I’m unqualified to write about fatherhood,
I have enough trouble just being a son;
Yet the thought is one that weighs heavily on the mind…
I realise I’m caught in a cycle where sons become fathers:
How would it feel to have a son today,
Who treats me like I treated my father yesterday,
And treats his son tomorrow like I treat him today – blessing or curse?
Take me to the Place where the saints gather,
To the convention of the just made perfect;
Where the clouds of glory settle and tongues of fire dance;
To the atmosphere so pure that I come undone to be refined.
It is where David dances and Solomon sits to be taught;
A place whose gates Sampson’s strength does not qualify him to guard.
When the past, long thought dead, suddenly becomes the present…
Of course, it’s usually the unwanted past that creeps up – go figure…
So sly, playing possum, waiting for that atmosphere – the crack in the psyche.
For it knows, that with the pressures of life come cracks and fractures;
And oftentimes the more rigid the structures, the deeper the damage,
The louder the snaps, and the more forceful the bursts.
I’ve taken on an ambitious project;-
To paint a picture of ‘Motherhood’
With as few words as possible,
And from an already limited vocabulary.
Obviously I got stumped even before I began,
Because I was faced with a simple question:
‘When does it begin, and where does it end?’
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.
“God is never surprised by the kind of prayers we pray; He is well aware He came to hear broken people. He ignores the selfishness, ignorance, bitterness, and unbelief; and keeps whispering, ‘My child, this too shall pass; Morning is nigh’.” – Makafui.
There’s a sound that echoes from the earth on days like today;
It spans the spectrum of the audible to the inaudible,
And emanates from the animate and the inanimate.
It is such a unique breathtaking sound:
A rolling, roaring, rushing, rising, whirling, spreading,
Bubbling, soul-stirring, ascending cascade of thoughts and postures;
A sound tellingly tangible and very visible in the right light.
It is filled with demands, accusations, confessions, flatteries,
Mirth, sadness, pain, reverence, disdain, affront, gratitude;
And an inexhaustible list of other states of the human condition,
Together with the various states and cries of nature.
The message has always been one.
“Sometimes it feels like God just pours a bucket of cold water over us and tells us to sit down and cool off. Because He loves us too much to just watch us wreck our lives moving things at top-speed in a 30km/h zone.” – Makafui.