A Slower Pace

"Ahh, you have become very fat! Very fat now!"

The whole of his thin, frail frame laughs as he throws his head back in joy, while the men of Western influence chuckle nervously.

“Very fat now!”

He turns to the others and exclaims it again, and the laughter pours forth. Yes, life has been very good to me through the years, full of joys and hurts, tears and laughter, and little hands pull at my skirt. This patriarch of many laughs as he embraces, kisses, and greets all in the room.

It is a large, rectangular sitting room; wooden boards that cover the windows now open wide, allowing the breath of God to blow in and out, and His light is the only source to bring life out of darkness. The old wooden chairs that line the walls around the room tell the stories of visitors past, with dents and chips in the wood, and turquoise cushions peaking out from the shreds of the once brightly colored fabrics that cover them. Beat up wooden tables full of character and years fill the space in the middle of the room.

The walls echo of the lives that have passed through this room, grand and simple. 16 children were born and raised in this place, orphans have been taken in, visitors from afar have felt its welcome, all of their laughter and love now distant echoes in a room that now sits empty most days, save the elders who remain behind. The squeals of granddaughters from afar now awake the quiet memories, their giggles resurrecting the joy for all the years past. As I sit quietly here now and listen, murmurs of meetings, homework, children, laughter, families and life overwhelm my heart. This room has seen much.

And the matriarch stands, in quiet majesty, queen of this home for over 50 years, through births and burials, soft voice carries wisdom dealt out gently, patiently, in a tongue I do not know, this mother in love of mine. The face of this aged woman smiles as a whole as she tends to her man-son, granddaughters trailing behind her step. She serves him his favorite food, after all these years. With joy, she still knows how to make her son smile.

She prays to the God of us all, showing gratitude for years come and gone, for children come and gone, for visitors come and gone, and for the travels that bring them all home again. Wrinkled hands folded, calloused and tough by hard years of exhausting labor in the cools fields of this Kenyan village, the lines around her soft eyes speak of the smiles and squints for a lifetime.

She embodies beauty and grace.

She is clothed in strength and dignity.

She serves us traditional porridge in an old calabash and we drink in the warmth of family and home of his birth.

The brothers gather under the tree, the boardroom of this people, their lines speak of clan strength. Dirty kids chew on sugar cane and enjoy the freedom of spitting out the remains. And we pass the remains of the afternoon in this village out in the bush, the gentle breath of God blowing a breeze of refreshment over our travel-weary souls.

And we are reminded that contented simplicity far outweighs the bustle and noises that would otherwise lure and distract from this plain beauty, and that it is good to be home. 

Linking to beautiful Emily at in the hush of the moon.

Hakuna sheda

Hakuna sheda!

No problem!

There are no problems, indeed.

Hakuna sheda.

Horns sound, hoot in a friendly manner,

Alerting rather than cursing.

Cars weave in and out,

on and off the road,

Taxis and buses swerve in and out,

bicycles litter the road,

while pedestrians weave in and out of it all.

And in this disorganized chaos of Africa roads,

There is an understanding of humility,

Of seeing others as more important than oneself.

Hakuna sheda.

Right of way is forfeited,

Hands wave others to pass or cut in.

Intersections are meetings grounds where one slows down and rolls through,

Rather than cruising through with confidence of right of way.

Hakuna sheda

And with the release of fighting for rights

Comes the release of others,

Allowing each to navigate without judging or irritation.

You cannot offend me, 

as I have chosen to not be offended.

Hakuna sheda.

A man’s wisdom gives him patience; 

it is to his glory to overlook an offense.

There is a humility here, in this place,

That is unmatched anywhere else.

And I am learning the way of

Hakuna sheda.

Linking up to Emily at in the hush of the moon. Stop by for some amazing poetry.

The Bride

Words are too easily spoken, 
in haste, in anger, in foolishness;

creates division and assumptions.

Where words are many,

sin is not far behind.

And there was one 
who sent a message to the groom,

Disparaging the bride.

The audacity, the bold-crass move of

Tearing down the bride

to the covenant bridegroom,

Cutting down perceived faults

Launching arrows of half-truths based on

inadequate knowledge

And perceived judgments.

Going to the groom to tear down the beloved bride.

What sort of evil does this?

But my heart too has unleashed disdain for another’s Bride,

Her brokenness and faults apparent in such human ways.

My heart has criticized her fleshly manners,

and the hurt has welcomed bitterness,

which always leave the door open for resentment.

Unsuspecting expectations sprawl out in disappointment;

The lofty standard of holiness left in unattainable air.

This Bride is fallen and not as perfect as her beautiful Groom,

And so it has been held against her.

Judge not my Bride,

for She is my body.

She is my love,

and the One for whom I have already

spilled my blood.

How His heart must ache when we, His children,

speak ill of His beloved,

speak ill of each other.

And yet the Bride is called to be one,

unified,

Christ glorified,

Father magnified,

Prodigals stupefied,

As they gaze in wonder and awe.

What sort of evil tears down the Bride to her Beloved?

The evil lurks in my own heart,

While repentance has served its eviction notice.

This is an early link up to beautiful Emily's blog, in the hush of the moon. Be sure to stop by there Thursdays for some amazing poetry.

Pursuit of a New Normal

I see the divine in their eyes, the precious innocence that keeps their wellspring pure,

And I am keenly aware of the pressure to get this right.

And by get it right,

The only possible thing I could refer to is grace,

Becoming a woman who embodies and extends grace,

As there is so very much I have received.

Their normal is one I have never known.

Even I am learning, perceiving, taking in, absorbing.

The baby slept as we prayed over a mad man in the den.

He was clothed in prayer, and then our own rags.

The eldest watched on, unphased by the happenings.

She knew it was time for the divine.

A life undisciplined will not bear the sweetness of vines tended.

But a life of routine risks ruts and roots lacking passion.

Teetering between the two, desperate to stay centered,

That their laughter is ever grounded in the security of the Father.

Steam rises, dances from the tea that sits before me now.

Like a worshipper, dancing around the fire

Lifting holy hands to God, offering whole self as living sacrifice.

The worshippers are gathering at the circle,

Acutely in tune, in sync, in rhythm with the community as it dances together,

And yet all eyes are focused on the Throne alone,

As if there is no one else in the room.

The gaze of the King embraces, warm and focused, yet gentle and cushioned.

Of all the worshippers in the room, the eyes of the Almighty see me.

Emotions balls at the throat, climbing higher.

Breath escapes me, stuttering, stammering

Unsure of whether it is tears or laughter that are soon to belt out,

The body explodes in praise.

And the dance grows wilder and the voice grows louder

Because love has set me free with eyes to see the divine.

Gratitude meets grace

And a new normal defines us all.

Today I am linking up to Imperfect Prose at In the hush of the moon. I'm excited and certainly humbled to join this community. Hop on over to take in some amazing prose and poetry.