I Will Never Lose my Praise...

If you are anything like me, you will agree that this is not out of space. I love to look myself in the mirror both consciously or otherwise. Even on the bank glasses or the lift. I like to look at the image I see on the mirror and tell the girl I see things. Sometimes I tell her she’s got what it takes and make her flip her hair self-assuredly when someone with an egocentric attitude tries to rubbish her off. Other times I just tell her how beautiful and pretty she rocks certain outfit or hairdo. I tell her dozens of things. Today though, I told her a different story. I told her that she is a strong woman than she could possibly imagine. I told her that I admired her strength. She didn’t seem to believe me though and when I said I mean it, she lost it.

At the office bathroom mirror, tears began to form in her beautiful eyes. She let them linger on for a few seconds but couldn’t hold back any longer. She has been too strong for others and no one has ever realized how feeble she is. I just let her cry. And she did. She needed support but not even this girl on the other side realized that. I told her that it’s going to be okay and that sometimes it’s okay not to be or feel okay. She lifted up her eyes and gave a quick and faint smile amidst the salty flow. She wasn’t sure of any words to utter in response. I understood her. I told her of the story of a man that I really love. Well, admire…love is a strong word that nowadays am very careful on the object I direct to. She listened while massaging the flat tummy. I wondered what raced through her mind while she did that. She sensed my thoughts but I shushed her lips with the tip of my finger…don’t I stopped her. But she didn’t. It was her way of easing her pain.

“He would always call me his pichouette , his magical chere’. It broke me when all that got lost.”

She loved him, he loved her but it wasn’t that simple.

This pichouette though surprised me and I thought I finally figured out why he chose to call her his pichouette. I was wrong. I didn’t know her very well but I knew the story of that man would help her.

So I began again. Chere’ this man is called Job; I read his story and it gives me magical strength. I told her of the Job in the Bible; A man who in Gods standard was blameless and walking uprightly. He lived right and absolutely no one will bet on their neck that he would be a candidate to suck kind of untold brokenness. In a span of 1 day, He lost all things that mattered. He lost His Position, People and Possession. “That is a huge loss in one sitting chere’ but his attitude is what keeps me going”

Instead of wallowing in pain, this, man whom I honestly resonate with shaved his head, tore his robe and began to worship God. Like who does that really?

Job 1:21-22

  At this, Job got up and tore his robe and shaved his head. Then he fell to the ground in worship ²¹ and said:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
    and naked I will depart.^[c]
The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away;
    may the name of the Lord be praised.”

²² In all this, Job did not sin by charging God with wrongdoing.

This man was broken. A good man in God’s own account but in his most painful state, his lips did not lose Praise. Eventually, His unstoppable praise opened his breakthrough. In the end, God restored all that was lost, Position, People and Possession and Job’s latter day was better than the former.

 I told her she has not lost it all. Then Chere’ looked up from the mirror, her eyes misty with tears, this time of gratitude. She glanced at me, gave me a hard buddy punch and an invisible hug whispering on my ears.

I heard you, I will never lose my Praise Again!

I choose to call her as someone once said  “ A Ruth…she is a woman who has experienced great loss and pain yet has remained loyal and faithful. She has found her strength in God…

BROKEN to be made WHOLE...

She is not your ideal definition of perfect. Far from it, she  simple, urbane and ambitious. She dreams and works like a stallion to reach her dreams. She is inhales the beauty of the cold sandy beach evening breeze. Enjoying the west coast reflection of an orange glimmer and shimmering of the sunset over the water surface. She splish-splashes her toes on the lovely sandy seashore stretch on a morning walk. Admiring the beautiful grandeur of God’s creation; Playing with the sand and drawing things with her toes. She writes down her fears, she writes her secrets too. She writes her prayers too. And when the ocean tides rock, she hopes it sweeps off the artwork left and carry away every brokenness.

She swerves in the massive ocean tides, gets lost in the moment of water experience; Such a carefree time, being held by the waters as she swims and not caring for a thing in the world. On a slow evening she sits in her coach. She loves to write and her journal becomes her best friend. She writes many things. On a lazy evening though, she reads through her old journals. She smiles at some memories. She is nostalgic about others too. She cries about a bunch of others. Her steaming mug of coffee closely hugging the palms of her hands. She chews a macadamia nut. She guzzles the content of her mug. She takes it easy and closes her eyes at times for minutes just to let the mind go blank. Not just this, but she seeks the Lord like it’s the only thing. She likes to think of herself as a pyjama wearing prayer warrior.

She knows her life path. She has accepted  that her loss,pain,regrets,shame,brawls,heartache,grief,desolation,shattered dreams, sleepless nights, tears, sorrows, abandonment  and burdens do not define her. That all this are prerequisite for something divinely amazing! She understands that she is not defined by her past but rather prepared by her past. She knows and understands so well that the future glory cannot even be compared to this momentary suffering. And so, she keeps hoping, trusting, loving, caring and enjoying the moment very sure that the future is much better and brighter.

She understands that you have to be broken to be made whole. That breaking is a painful process but when the potter is done with the breaking and fine-tuning the mound, the outcome is divine. She understands that knowing Gods will for her life pretty much changes everything. That it is even more straining to know the will of God and try to run away from it than to walk in unawares state. She knows that you can’t run away from destiny even when you would want to sometimes.

So, she sits, she ponders, wonders, laughs at herself, talks with God, fellowships with others and finds comfort that after the breaking, she will be made whole.

She has learned too that things don’t always turn out as you plan them out. That many are the plans in a man’s heart but its God who establishes them. That some things go utterly wrong but can never get fixed too to be the way they were before. That some things get broken, stay broken and are never made whole no matter how hard we try. However, she has learned of one who breaks you down completely and makes you whole despite the clattering of thousands of pieces.

She has known Him for a long time and all she says about Him is that He is The Great, I am, That I am.

Jehovah Shammah…He who is already there

El Shaddai…the All Sufficient One!

Blessed 2017 friends!!

BABY STEPS ...Surviving Every Deluge

All is quiet. The sadness as usual; soft and persistent as the sound of a cooling fan. Sadness. Tension. Absence. He wanders around the house looking for nothing but anything to distract his thoughts. He stands at the kitchen counter. Then opens the fridge. He needs whisky to calm his nerves. He opts for Scottish finest his friends brought over last weekend. He doesn’t pick a glass. Today he is going to gobble it all from the bottle. It doesn’t matter, or should it? Nothing really matters now; after all, he lost her. He can as well be.

He reaches for the sofa but is distracted by the bookshelf at the entrance to his living room. The living room; what would have been their living room. She loved reading. She still does. She insisted that they have an organized book shelf. An intelligent, dynamic and an enthusiastic reader; a woman she had hoped carries the uterus that will house his children as one writer comically puts it.  She did the arrangement every time she visited. She would also carry more books from the book store and arrange them in organized catalogues like it’s done in modern state of art libraries. The woman who once told him that the best surprise will be a good read preferably from an African author like Chimamanda Ngozi wrapped with a single rose coming with the package. Hahaha, that a gate away to Seychelles will be awesome but a nice read is equally awesome. Yes. That girl. Simple enough for him to fall in love with, naughty enough for him to keep desiring her and ambitious enough to keep him focused. A self-motivated  reader of diverse literary works. At a glance, you could see the titles on the spine of most books. From classic fiction, thrilling detectives, science fiction, history books to poetry. There was a title for each genre. She fancied reading Christian literature too. Actually, there was this particular one by John Piper that she had asked they read together. 

He reached for that particular one…”Married to God” they had gone several chapters. “After every fought -night, we always went out for garden dates and studied a chapter and discussed the study questions. It made us understand lots of issues and address expectations that were far-fetched.” He had said

He opened it. The bookmark was a custom made and personalized with her picture. He reread the writings quickly. He knew the words inscribed in the bookmark by heart. He had asked a designer to get him that book mark for the girl. The woman who had robbed his heart; The woman with whom he had purposed to spend his life with as long as the Lord will. The woman whom he had vowed to protect as long as he had breath. The one he made it clear that any man who will try to rob him of her heart will have to suffer every torment and pain jealousy could inflict.

He had chosen his writings carefully,”Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all” Prov 31:29. This was a bookmark that came with the best-selling novel The Black Street Sisters. It was a gift during the International Day of An African Child. His choice for the book was on point. She had totally fallen in love with it. He remembers the excitement she had after unwrapping the gift. Quickly reading the blurb, she knew she had to start it that night.

He stares at the pretty face of the girl in that book mark. She looks stunning in her afro. She did not wear any makeup. No eye shadow nor pencil either. Just some pale lipstick that accentuated her chocolate skin with such elegance and gave her a feminine poise good enough to make a man bowl over. She was beautiful. Atleast in his world. A tear or two lingered in his eyes. He wouldn’t let it fall. He thinks an African man should not cry…that is unacceptable. But he had already broken that. The day he had proposed and she said yes, he had cried. So he let it fall. Just two drops and he quickly dried them with the palm of his hands. The next study of the book was something he looked forward to. The blessing of Children… How many do you want and what if none comes? He would have loved that engagement with her. But she is gone...

BABY STEPS…ONE AT A TIME

She woke up from her bed.  Breathless.Dreaming of drowning. Well, she couldn’t sleep. That definitely can’t be sleep. Maybe the unconscious mental state of the mind.Dark. Curtains drawn,the air humid. Half sleeping,eyes fidgeting through the dark room. She stands at the window. She cries out. Silent cries. Then it gains momentum and she can’t hold in in the inside. She let it burst through her chest. The sob is so loud that it disturbs her fully. She opens her eyes full and lets the torrents freely wash down her chancy dimples leaving a warm sensation in the skin. She is now sobbing uncontrollably as the tears washes the remaining memories that she holds tight since the incident. Much as the same way the sea waves erase the sand script washing in any memories without warning. Carrying with it even those fond memories she would want to cling and not let go…at least not now. Only fear remains. Perhaps vaguely.

Sparklinglyfear-foam and roaring. She stares at the beautiful frivolous rise and fall of the ocean tide. The sight is beautiful but she doesn’t see the beauty in it. Whoever was to make the scene beautiful was conspicuously missing. How can it be beautiful without the source of beauty in her life? She vaguely thought.The sight aggrieved her. Because someone was missing.A very important person.Just one person and the picturesque would have been award winning and heart moving fascinated sight ever. The dark is deep. The only sound of life is of those sea creatures singing out in echoing crescendo beckoning for their family. Perhaps an old hippo beckoning for its lover from the kind of romantic gestures she can indefinitely pick.

She tiptoes back to her bed. Afraid that anyone could think she is a witch running her errands at night. Never mind it is a 5 Star tourist Hotel in the amazing Mauritusgate-aways.  She sits upright, her mind goes blank.Baffled and unclear why she is here and what made her come to such a place. Was it even a good idea?

This was supposed to be her honeymoon paradise. But she is here. Tonight.Not sure what to do with herself. Alone.

She reaches for her phone. It’s slightly past 2am. Sleep has eluded her. She decides to do the unthinkable. Reaching to the landline,she instinctively calls the hotel reception.

Krrring, Kriiiiiing and the phone is answered in the other end.Just two rings. Mmmmh, the customer service is very impressive she thinks but her thoughts are interrupted by the receiver’s response.

“Reception hello,” croaks the voice with a sense of concern that for a second she almost regretted calling at that God forsaken hour.

“Hello, Room 114, she responded after clearing a throat

Is anything the matter madam? The gentleman asked

Well, am sorry. Not really, all is fine.  I just wanted to make a room order for Red wine please. Serve it cold. Thank you. Then she hangs up.

In five minutes,she is sitting at her bed side table; Trying to write down her journal. Emotions oozing with every word she pens. She sips her cold red wine in the glass silently. Tears are flowing again. Noiselessly this time.The throat guzzling down the content of the glass; Alone.In silence. For the first time after entering the hotel, she wonders what he could be doing…

To be continued

When the brook dries up...

When the brook runs dry,what comfort can you draw from life and God. In the book of John, we are told that if we believe and accept to drink the living waters...then out of our hearts shall flow rivers and springs of goodness.
I don't know about you but there comes a time in my life and Christian journey that as a sojourner I experienced a dried brook. Unlike Elijah,it ain't the literal Brook going dry but rather the spiritual well going dry. That no matter how hard I try, praying becomes extremely difficult and so does reading the Word of God. At this times, my greatest strength comes from attending fellowship both the midweek Bible study and Sunday service. I often try to listen to sermons and teachings which sometime the attention to it is not sufficient.
It has been one of those driest season catapult both by circumstances in life and some strange reason I can't quite figure out.
So I sit in a matatu this beautiful morning; A golden glow spread across the sky as the sun chased the dark clouds away and I begin to silently reflect in the past months... Well two months as I focus on the holistic circle of life. I am disturbed at the state of things and mostly my devotion. I get anxious and feel that I am treading a not so good slidy slope. I am sick of it and I want to get back with vigor to my first love. Apart of me feels that wrong voice of condemnation and that is when another silent voice of God says something to counter that voice. And I understand in my silence that a desert is a place of chastening to a point where you realise that its not how much you pray or consistently read the Bible that determine your right standing with God. On the contrary, praying so much and reading the Word daily just to think of yourself as doing the right things and upholding the Christian discipline in itself brings in a sense of self righteousness.
We do not stand in faith by just doing those things and many others including fasting but rather by turning our hearts completely to God and studying the Word and doing what it says because of the changed man in us. That maintaining a routine that eventually makes you proud that I read my Bible three times a day and pray 4 times grows spiritual pride.
So this morning, I was reminded that sometime God takes us through a desert of dryness that He may remind us that we don't attain righteousness by praying or attending church and serving consistently. Its not attained by how much we feel connected to God but rather is attained through the power of the Cross and believe in the Christ crucified. And that season of dry spell basically takes you to the drawing board and gives that kind reminder that we can not and we will never work out our own righteousness because we will fail terribly. We are indeed clothed in Christ Jesus righteousness.
So yes,  a dry season doesn't mean God is not working in your life. In fact, He is at the very centre to remind us that it is all about Him.
I am encouraged and chastened and I bless the Lord for the dryness because even then He remains to be a good God.What then shall we say? The dry season doesn't mean that the spring of wellness in your soul has ceased to pump living waters because even when you think so, the Lord still ministers to you in that dry brook.

by Miss Hudson's

Chronicles of Nairobi..Season 1

Welcome to Nairobi City

I always make a routine of leaving the office at 5pm on the dot. Not because am bored but having reach way earlier, I have mastered the behavior of matatu and know within that timeframe, I will beat the crazy traffic on Mombasa road and probably get to cut down the fare too. This chilly and freezy evening with dark daunting clouds promising some heavy downpour doesn't make hanging around Nairobi town fascinating. My focus is on muddling amidst this see of humanity to get to the bus stage. So, you should have seen me hurriedly but careful not to lose my feminine poise jostle through the crowd. More often brushing hard against those who were equally in a hurry to a place unknown and being hit by others.
In Nairobi, I have learned too that in such a crowdie case, hardly would you say sorry or receive an apology when someone either intentionally or otherwise shoves you carelessly. Sometimes the pushing is so hard that if you are wearing those cheap but elegant three inch heels from the famous Ngara street hawkers, you may find yourself leaning on unlikely of things or people to avoid tripping. I am trekking from an office at Kijabe Street and heading to railway's bus stop. I am 7 minutes late and unfortunate for me, the buses have decided to fake scarcity by coming one after a long time. The fare has been tripled to about 1.5dollars. Okay, lets just say its 1 British pound and I don't feel like parting with such.(someone I know has been telling me lately and rubbishing off my English as very American, I am sure he will be glad to notice that am taking the lessons seriously hehehe, so let’s work with pound instead of dollar just as I have started calling my dinner tea.) Lesson for another day though.
Well, to be honest, I have only 150 Bob in my purse. I am not broke. It just happens that the money I have is not in cash. I remember being told sometime back that we are not poor...our Father in heaven owns all the silver and gold so, there is no way am gona say am poor, I just don't have the money in cash. And alas, I hate poverty, and so God forbid that I shall boldly declare I am broke even when my wallet has no contents except for the old Kcb ATM I used to get HELB loans while in campus...thanks Helb for the help though I still owe you. You helped some of us go through campus smoothly... Bless you. Plus the NHIF,NSSF and a myriad of business cards of people that matter or so I thought to be able to help me get a stable job. I hardly carry my operational ATM cards for some reason. There is also my national ID coz just you never know in Nairobi when kanjo will come knocking you along the streets. Aaaaaaw, my passport too. I have always wanted to go and pursue further studies abroad, even local abroad if you know what I mean ( Africa). I sometimes carry it to remind me that I have a dream am chasing. This has been motivated by the new British boyfriend that I got recently winks…I know what you thinking, stop it! It makes me think that my dreams are valid.
So I wait with the crowd of humanity as one vehicle after the other noisily and somewhat recklessly lurks into the stage. The driver veers off to gain strategic locations in such a rusty manner threatening to clear off anything on its way. And ooh, the music so ear piercing that you might mistake your location and think you are at local gig or concert..ps/ don’t ask me what song was playing coz all I could hear was Amarula. Some people hesitated to enter and because I am already late for home, I figure out that waiting until the fare slightly drops is not a bad idea at all. One person after the other continues to join in the wait. We are hoping for fares to go down so we can rush home. Another lot of people get tired of waiting and so one after another they enter the bus despite the ridiculous hike. They are different from the common mwananchi. You could tell from their clothing, nice boots and well painted lips, the men had a newspaper at hand, an average Kenyan middle class. They understand that time is money and wasting 2hrs standing in the name of saving 20 Bob is not wise, it’s not economical too. So they board the vehicles. Many come, get filled and go and we are still standing, unperturbed. The group that is still here is the struggling Kenyan who works to survive. They probably stay in a single room with a common washroom and hosts 2 or more distant cousin who also joined them from the village to make ends meet. Most of them if any better just slightly compared to the hawker who has seen a niche at the bus stop. A stone’s throw away is a tough woman. She is busy marketing her goodies to notice am staring at her. Moto Mahindi, Mahindi moto, is the slogan she keeps chanting. Another one is busy is advertising her nuts....forgive me I know you might have encountered her...she keeps moving about with her chant too
Njugu na ten, ten ten njugu and you are so mean not to buy even when you don't feel like. Such women need to be supported yawa.
The team I have remained with are telling different stories. I study one man from his head to the toe, a tear or two linger in my eyes at the thought of this man. Probably a father; someone's husband too. And I find myself cursing poverty and lack in Jesus Name.Yes, am Christian and I believe in the Crucified Christ who is risen. I am alive in Him. He is probably from doing a hard work and looks hungry. So very hungry. He is staring at a neighbor eating boiled maize and I could tell he will be glad to have some. I study him keenly, the broken lips, so dried, the hard hand certainly from working hard labor. I am overwhelmed. I hope when he gets home, his wife will tap him in the shoulders and tell him that she knows how hard he works and appreciates him. I wished so bad I could perhaps pay for his bus fare and say bless you. I think, he was going in another route and following him to pay his fare would have been awkward. It would have raised unnecessary questions too. But I made a quick prayer for him and the likes. It’s a hard world sometimes.
Still studying around, many things seemed to be going on. A woman was carrying a young baby, probably 4 months old and was with a young daughter, likely 2 yrs but can walk. She too was waiting for the bus; she had a huge sack full of stuff and a duffel bag too. You could tell she is from the village. Her hubby I suppose joins her, she is visiting him as he works in the city. The vehicles are scarce and its outright hassle for the young man to get there sack of whatever in the bus as people are rummaging to get space. I feel for him as every makanga is giving a blind eye to him. After all, today is a good day for the manipulative matatu guys who have trippled the fare. They have no time with people with luggage when they are getting easy money.
Across the stop, two or three men...I can't quite tell who they are coz they are neither the touts nor drivers to the matatu are arguing over something. I think its money for shouting at people to enter the matatu. One holds the other by the collar and he squirms and clenches his teeth exposing the rusty and wasted teeth discolored by endless chewing of muguka( a cash crop in Meru). And then there is this other young gal. She is carrying her baby and trolling her suitcase. I could tell she too is from the country side. Wearing a simple silver open shoes, slightly high inches I would say for a young mother with a cute baby pulling a suitcase. She is modestly dressed and I admired her. Probably a Sunday best but I wished someone would advise her to leave the shoes for Sunday best. With this cold and unbearable matatu troubles probably a bata ngoma would be much better, as she struggled to find a bus, I felt a sense of respect for mother's. Any mother that takes care of her children. It takes grace to raise a baby especially in the unforgivingly hard life in the city. There is no hope for the fares going down, I wish I had gone for the meeting too. But I was afraid of how people were gona look at me. How can I not be able to raise the little that I was expected to atleast not today. So I boarded the vehicle and went home carrying with me a myriad of feelings.

If I leave my chronicles hanging here, it will leave me susceptible to what one author I have come to love titled; The danger of telling a single story. I think you know her or atleast have heard about Chimamanda Adichie. So perhaps next time, when matatus decide and my wallet refuses and I have to spend hours observing and allowing imaginations to take charge, I will tell the other story about Nairobi.


Nairobi, a city of full of strange people seeking strange things in very strangest if places...alas

I am that KEPT SHE

I am a Kept She

Not long ago, I had an opportunity to listen to  a very transformative sermon by one of my favorite preachers on YouTube. You know,it was one of those days I find myself struggling to read the Word or even pray. Yes, those days that listening to audio Bible,recorded sermons or just music is my best remedy. Those days that I feel exhausted when someone reminds me to wait upon the Lord for He is faithful. That honey,the longer the wait,the greater the testimony. That I should always remember that the faith that is purified and tested through the fire is that one which will stand the test of time. That you know,its the still waters that run deep kind of affirmations.
Those days when I don't want to be reminded things above. That though it tarries,it shall come to pass. Because, truth is, I know that my helper ( God) is Omnipotent and true to His Word; only that my carnality seems to have overridden my spirituality at that time.
Yeah, those days when I felt like the heaven's must have been so disappointed in me coz of a thing I did or failed to do. Those days when I looked into the mirror and only saw weakness, vulnerability and helplessness!
Today I boast though when I take a detour of those times. I boast in the Lord of the Grace because I am a KEPT SHE;a kept strong, healthy and empowered woman.
I may not have attained it yet but He says,the Lord says, I have JUSTIFIED you. He has saved me. He has kept me.
The Lord looks at me and says, I am daily SANCTIFYING you. He is in help with the Holy Spirit aligning me to His Will through sanctification. On a daily basis am being worked on even as am working on my salvation in trembling and fear. I am daily being kept by Him. I am a kept she.
He looks at me tenderly and says, my daughter; A daughter of the Covenant, I will GLORIFY you someday. I will transform your mortal body which is probe to sin into an immortal one and sin will nolonger reign in you. You are mine, He says. And I rejoice that I will eventually be saved in the future when the Son of Man comes again.
And am so glad, I am a kept she.
No matter how many times I find my faith being tested through the fire, I will open my lips and give thanks for I am a KEPT SHE.
I am kept by Gods Grace...
And as one anonymous writer has put it clearly, am thankful am a Kept she.
She writes..."
You see, there were a few times when I thought I would lose my mind,
but GOD kept me sane. (Isa. 26:3)

There were times when I thought I could go no longer,
but the LORD kept me moving. (Gen 28:15)

At times, I’ve wanted to lash out at those whom I felt had done me wrong,
but the HOLY GHOST kept my mouth shut. (Psa. 13)


Sometimes, when I thought the money wasn’t going to be enough, God kept the lights on, the water on, the car paid, the house paid, etc.., (Mat. 6:25-34)

When I thought I would fall, He kept me up. When I thought I was weak,
He kept me strong! (I Pet. 5:7, Mat. 11:28-30)

I could go on and on and on, but I’m sure you hear me!
Praise the Lord and pass the filet mignon!! I’m blessed to be “KEPT.”

Are you…or do you know a “kept” woman?