Lord, give me a sign

Forward: I wrote this thing at three am last night. Long day, and  Netflix night, by the time I was ready to sleep there wasn't any sleep. So i showered and washed my hair. And got to bed at 3am. But there was no sleep. So I wrote. And finally, slept. 

People know it. In their deep inner lives, they know what they ought to be doing. And they know it would improve the quality of life. The challenge is to develop the character and competence to listen to it and live by it – to act with integrity in the moment of choice.

The people of Israel had been pestering Moses for a while. These guys, like me, were not too fond of hearsay. You know, some Guy, who we’ve never seen, keeps telling you stuff to tell us to do, and you know, we’re just supposed to like, do it. No questions asked. Sorry,but yes questions asked, yes lots of questions asked. Who is He? Why is He talking to you? If He’s everywhere why can’t we see Him? What’s this that’s so good about you; He just has to talk through you?

We wanna talk to Him ourselves, even us (disclaimer: this is a direct translation and obviously not my stellar grammatical prowess). We want Him to talk to us, coz you just keep telling us stuff, and you know, broken telephone, so we’d prefer if we could communicate directly with the Source. You can make that happen, Moses? Yeah, that’d be awesome.

So blah blah, rules about washing up and abstaining from drink and no lovey dovey stuff for three days before The Meeting. More rules about not touching the mountain, not touching someone or thing that touched the mountain whilst putting the someone or thing to death, not looking up at the mountain lest they see Him and die, and so on.

So on day three the clean and eager Israelites congregate at the base of that mountain. The Lord, as promised, comes down. I figure maybe two or three overeager chicken or persons get stoned or arrowed for touching the base of the mountain. He gives the Ten Commandments to a crowd shaking in their metaphorical and actual pants.

And finally, the bad word here people decide that these -a-tetes are way too intense. We just wanted some of that eating and drinking fun you and the seventy have every time you go up there and you come back looking like an angel. All this lightning, thundering, trumpets, smoke and booming voice from fog and darkness – that’s hardly what we had in mind. You know what, it’s totally cool with us, you just be going (see disclaimer above), He tells you, and then you come tell us, we’ll do. From now on, it’s cool, you can be our spokesperson.

Someplace else it said that God revealed Himself that way so that the Israelites would understand how fearsome He is, and not sin. But you’ve got to love the human psyche, not far after that and they were already at it again with the grumbling et al. Do you ever wonder what life would be like if stuff didn’t go forgotten? I wonder all the time.

When I was in first/second year dad was living in Eldy still, and we used to go to IVC – a church – on Sunday. Around that time dad was so busy with school he stopped commuting to Mumias; mum came over instead. This one Sunday, I was wearing black on black with my favorite black wedges, for some reason I remember that.

I think I was in second year, coz I was freaked out and looking for a sign, like frantically. I hadn’t met the boy yet so it wasn’t that. The only other  major freak-out I had was around the time dad got a transfer away from Eldy, which meant I’d actually live in campus aaaaaaalllll the time, and like it. Coz I’d go home Fridays and come back Mondays.

Anyway, whatever, point is, I had convinced myself that I wanted to hear Him speak. Not with the helpful platitudes from people I already knew, because I probably already knew those, but like in a way I would have no doubt it was Him. Like you know those where a pastor you’ve never met calls out your name and says things about you (this is before the 310 era, so it was still legit). That’s what I wanted.

So that Sunday we went to church, dad, mum and I, and found that there had been a conference running with the guest speaker and so he’d do the sermon. Usual stuff, praise and worship, announcements et al, and then he came. And the first thing he said after intros was “Who is Joy?” Now obviously it wasn’t me, I mean it could be me, but it had to be some other Joy, because come on, who talks to me?

Now, Joy was a pretty common name even then, unlike when I was born; but that day, there was no other Joy in the church. And of course mother kept prodding at me so I went na huko mbele. He said I was the one, and then said stuff. I’d gotten my answer, sort of. I left service with so much zeal, I figured I would live. It would turn out okay. Because God had spoken to me, me, meeeeee.

I don’t know why I remembered that this evening. Looking back, even that assurance was forgotten not too long afterwards. I still freaked out after the actual move happened, it’s took me a whole semester to acclimatize and start cooking. But I still pretty much hated it. God had spoken, and while theoretically that should have been THE POINT when all things became new, really, it just… faded, I guess.

I’m in my stressed mode, have been for a while. How do I know this? Well, there has always been a weird relationship between my sweet junky tooth and stress. On a normal day, I’ll go for weeks, months even, without wanting or eating cake, and eat fries only occasionally. But now, it’s like a mainstay in my brain. I always want more fries and real cake - none of this SupaMill Madeira stuff, the real decadent one with frosting.

I know why I’m stressed. I know it’s only going to get worse. Or it won’t go away. But I don’t know what to do. So here I am again praying for one of those signs from God Himself again. Except now I remember that even if it came, it may not change much. I think He knows it too, so He’s been rather silent.

Sometimes God sends signs, like real deal you'll-meet-a-girl-in-a-red-dress-who-will-have-no-front-teeth signs, but I think He likes to do that when He knows it will make an actual difference. Most of the time, almost all the time however, you know it. You don't need a sign. Deep down inside you know what you should do. Maybe you think you can’t, or just won’t, but you know. And you know that until you decide to do it then you’ll keep circling that mountain, like the Israelites. But you know, easier said; always easier said.

So you keep praying for a sign. 

of sundays, voices and utilitarianism

 Disclaimer: A random post if ever there existed one! I'd read on anyway... :))))))))

I haven’t written in a very long time. Not for other eyes anyway. I think part of it may be attributed to the fact that I decided a long time ago that my blog was not going to be a whine page. It was, naturally, soon after I had turned it into a whine page. So the last few weeks have gone by in a blur. Some have been happy, some not so much; most of them have been busy though. And all I need is one week away from writing and pretty soon I’m all about the keeping quiet.

It’s Sunday night. It will be Monday morning very soon. It was a good Sunday, a really good Sunday. Certainly the best Sunday since before that Sunday I was back in Busia with the main man of the hour (that would be the guy leading Sunday service with the mic right outside my ears (not really, but it certainly felt close enough to them)) woke me up with a series of choruses he would sing for exactly one minute at a time. He wouldn’t even allow the congregation to be done with the response, before he juxtaposed (see how I put that there oh-so-naturally) the next ‘number’. He continued to do this for close to an hour. Even mum, who had been trying to sing along as she went about her tasks, got frustrated.

I know I should have been attending service rather than asleep, but I had just travelled 600km roughly, jolted awake every hour or so during the trip by some mishap on the road that forced our driver to employ all his magical emergency braking skills. I was tired. So naturally all sounds that were not of soothing music lulling me sleep-ward were scowled upon. Nonetheless I woke up to contribute to my share of the things that needed doing, after I figured there would be no more sleeping that morning. Mum would prefer if I said it was because I hadn’t after all travelled 600km and survived biting cold for an hour in a cold dark room with strange men to come and sleep. Nary, I had not. Yes, I know that wasn’t a nary situation.

That turned out to be an okay Sunday, despite how it began. But everything about this Sunday was perfect. Mostly though this Unchained Voices double album launch thing I went to at Alliance Francaise. Teardrops and Mufasa, launching their album, Sarabi, H_art the Band, Stacy (whose voice is so gloriously sophisticated, and whose style reminds me of something between Adele and India Arie). Sarabi’s rendition of Amandla was way cooler than what they have on their album. Somehow now I can’t imagine what it would be like if they performed Msalimie live, I think I might swoon. That’s a distinct possibility. I looooooooove Msalimie.

And there was the MC. His name is Elsaphah Njora. Also known as Benjamin from Village Christmas 2010. Youch! He was hilarious. And deep. And hilarious. I’m still smiling. For real he should be the next Groove Awards host. I certainly know if I’m ever placed in charge of planning any event I will be frantically looking for him. Oh, he was amazing.

So back to why I haven’t written in a while. To illustrate my point, I’m going to share a paragraph I got from my research of the first article I ever wrote for Martin: "How to write a good article". By the way, #someoneTellMartin to change that topic, yaaaye. Anywho, paragraph, if I can find it:

I was the language crank, the one who swooned over sentences. I could forgive much in a book if it was written with force and beauty, if its story was told in a voice unlike anything I’d heard before, if the writer was finding new and mesmerizing ways to employ the same words that have been available to all American writers for hundreds of years. I tended to balk if a book contained some good lines but also some indifferent ones. I insisted that every line should be a good one. I was—and am—a bit fanatical on the subject.       ~Michael Cunningham~

Yaaaaay, found it! You can read the full article , and if you hope to ever be any good at writing, I’d strongly suggest that you do. Not that I have done much of what the good people say, but it’s got some valid points one ought to go back to from time to time (added to list of pinned tabs). 

When my mother was in college she wrote an essay on Shakespeare once in her English class. She scored 18 out of a possible 20. The lecturer was known to be quite stingy with marks (I know what you’re thinking; parents say things like that all the time). Well, dad corroborates the story, and thinking that they sat down thirty years ago and plotted to mislead us with such tales seems to be too much trouble. Ergo, I believe them. Also I saw the essay. Yes, she kept it. Not just for the marks, but because after giving her that mark the lecturer went ahead to write “I am tempted to give you a much higher mark blah blah”. 

The point was not that my mother was a brilliant writer, even though she is. The point is that those are the people who raised me. When you get used to a certain standard of grammar, finesse and quality in writing, you cannot help but become an editor. So I am one. Unfortunately it’s the reason I’m also afraid of writing. I have written a few okay pieces in my day. I consider this one to be one such, flowing with the ease of a river moving downstream. 

But more often than not, I feel ill equipped to maintain the standard I have set for my writing. I know that if I open my mouth, I may score a few great sentences, but most of them will be “bland, slack utilitarian” sentences that “serve no other purpose than to transport the reader from point A to point B”. Michael again.  Therefore I keep quiet. Until the urge hits again like a bathroom break, and I cannot sleep for all the itching in my fingers. And I go at it on a Sunday-almost-Monday night-stroke-morning. 

And all of a sudden, the universe in no longer so skewed upon its axis. The reason I wanted to write this piece in the first place was to talk about things you cannot change. I won’t be doing that. Because these are 1000+ words. It is sufficient. But now you have a reason to return next time. I’ll go read that editorial so my sentences can remain as intriguing. Hopefully.

maybe in another life

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Living with an eclectic part vegetarian is really honing my culinary abilities. That and my mother’s penchant for never wanting to eat the same thing twice. Which makes it impossible for me to draw up a mental menu and just go with it come the day. I think I’m going to be one of those Internet recipe mums, using things like aubergines and watercress and making baked dishes for dinner, complete with dessert hopefully, which I think is awesome. Anyway. Now to begin.

I used to love watching One Tree Hill because it had the blueprint of the place I wished I grew up in. And very wise monologues. Where you had the same friends since nursery school and you could walk around at two am and not worry about muggers.  I very much doubt that anyone in Kenya can have that… maybe if you live in Nyayo estate you have a shot. For some reason I do miss my childhood friends; my runs around the universe would begin shortly after, but for those 7 years, I was with the same people and it seemed like nothing would ever change.

Funny, that life seems like nothing I ever lived, sometimes I can’t remember what was real and what no. But they were some fun years, even though I doubt I’d take them back for free. It’s true though; there will always be a greater or lesser person than yourself. I have a good memory (mum doesn’t think quite so). Faces, names, numbers, I carry them all in my head, plus a bunch of mundane details about their lives no should ever have to remember. Once I realized this (alert: sounds like those kids who wear ‘different’ like a badge and give speeches about being different) I sort of thought it ran through the ranks. Heaven forbid I should have thought myself special.

I don’t mind it much, I can reconstitute my phonebook fairly solidly after five different incidents, and it always helps when you’re stranded, perhaps because of the aforementioned incident. until I discovered it's not an everyone thing. Took me a while to stop begrudging people for not being the same way. I think no one escapes the trap of comparison, at least for a while, if not ever. Tonight I’m supposed to be writing about memes, I’m bone tired, slightly under the weather and I’ve got a before dawn start tomorrow. Still. So I read this one (whilst researching meme-like things). That’s how my blog posts always start, can you tell?

Today’s desiderata portion is easy I guess. Avoid loud and aggressive persons. Part of being mellow, if I dare use the term, is being secretly stubborn. Set in your ways. Avoiding confrontation and being silently piqued. In the past I would run and never look back (from those people). Thank heavens I’ve learnt how to cope. But I guess even in my higher state of existence, there are those who can only rightly be described as tedious. I still avoid those. Like the plague. Along with crowds of strange people. I’m a small party kinda girl, where small is two preferably close friends who also know each other. Awkward filler conversations I am unable. :) :) :)

I think everyone should learn how to surround themselves with silence. And how to live in their head. Maybe just not when you’re crossing the road or chopping vegetables. Being with me is something I do, not in any narcissistic way, it’s just, changing location every couple of months, you have to adapt. I did, even though sometimes I miss the company; you see something beautiful and immediately you know someone who would appreciate it just like you but they are too far.

I hope one day I get to live in a safe place, cause I’d really love to take a midnight walk. I’ve always been drawn to the night: the quiet, the peace, the clarity. I’m at my best in the night. Some of my best work happens after midnight. And the stars. And the lights from a distance. Maybe I should go camping. It’s like the best of both worlds. Being out at night and being in at the same time. These concrete jungles we’ve built, no one can even see a single star for all the electricity. You can’t see a nice moon out and stuff like that…

I really want to go for that walk someday. And go to Greenland and see the Northern Lights (and then get out of there really fast). Also, I wish Lucas’s book was a real one; it would be an awesome read. I really am quite tired. 2500 words from me tonight? About memes? Well, if you’re going to be awake all night it might as well be about memes rather than offer courses on Guang Zhou I presume.

Well, that will be all for now. More later. I do wonder what lies ahead. What’s at the end? And I wonder why certain scents refuse to fade. Did you know the nose can identify and store 50,000 different scents? And attach memories to them? Thinking about Lifehouse isn’t quite the thing to do either, much nostalgia.

Let me get my socks and get with the memes. Else Martin won’t like me very much come morning.

living down the bucket list

Grrrrrr…. It’s Friday. Okay, since it’s 1 am, it’s Saturday the 26^th. One of the perks of my theme is that it doesn’t date stamp my posts. It seems like it should still be Friday because I haven’t slept yet. That’s not news I suppose. Yesterday (as in Friday) or earlier tonight, I in my opinion outdid myself with this Biryani thing I’ve been dying to make for like ever. It’s been a while, hence how I forgot the pawpaw part until it was time for blending. But I guess it still turned out amazing. Colin didn’t like the part about the pink rice though. Still.

I’m supposed to be at IMAX. Crossing off the ‘Watch midnight movie and see city in wee hours’ item off my bucket list. We went. We didn’t make quorum. We returned. I did however cross off that ‘see city (girls) in the wee hours part’. They have grit. They don’t feel cold. And walk in twos. Except this one who was on University Way alone. Or maybe she wasn’t alone. But we did get to do this on Standard Street or whichever; the one after Trattoria. It's like a whole different reality, town at these hours. 

I want the green bag. Also, I must go to the supermarket and find out once and for all what this saffron thing is. I’m tired of seeing it in recipes and not knowing what it is. Aunty Beaty says everything in a recipe is important, you miss one, it’s just not the same. She said it about the Biryani recipe she taught me years ago, I’m just extrapolating.

Blogger needs to up their game and ask me what’s on my mind every time I come to write a new post. Like Facebook. That way, I can say ‘desiderata’. That go-placidly-amid-the-noise piece from way back. I’ve been thinking about that all week. I’m going to look it up now, before I say what I’m going to say next. My mouth is too small for my foot ergo.

Good, all done! I’m going to do 7 days, 7 posts, about that really old and clichéd piece. Not sure how yet. And I didn’t say 7 consecutive days. Just 7 posts. Hopefully the days will be consecutive. Knowing myself, I know piece number 7 will come a month after today. It’ still acceptable, methinks. I’ve grown so accustomed to having a Martin deadline to sail through that I’m finding myself writing my own thing more and more often, like when I’m done earlier than usual. The blog’s not complaining, neither is hopefully those angst-y kids in the U.S. of A. with long unpronounceable emails. 

I went shopping yesterday (again, as in Friday). Didn’t find what I set out to look for, came back with a full bag all the same. Feeling reborn. I don’t know what it is about shopping. And I found. The. Most. Gorgeous. Maxi. Dress. Ever. For a bargain. I promise, it is like a dream. Now saying maxi dress reminds of me of these 40 articles I’ve written about dresses this week. And of the proverb ‘Mwamba ngoma ngozi huvuta kwake’. I was writing for a dress site, whose biggest size of dress is a 12 probably. Maybe 14. But I still managed to throw in a few articles about big girl dresses. Mostly because I ran short of ideas at number 23. But also because, you know mwamba ngoma. But you learn something new every day. I’m going to miss this once I have to give it up.

I actually looked up shopping and its psychology. Because I remember the  day the Kindle got lost, I was soooo depressed leaving town. I didn’t want to get home. So I went grocery shopping instead. And I kid not, as I was selecting those tomatoes one by one, I dunno, it’s like the sun started rising again. I didn’t even impulse buy like anything for myself. But just the whole thing… I dunno, maybe it’s gaining back control by taking an issue you can control. I wonder who’s got it. I wonder what they’re using it for. Maybe they sold it to someone else. Hhhmmmm…

Now I’m sleepy. And I have that headachy thingy that comes in between my temples when I’m tired. And this laptop has reached teenage. Tacky? I know. But it’s just not the good little girl I used to tell things and it listens to me. And Job’s not there until next week. I dunno how much more of this I can take. The weekend of 2^nd is going to be really interesting. We’ll see. My stuffed animal needs washing. And I need to go find Mama Debz before my hairs all fall out. Go home Joy, you're drunk.

to the sea, i crawl on my knees

I met Jars of Clay, like really, thanks to Daggy, and I took to them the same way I did Brandon Heath - hook, line and sinker. This is just one of my faves.... They always did have funny titles for their songs. It's okay, I love them all the same.

You remember my theory on survival rate for bad days being 100%? That doesn’t make sense now. It makes sense in the cursory perspective, you know, in the it’s an awesome life and what’s the alternative kind of way. In the things that sound deep and pretty to say and all that it all works out okay, let’s hold hands and be happy way. That sounds sensible in my head I swear.

I sort of think a lot. I get bugged by things. I walk around and have these conversations about things I see. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes I laugh. It’s why I love walking so much. But I guess I hide also. From things that I can’t change. From people who make me face things I don’t want to face. I’m currently hiding from what I know is going to be a difficult conversation with the people who still call the shots. It’s okay for me to do that now, because the call hasn’t come. That it should have over a week ago is no matter. It hasn’t come, therefore, I am waiting for the call. That should hold water for a while.

This Kate girl makes failing a lot at things look like a bed of roses. I know this because that’s the finished product. It’s easy to talk in used-to’s and in was’s because it’s a testament to growth. Because after, you can see what it all meant, you can see the bigger form that got you to solid ground today.

…except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end.

Sometimes you really want something because the alternative is worse. Not because you think that’s what’s best for you. Sometimes you want freedom from anxiety so badly, you’ll line up geese and swans, provided you get duck-looking birds in a row. Maybe it was a little like that. Maybe all of it was a little like that. Or a lot. Been finding myself at this same junction often. I’ve had to have this conversation many times. So I’m hiding also from the people who care about what happens to me too. I’m going to go through this one solo. Or with my blog. Eventually the show-down will come. Maybe there will be tears. Maybe I’ll take the high road for a while longer. It's easier than feeling selfish I guess, even though that's not what that is.

One day a friend of ours came to the house. She’d been sick, like sick sick, not the cramps or flu or headache sick. But she was coming to see a someone worse off. So when we asked her how she’d been, she wouldn’t say how sick she really felt. Because in comparison, she was fit as a fiddle. Only she wasn’t. The fact that someone else is having it harder than you doesn’t change the fact that you’re having it hard, does it? I got that from this in my opinion meh  ‘The Perks of Being a Wallflower’ movie that others seem to have loved. That is what happens when you take books, awesome books, and put a cast to them for an hour and a half. 102 minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

“I think that if I ever have kids, and they are upset, I won't tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it wouldn't change the fact that they were upset. And even if somebody else has it much worse, that doesn't really change the fact that you have what you have.” 

I’ll end with this poem that was written a few years ago.

'Trudge on, boy,'
He told himself.
'Put one foot ahead
And follow with the other.'

So he stepped into the raging river,
And when the waters threatened to sweep him away,
'Trudge on!' 
He told himself.
When the raging waters
Threatened to submerge him,
He swam.
When the raging currents 
Threatened to pull him under,
He clutched at everything he could
To keep afloat.
And he reached the other shore.

'Trudge on, boy,'
He told himself.
'Put one foot ahead
And follow with the other.'

And barefooted, he stepped on dry brush and thorn.
There was blood as plant pierced,
There was screaming as plant was pulled out,
There was the anguish 
Of taking the next step,
No easy way, no painless way.
'Trudge on boy! Trudge on!'
Until, exhausted, he got to the other side

'Trudge on, boy,'
He told himself.
'Put one foot ahead
And follow with the other.'

And so he started up the mountain.
Bare clothing lost his heat,
Sharp winds caught his moisture,
Lips parched and cracked,
Feet blue with frost,
Teeth clattering like a ramshackle tuktuk,
And all he wanted was to stop,
To stop and sleep,
And let the cold freeze his heart
And die in his slumber.

'Trudge on, boy! 

Don't stop now! Trudge on! 
And he put one foot in front of the other
'Almost there, boy! Almost there! 

Keep moving, lad! Move! Move! Move!'
All strength summoned and consumed,
He finally crossed the mountain,
And relieved, he fell flat and cried for joy,
Finally, it was over!
He got up and looked around,
His shoulders sagging with every second.

In front of him, was a desert.

'Trudge on, boy'.

at the sea, i wait on my knees...

only the broken will be masters at mending...

I was just about to turn 18 when I finished high school, if six months count as ‘just about’. Those days computers were a huge deal. Okay, for me. My folks gathered up some good monies and bought a nameless one with 256MB RAM and 80GB hard disk space, and it was the jewel of our existence. They made one of those comp tables, you know, like with space for the CPU down there and the movable keyboard tray, and basically the picture was complete.

Anyways, after high school I was the only one at home, and I remember sitting there for nights on end. I did nights as late as 6 am, with that dim yellow light and the silence of the night as my friend. Made up for my sleep all morning, I think mum wasn’t very happy. I borrowed three 500-page novels from the library down at the community centre and went through them in less than a week.

Time was all I had, and whenever the inspiration hit I wrote. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I wrote about friends, I wrote about home truths, I wrote to Nancy who was still in high school then. In longhand, and delivered them to her this one time I happened to be in Nairobi when she was on half-term. I read everyone but Tom Clancy (I just couldn't). I read Shakespeare; well, tried to anyway. And finally got round to Mills and Boon just for kicks, charm of the formerly forbidden.

I read Joyce Meyer too, and T.D. Jakes and Serita his wife, got started on my own Secret Keeper – a diary to God, something that has shaped my journaling to this day. And I wrote and wrote. It’s sad, my collection passed away with the demise of that computer, over the years I’d summon up a nice collection and it’d be lost in the course of one of my many shiftings. It’s what caused me to start this blog. I can get to them from wherever whenever.

I remember a little bit of what I wrote, I know some of them are in a brown envelope in one of the boxes in one of my many homes; if the fire and mice didn’t get to them first I’ll find them. But that wasn’t my point. I know, 400 words describing ‘not my point’ right? Just be cool. When I left high school I was still a little girl. Prim, proper, sarcastic as heck and tactless, but it was all bluster I guess. I didn’t know a thing. I knew about them, I just didn’t know them.

That’s where I wrote from, from the ideal and black-white world perspective. This guy whose church magazine and blog I wrote for always used to tell me that. But I couldn’t change, I didn’t know anything else. Life began to happen for me in later into campus. It was like, ah…. So that’s what that was like, and so forth.

It wasn’t until after when I went back to my work from then and actually saw these things like that for myself. There’s nothing God can do with a perfect person. I didn’t think I was, I just wasn’t you know, like so-and-so and the things my peers were into. still the same thing. I know Job prayed for me to come back down to earth. And I did. After that it was a pretty messy ride, but it taught me this one thing: only the broken will become masters at mending.

Why did God do all those things to Jesus when He was on earth? You know, take Him through obedience teach Him perfection through suffering, and whatever God was working in Him for 18 years before he was 30? It was because I guess human beings don’t like listening to lectures, they like experiences. You’ll identify more with someone who has walked where you have, it’s fact. You’ll listen to them more than someone pouring text-book knowledge, fact.

I already spoke of that here. But I saw this quote on one of my Thought Catalog runs, and that’s what’s inspired this:

The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of their depths. These persons have an appreciation, sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.~Elisabeth Kübler-Ross~

I’m not the best person to say this, but I like who I became. That phase made me human. It made me a better friend, a better godmother, a better Christian. When you know just how easy it is to fall out of grace you won’t ever “How could you…” anyone ever again. It’s true that God can use you without having to have ‘a story’, but I think there’s a special graciousness and patience that comes from having been there. You allow people their journeys, their struggles and their stories instead of smacking them on the head with a Bible.

You discover that sometimes being a true friend involves mastering the art of timing. Not everything needs to be corrected now, solved now, sorted now. There is much gain in silence. 

So be a good friend. Shut the heck up.

welcome to wherever you are

People know it. In their deep inner lives, they know what they ought to be doing. And they know it would improve the quality of life. The challenge is to develop the character and competence to listen to it and live by it - to act with integrity in the moment of choice.

DISCALIMER: Sorry about the sing-song font. Is Elani’s fault. Making my otherwise meh evening light up like Christmas lights from that street that Kevin used to live on in Home Alone.

Ah, there’s a certain joy in the Internet. And Wi-Fi. And YouTube. And a good sound system. And a new song. A new song that you love. And thus can’t stop listening to. I finally got round to Elani’s Kookoo, which I think is just the thing for a bland Monday evening with a large order from Martin my editor. The man doesn’t want me to have a life, and I keep having to remember the moolah is also nice to have…

I swear, I can’t stop listening to them, and I can’t stop smiling. This music is going to be the death of me. By the way Nancy and I are on the hunt for a star (or anyone really :)))))) who wants BGVs, so if you know any one, our numbers are 0723 XXX XXX and 0723 XXX XXX. Seriously, those are our numbers, and we’re looking for a guy. Does it hit you how much these afro urban stars love the word “kishua”, I swear it’s like every song. Ama it’s coz it’s easy to play around with… 

Also, when you listen to the lyrics of some of these songs it hits you just how uuuhhhmmm… nowhere-going some of the lines in the songs are. They just put them there coz they sound nice. But it’s hard, getting words with rhyme and rhythm and flow, and since I haven’t written a song, I’ll be quiet now. Before I too go Koo-koo.

Scatter-braininess. Where was I? Ah, yes indeed, home. I hadn’t begun talking about that yet, but no time like the present, si? My brother would probably say something wise and deep like don’t get too comfortable. But it’s hard not to, after you know years of temporarily nesting here, there and over yonder. The minute some semblance of settlement hits you grab it with both hands.

But I love how God works. I love how He pours one thing into the next, fits this piece to that one until you have one complete picture. I didn’t write this post on the day I should. I should wait for the call. But no, I’m writing it now. Before the call. Because I know in my heart the call will come. And my picture of home will be complete. For now.

I’m seriously going koo-koo-koooo so koo-koo right now… That song is something special. The transpose where Maureen comes in… It’s funny; I wouldn’t have noticed these things before. I would, I just wouldn’t say.

So call. I went to church yesterday. My new church. And I knew I was home. From the first song to the benediction. And the sermon about calling the things that be not as though they were. Hhhmmm…. And they sung a hymn I love, in Luhya!!!!!! Mouth>>agape>>silentscream>>clappyclapclap>>>doing my excited dance. Okay, it’s an uncoordinated series of jumps, but you know. It's just, this is a church in Westlands, singing a hymn in Luhya for special number. Where there's William McDowell and Sonnie Badu and Loyiso Bala and Joyous Celebration.

Anyhow, I love this because it’s an answered prayer. To find a home. Home church, home work, home live… That place I could just be for a while and know that this is exactly my space for the next while, until my next step comes up. So thank You Jesus.

Welcome Joy, to the rest of your life… Go koo-koo by all means. And then live. That’s the thing about novelty, it wears off fast, and then I won’t remember why I loved being here. It’s like having a new dress. After the excited dance and the debut and a couple of washes and wears, it’s just another dress. I hope I never forget why I loved the dress.

I will try to walk a blameless path, but how I need Your help, especially in my own home, where I long to act as I should.  ~The Bible~

The Starcherian before-meals prayer went something like “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.” That’s my prayer. For what I am about to receive, may the Lord make me truly thankful.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also He has put eternity in [their] hearts [of men], except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end. ~The Bible~ 

Koo-koo-kooooo… sorry, I fixate on novelty  J J

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…