Faith over fear..

It’s Tuesday. This was Saturday’s post; I gave it a hundred and one percent, and then the Wi-Fi went and did its thing. I guess I can still do that whole set the date to Sunday, but meh… Just go with it.

The choices for me this morning were between blogging and being destructive – don’t ask, please don’t ask. Thank God I picked blogging. I have been spoiling for inspiration these past few weeks. They have been crazy ones, and you know, time just flies by. Much as I could answer my CIBAT question about a million times a day, once I started with the silence I couldn’t stop. I have to keep talking or silence will kill me. Silence killed me. Maybe silence keeps killing me.

I read something this morning trolling around Facebook and maybe that’s a little of what inspired this:

When you obey God constantly, privately and for years--He has a way of honouring you publicly. The thing is this: You don’t obey Him for public honour; you obey Him because you LOVE Him. Because you are thankful for Jesus. Because you cannot live without Him. Because He is your life. Because you are lost without Him. Because He is your Lord. And then… like a good father, He gives good gifts to His babies. So, your living for Jesus is not in vain. Hang in there, HE is always watching.

I attribute this to Heather Lindsey, of the Pinky Promise movement. A woman who I follow around, who makes this walk seem actually doable, and not for the rosy petals that we will be walking on as we go down the narrow path, but because she’s real. She’s very real. And I love real. Don’t get me wrong, I love to listen to a good sermon, but like Kirk Franklin in 'Let It Go' I want someone who can ‘teach me how to live when the tongues are done’. Because life is very real. And reality can be very stark.

It is so easy to lift your hands and praise when you have money in the bank, you are in good health, and most things are unfolding as they should. I haven’t had that for some time now... It’s easy to trust God as a Provider when you have a source of livelihood etcetera etcetera. But when the storms come, you know, those ones God tells you He will not get you out of, not in any bad way, but those same platitudes mean little. Because we know them, right? But how do you transform them into practical living?

I think if I ever wrote a book it would be about practical Christianity. It would be how to make God’s principles work in everyday living. Like Joyce Meyer. Transforming Bible pictures into relevant images in our world today, because the Bible was written relevant for EVERY season, from Adam to the day of Jesus Christ. And life is real. So yes, put your trust in Him, but do what in the meantime? Pray, but do what in the time between the prayer and the answer? Practical Christianity. Being not of this world, but living in the world, because we are in the world and we are called as lights in this world. For that, we actually need to be here and do life.

So it’s been a whole lot of waiting and occupying in almost equal measure for the past few years for me. It’s been a whole lot of patience and positivity and despair and crying in almost equal measure. I've had  good friends who've had my back the entire time, and new friends who I hope will be there long after these become the good old days. And now, I think a big door is coming really close, but just like before, I am afraid to hope it’s my door, that the tide could actually be turning. Because even though Heather’s words ring so true, I am far from perfect.

I know Him to remain faithful even when I am faithless, yet still a part of me thinks it too audacious to claim it as my own, ahead of a million more beffiting people. Again the theory of substitution which I spoke of on a Tuesday morning just like this one. Those things that will be mine, there will be someone more fitting, more relevant, more everything, but He will still choose me. Just like He chose the little shepherd boy David, or Gideon, or Mary, or Paul, or Jacob, or Timothy. 

He won't choose me because I deserve it, nothing I've got is anything I deserve. Or for my steadfastness in the face of adversity. He knows my frame, He remembers that I am dust. And as a father has mercy on his children, so will He on me. He is gracious. He makes all things beautiful in His time. So yes and amen, in all things I know it is well.

When He works on the left hand, I cannot behold Him; When He works to the right hand, I cannot see Him; But He knows the way that I take; When He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold. My foot has help fast to His steps; I have kept His way and not turned aside. I have not departed from the commandment of His lips; I have treasured the words of His mouth more than my necessary food.

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!

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, a stage...

It’s Sunday, and I always loved Sundays. And today I went to my church. Being in and out of places, moving around a lot, I haven’t quite settled on a church I am, well… home, like CITAM Karen, and now I’m too far away from it. So it was wonderful being back. 

In the course of the week I ran into these Date a girl who writes and Date a guy who writes posts, which were very interesting reads. I’m a girl who writes, but I feel like that girl described there makes my writing seem mundane almost, her, she writes the world, and makes every uninteresting fact seem so story-worthy. Me, I’m not always sure what I want to say when I start writing ergo I end up saying a little bit of everything. I hope there are people out there who are like that too.

Of late I’m being forced out of this shell more and more, and this blog is finding its way into more histories than I want. Which definitely makes me, well, afraid. Of the eyes judging those things I’m saying. The ones looking hawk-eyedly for a clue into what I’m about. And I’m afraid that I’ll change my story. That I’ll change my voice, and write for a mass I now know exists. But the beauty of human beings is that they forget. So those of you who have this link in your histories, I pray you forget soon. Not in a bad way. I only want this one forgotten. Not your entire memories wiped clean. Unless you’re okay with that too. In which case, power to ya!

Nevertheless it got me thinking, just like this post I read and it got me thinking again, who’s watching your life? Who reads your blog? I don’t know if she still has the link but mum stumbled on this blog and reads it. Does it make me sift my thoughts, you bet it does! It helps that we have an ask-nothing-of-what-you-see arrangement too… but who else? 

I was always told everyone has secret disciples you know nothing about. I am a disciple of a few people who know nothing of it. It’s something I’m quite good at, because I have this strong urge to sit in a corner, walk on the street, or be anywhere really, and watch people all the time. It’s amazing what you’ll glean just by watching people.

This writing job is changing my life, in a good way, now I’ve learnt how to use fullstops and write short paragraphs. And use words I wouldn’t ordinarily use in normal conversation, which is now no longer normal thanks to the way I’ve had to write. But in a good way. I digress, moving on….

I used to have this job somewhere near Yaya Centre, and I lived near Adams Arcade, which meant I was one of the few Nairobians who could boast about walking to and from work, in twenty minutes. It was always fascinating to watch the world pass by, because when you have the mind of a writer, everything has a story. And I knew who I’d met where, what school bus should find me where unless I’m late and stuff like that. Also I learnt to walk and spend a whole day in heels, something I haven’t done in forever.

Anyway, I’d see them and fill up their lives in my head, but mostly I’d wonder what their real stories were like. Everybody’s got that thing weighing on their mind, I always wondered what it was when I ran into them. Some because we met almost every morning and evening, we began to say hi. And when I knew I was walking that road for the last day, I looked drank in everything like a sponge, and I almost, almost changed my mind about leaving. 

This weekend had a lot of sinusoidal curve tendencies, but this is the way of life. So to those watching without my knowledge, or with, I hope I do not begin to morph into some actor, or retreat into silence as I am wont to do among crowds. I kind of like this new me, this very talky-talky, very inspired me… Which was the point to begin with.