“Heavy lies the crown of fear on the shoulders of the hopeless. It weighs down the thoughts and steps, shortens the arms and blinds the eyes. Fear feeds itself with kin and kind, till all that’s left is absolute despair. The crown of peace is a crown of reeds – light and friendly, almost a halo. Readily available, but easily taken off. Adorn your heart in royal apparel, and don on the crown of peace each day’s dawn.” – Makafui.
Thirteen minutes ago, I got a call.
It wasn’t good news, Granny was ill,
And I somehow knew this was going to be the last time.
We spoke over the phone, and she said not to come over;
The voice was Nanny’s voice as I remember it,
But it carried something more now,
A certain weight I couldn’t place,
Though she sounded frail also…it was the strangest thing.
Nanny spoke like I’ve never heard her speak before,
And I listened as if I was in a trance:
There is a well from which the thirsty draw,
It is an ancient well that never runs dry;
The abject woe of this generation is that
There are few who know how to draw from this well;
And even fewer who know the value and use of that which they draw.
There are those who draw only to quench fires and thirst;
There are those who draw to nourish themselves and others;
And there are those who teach and encourage others to draw too.
At a point in my walk it dawned on me that I had been trying to play chess with God. I had been trying to get a ‘feel’ of how He works, when He moves, and how He moves, and what He moves for; So I could make my decisions with His moves in mind – no, not against Him – that would be worse than ridiculous; It’s more like we’re on the same team with no well-defined captain, and whoever moves first plays. Clearly, I haven’t exactly understood the concept of surrender or yielding. It’s a very frustrating game to play; with my mind telling me I ought to be winning and my conscience asking me what I think I’m doing. My eyes see clearly that things are not going the way I expect, but my hand keeps moving anyways, making the next best move even as I ask God why He isn’t playing.
Worship is me – good ol’ me, lying late and rising early
Thinking and writing about worship at the break of dawn;
It is you reading my words and reflecting on the nature
Of the worship you’ve offered and desire to offer.