly, but more because it’s totally painless. I mean totally. As in I can comfortably construct a thought and type it down where in the past my head would be placed in some impossible angle, my face contorted in a labour-esque expression (I imagine) and my hands pressed tight to my ears as if that should prevent me from kuskia uchungu.

I should get this hair dreadlocked already, I keep chickening out and fearing I’d miss those two days in between undoing the hair and my next salon appointment – the crying in the shower because the comb won’t go through, the sadness as I throw entire handfuls of what was on my head in a bin and worst of all, if within those two days I absolutely must go away from the house. This hair business is a hard one. If it wasn’t that the Lord Himself called it the glory of a woman, I would have scoffed. Maybe I inwardly scoff still, those two days in between. I think I might follow this lady to the ends of the earth, if I do not lock it first, which judging by how long I’ve been dread-locking this hair inwardly, might be another few months (years, but you know).

Anyway, enough about my hair. I was hanging out with Kevin this weekend. Not hanging out per se, just those few moments in between hospital visits and getting back to town. Kevin is my brother, a nice, sensitive and incredibly talented man. Also very frank, I recently found out. Because he said something about which I had a contrary opinion and now I can’t seem to forget. Because he was not utterly wrong. Maybe he wasn’t wrong at all. On any other day, this is not strange, growing up we got along as well as any adjacent siblings, but it was something I wanted him to agree with me on. Or at least not outright and bluntly disagree. He is supposed to be the nice one. This is something on which his opinion had some bearing. So I wish he was less frank. I wish he had been a little tactful, because now I can’t seem to forget what he said.

It’s amazing how much other people have a bearing on our own opinions. Yes, we all want to be demi-gods, mutated into higher beings with no thought for anyone else’s opinion. I wager that anyone who thinks they don’t care is lying, just a little. They may not care as much, but they care all the same.

So I’m seated here ruminating over Ps 32:8, I will guide you in the way you shall go. This verse that like three years ago I picked up from our chitchats with Ms. Wami. And trying not to panic too much. Maybe allay my fears a little. It could be nothing at all; I keep reminding myself that three quarters of the things we fear don’t ever happen. Ergo, relax woman!! It is well, now. Not it shall be, it is, now. Be quiet child!