Made for Grey
The sky was overcast, as I walked down to the library about noon today. I was off to return some books. It was beyond grey and the clouds had that stormy, purple tinge to them. As I walked along, I realized a man with a red baseball cap had stopped by the door of his car, his hand on the handle and was staring at me.
It was then I realized that he had caught me smiling to myself, and also that I was walking with a leap in my step. "How odd", he must have thought, in a Victorian accent. "For who is happy on a day such as this? The weather couldn't be less satisfactory!" *Reading too much Jane Austen* (Too much Jane Austen, bah! Like that's possible!)
During this walk, I would come to intensify my delighted gait and the man would continue to twist his neck awkwardly in its rigid axis. I had realized something: I was made for grey days, WE were made for grey days; all of us- we were made for days of gloom, for purple tinges and howling winds! We are the rays on that overcast day, the beam through the clouds, the bubbly in the hushed! We are so lit that we really don't know what to do with ourselves!
We were made for grey! No silly clouds will get us down. We shine bright even on a gloomy day!
Say it with me!
We were made for grey! No silly clouds will get us down! We shine bright even on a gloomy day!
If you could use some rays yourself, try encouraging someone else. You'd be amazed at how suddenly your world would light up! Also try a good book and some milo or hot choc! Goosebumps, baby!
Are you a fan of grey days or sunny days? Not a trick question! Lol. Have you read any Jane Austen's? Don't the characters just come alive and show up in your day? *crazy-book-lover talk*
Harry's Potter
A warm candlelight casts unruly shadows across the wall, as he works tirelessly into the night.
We sit in no particular order on the bare, stone floor of the room. The weaker ones rest along the walls, their shadows misplaced. We have been here for a while now, some longer than others.
I rub my eyes, trying to stay awake; it might be my turn soon. Ire is sitting next to me, too fidgety and too active for a person with her condition. She nudges me sharply, "Psst. Look at her."
I throw a lazy glance at the front door, to which she’s pointing; the one we all came in through. A girl steps in uncertainly - frightened and self-conscious and rightfully so; her skin is pale and cracks run haphazardly along her dehydrated skin. Her face is dirty with streaks of dried tears.
As she gets closer, I flinch a little at a jagged line that runs over the right side of her grey, scaly lips, it cuts deep like a trench.
"She looks like she fell on her face," Ire chuckled.
Everyone is staring at her now. Some edge closer to the walls, leaving her exposed to our scrutiny.
"Yuck!" Ire whispers loud enough for her to hear.
The girl moves along, to the work bench, through the path created by the others. Her eyes fixed on the floor, she drags her feet until she’s standing right beside him at the bench.
The potter stops and looks at her. He picks her up and stares for a while. He carefully runs his thumb along the frightening crack, then flips her over on her head, inspecting, his fingers smoothing and his nails scraping.
"He's going to throw her out, for sure. What a waste!” Ire hisses.
"Why is he paying so much attention to her?" She grumbles, "I got here about fifteen years ago, if anyone needs the potter's attention, it's me!" She pouts, as she self-consciously fingers the place where her other handle used to be.
Suddenly, she nudges me hard, her sadness evaporating,"Psst! Harry, look at that guy, his pouring spout is broken", She giggles, pointing at a dark clay pot, who was lying on his side, motionless, save for his steady breathing, "Where is the broken-off bit? What a klutz! Reckless klutz."
My gaze resettles on the potter's hands around the new girl. He carefully turns her over again and dusts her with a light brush. As he does, before my eyes—the unsightly cracks on her skin begin to connect with other patterns that lay beneath the accumulated grime. The more he dusts, the more he reveals the most beautiful, intricate patterns etched into her red clay skin. His face remains still but his eyes gleam and dance. He can remember when he created her, when he drew those patterns. For a split second, I see a smile, a quick show of white between his lips. The potter takes his time with her. I watch him for hours and when he sets her down, I can't believe my eyes. Her patterns are breathtaking, her warm earth tone, even more florid in the candlelight.
"Psst, Harry. Look at this one", Ire stands awkwardly, her lone jug arm sitting akimbo as it always does. I ignore her. She wanders away into the rows of broken vessels, poking the ones who catch her attention and asking them why they look the way they do. What did they do wrong? She seems completely oblivious to her missing arm and cracked back.
I inch closer to the potter, something rattling with every move I make. He looks at me and I stop short. It's a peculiar look. I know what he sees, he sees a perfectly made blue porcelain jug with little hand-painted white and yellow petals around my neck, both handles present, spout intact, no scratches. There was no apparent damage on me, not like the others with the tarnishes and cracks, not glaring like the red clay pot.
As he reaches for me, I feel his warmth. His fingers close around my trunk and he lifts me to his working table. He inspects me but finds nothing. Then he looks inside and there they are; the cracks, the chips, the stagnant fluid that has sat for years and has stained my base, a light rancid smell emitting from within.
Then he begins. He cleans and scraps and works, not taking a break. With every chisel and chip, I feel myself becoming the person he intends me to be. Clean. Strong. Radiant. A little strange but beautiful, an advertisement for the Potter himself.
The chiseling aches and the scraping hurts but I know when he is through, I will be wonderfully new.
***************************************
Draw closer to the potter's bench. He made you, he will fix you, he knows what he's doing, he knows where it hurts, even when you don't.
Also, the church is made for everyone, please come in. No, you don't even have to knock!
Meet Jesus, here.
What To Do With All That Cray-Cray!
Sometimes God tells us a little something about our future, about his plans for us, about the tasks he needs us to accomplish. I have learnt not try to explain these things to anyone. It will make zero sense to them. If you've ever tried, you'll find yourself trying to convince these people that...you...aren't...a...little...mad.
You know how God's plans are a little shocking? Well, let me be the first to say he has shocking plans for you, just like he had for all the cool patriarchs. They all sounded and looked a little crazy because they chose to follow God's instructions. They also didn't bother to explain anything to anyone.
For example, if Noah tried to explain what God told him to his neighbors, it'll sound a little like this:
"Duh. Look at the clouds. *pointing at a clear, cloudless, blue sky*"It's going to rain cats, dogs and their mothers, baby. Hehe" *continues hammering the 450 feet boat in a desert*
*side eye*
If Jesus was going to explain what he came to do:
"I will be killed, well, not really, as in, not killed...killed like forever. Maybe for like a few days, I won't be dead for too long, tops, the weekend and then we can get around to the fish barbecue party Peter suggested the other day. Who's bringing the coal?"
*two side eyes*
If Abraham had to explain the Isaac-fiasco, it'll sound like this:
"Eliezer, look, I'm going to kill my kid. Sharpen the knife. No, not that one. The one with the brown hilt, firmer grip. Shh, Eliezer. Don't panic. It will all work out. See you later and make the goat stew I like, with some spicy herbs on the side, the ones with the tangy taste. Ciao!"
*wide eye- side eye*
If Moses had to explain:
"Things could get ugly, I know, but look, I'm walking...just me...into the world's most powerful presidential villa and I will demand the release of their slaves and then *whistles*, we are out of there! Yes, I know I stutter *rolls his eyes* Of course, I won't be arrested, you worry too much. Yes, I know they throw prisoners to the crocodiles!"
Stop trying to explain your life to people. Stop. They will NOT understand. Heck, even you don't understand God's perfect plan for your life. All you know is that his plans are good, not evil, filled with purpose and have been set even before the earth existed.
You'd notice that walking with God involves a lot of raised-brow-side-eye situations. Everyone will think you are super-cray but you are in good company *clinking glasses with Mary, Noah, Joseph, Abraham, Isaiah, J-bae*! So what to do with all that cray, keep it to yourself.
Hey, what are your thoughts? Do you get frustrated when people don't understand your word from God? Do they give you side-eyes? Or are you a keep-it-to-myself kinda person?
Please remember to share!
Why You Shouldn't Throw Eggs At Prostitutes
Sometimes, I sit on my sofa, put up my feet and seriously wonder about God. He is nothing like us. He doesn't think like us, he doesn't work like us and he doesn't speak like us.
He's so unpredictable with his plans and unapologetically so. For example, He sent Jesus into the most unlikely family on earth, the last family you'd expect to have our Saviour born into. Jesus' great great gramps and grams had some very scandalous situations in their lives. He had super-great gramps Judah, who played a little more than footsie with a girl who he thought was a prostitute. She turned out to be his daughter-in-law. Cringe! *Secret of the Sand script-flip* Of course, the one-night-stand produced a baby called Perez!
Jesus also had Rahab (aka Sugar-Rae), the prostitute with the sultry pout, the endless hair and legs for miles. Something tells me she was pretty good at her job, she'd wink and hand you a business card and mouth, "You can call me Sugar-Rae." Her house was on the wall of the city, so she probably had a welcome package with non-transferable coupons for new tourists (She was a great business woman).
Jesus had super-gramps Solomon, who was born by a woman, whose husband, David had murdered intentionally to get with her *side eye*.
When I think about these stories, I interlace my fingers behind my head and smile. I like that He doesn't think like me. I adore Him for it. He will use anyone to get his business done. You'd think God would pick a "flawless generation" but nope, it pleased him to use that one crazy family, even though they had DRA-MAH!
Let's not turn up our noses up at anyone or any family. We are all beautifully crafted for use, yes, even the Rae-Rae's!
Hey, what are your thoughts? I'd love to know!
One Thing to do with Those Pretty Lips
I spend about 8 minutes applying my lipstick. To make my lip color pop, I color both lips with a lipliner pencil similar in color to my lipstick. At this stage, it already looks like I'm wearing lipstick...and sometimes, I get distracted, I start doing something else, forget to wear my lipstick and go out with penciled-in lips(lol)! Only the make-up savvy girls who see me know my blunder- but who isn't make-up savvy these days?
After filling in with lip-liner, I plump it up with my lipstick, which instantly pops the color. The underlying liner helps prevent your lip lines/cracks from showing through the lipstick. It also helps your lipstick stay on longer.
Right after this, I blend and get rid of the color bleeds.
Some people use a concealer and concealer brush to line their lips to make sure it's well sculpted.
Either way, you end up with great looking lips!
Imagine that after all of this, my lips looking as magnificent as heaven's pearls, I part those marvelous lips- and less pearly, less magnificent, less heavenly things begin to come out of them- lies, derisive words, gossip.
I know gossip, especially, is yum. It's like a platter of grilled, peppered croaker fish with a side of fried plantain and crushed peppered sauce. It's beyond me why it tastes so good and apparently, the worse the situation is for the person we are talking about, the spicier the croaker and the softer the plantain.
Spicy, soft or not, gossip is unpleasant and no longer fashionable. There I said it, it's not trending anymore.
The next time you get an opportunity to gossip, shut it down, blend those pretty lips and talk about something else.
What do you think sparks up gossip? I'd love to know your thoughts!
The Man who sits on My Sofa at 5.30 AM
At 5.30am, just before the sky turns honey-amber, right there, in the dark space of my living room, sits a man, on my sofa. His posture is regal but alert, like he is poised for something, like he's anticipating.
He is still for most of the time, his pupils are fully dilated, his ears attentive, his skin cool from the conditioned air, his senses accommodate all they can in this dark room.
In the still silence, he says nothing. If he was anything like me, he would cross his legs several times, or make a fuss in his seat, searching frantically for a distraction. He sees my pile of magazines, a little smile lights his face but he makes no move to pacify the discomfort of his wait.
Suddenly, he hears a rustle from my bedroom, he sits up with a start. He is hopeful. He cocks his head to the side, he holds his breath, then wills himself to breathe.
Photo credit: David Bragdon
The rustling stops and the silence returns.
He remains still on my sofa. Now the sun is peeking from the base of the sky, its rays streaking flamboyantly.
It's 6.30. Vibrations take over the ambience. My phone vibrates from the closet, where I have put it. I do this to ensure I get up, walk to it and turn it off, "the walk will wake me up," I always tell people, it will. My Fitbit violently vibrates against my wrist.
He is sure I will wake up now and see in a glance, the man who sits on my sofa at 5.30. The vibrations go on for a few minutes. His head is cocked again. His breath is held. He hears a dull thump, as my feet swing off the bed and hit the floor in a groggy stance.
He hears shuffling, I'm making my way to the vibrating phone. He is sure I will come out to the living room now. The phone stops.
He hears quick steps go into the bathroom; a flush; a rushed fall of barefoot steps; a rustle of bed fabric.
Then silence.
He stares out of my window at the sun and waits.
At 6.45am, I stumble out of my room. I stop short and stare at my empty sofa.
Wait.
I'm forgetting something.
No!
I forgot something.
I was supposed to meet with Him at 5.30am!
How did I forget?
I'm sorry that I stood you up for the umpteenth time, J-bae*. I sit dejected on my sofa. I should have set 6 alarms, I should have splashed some water on my face. I should have done the jumping jacks. I should have...
With every preemptive tip, I feel myself sink heavily into the soft cushions, my shoulders droop, my eye shut into slits. We were supposed to meet and talk like we always do, but I wouldn't get out of bed...and now he's gone away.
He's gone.
I lay my head on the side of my sofa, ashamed to pray or sing.
Then I feel it...a warmth, a glow, it surrounds me. It draws me in, like arms. It's so warm, my face breaks into a smile.
He isn't gone.
He is here.
He never left. ♥️
**One day, the word bae will become completely obsolete, but till then, J-bae, for me, is none other than Jesus!
Related post: The obvious solution to doze-praying; Think Thomas; God's soprano voice and twerks
YOLO Twice! (The Bucket Lists)
The general idea that we are entitled to one opportunity to life is a valid one. We only get one chance of approximately 110+ years (if we are good and avoid conflict, make the right lifestyle decisions and live in a nice country house somewhere along the Mediterranean feeding on fish, fruit and olive oil) to milk life's opportunities for all they are worth.
One life to live to chase our dreams; see the Northern lights; ride a sluggish camel beneath the Middle Eastern sun; laugh with a stranger as you buy a brochette on the streets of Marrakech; paraglide from the top of Mount Salève; snorkel in clear unknown acquamarine waters; drink from a cactus in the Galápagos island; touch the ashy, leathery hide of a 8 ton elephant; take selfies with a colourful priest in Kathmandu; eat crunchy locust as tribute to Pumba and Timon; find an actual Nemo in Great Barrier Reef; crack those lovely castanhas on the streets of Lisbon; sky dive; fall in love; buy a ferret; write a book; write another book- an auto-biography naturally; all these and much more in 110 plus or minus 10 years.
It's ambitious, i know, that we only get one shot to accomplish all these things, if at all you care to. I, honestly, am only interested in the food-related ones except the locust.
I don't know about you but I really wonder if i am going to make the most of this "You Only Live Once" thing. Would I be tagged as an under-achiever because i don't tick all these boxes?! Who cares? If i don't, it's completely ok, it turns out that We, actually, Only Live Once, Twice!
Yup, you have a second chance, pay Drake no mind!
We live here on earth and do all the aforementioned (or not) and then we live again! This time we are given an eternity to do what we want; to cloud-surf with Gabriel and Michael, to be reconciled with old friends that left us ages ago, to sing and love endlessly on God and to play contact sport with Grandpa Abraham, to fly around town with your earthly spouse and splash around in choc fountains with friends, to sing to God new songs and to live in a city, which no longer has the sun as its light but the creator as its only source of illumination and the son as its lamp.
I know i joke around a lot on PGI but it's necessary to have it said out loud: Life is fun. It's full of color, opportunities and all the excitement that would probably outlive most of us, but there is another life after, its centered around God and his Son, Jesus Christ. He wants everyone to be part of it. If you don't know him yet, you can, just click here!
The itinerary for that life will be like 50 shades of lit. I'm not even kidding. L.I.T. Make the most of the life you live in though, see the world, build relationships, eat weird (healthy) stuff, dance and play, it's all a foggy rehearsal of the life to come!
Please share. You never know who you might help. What are your imaginations about heaven? I'm into food-related adventure, as you can tell. If the Angels eat manna, do we get to have a menu too? Num.
Fiction-faith in the red-haired woman
Warning: If you haven't watched any season of Game of Thrones and you hope to, note that the contents of this post may contain notable spoilers. Proceed to the last paragraph.
I'm a GOT fan. I make sure I harass my friends on social media with not-so-subtle declarations of this often enough, until their thumbs hover dangerously over the "unfriend" button but still they put up with me. Love you guys! Haha!
For anyone who is not following GOT closely and doesn’t care about spoilers. Here are some quick facts needed to understand this post:
1) Jon Snow is a brave, noble man who we all love; yes, even the male viewers love him
2) Jon Snow got stabbed in the back(metaphorically) and also in the chest (literarily) with the swords of several of his men (He was the Lord Commander of the Night's watch, a group of trained fighters who guard the realm from a mean, zombie army)
3) Jon Snow was pronounced dead last season. Very dead.
4) We love Jon Snow
5) The creators will lose all their watchers if Jon remains dead (or gets cremated)
6) I mean ALL. We forgave them for killing many, many cool characters off (Khal Drogo, Ned Stark, Daddy Lannister, the White walkers' General, Rob Stark, Mum Stark, Direwolf Grey Wind Stark) but not Jon
Now, on the show, is a red-haired sorceress called Melisandre, who led Stanis Baratheon (a prince who staged a coup) in winning many wars and kept feeding him with hope and promises based on visions she claimed to receive from some mystical being she believed in.
I have believed that this fictional character, Melisandre, was able to raise our beloved Jon Snow for over a year, since the last season. Over 365 days. The belief has sat for so long that it has coagulated into something very, very potent. In fact, whenever people came around and wailed,"Boohoo, Jon is dead." I responded rapidly and assertively,"Melisandre WILL raise him." The only reason I believed she wouldn't raise him was if she chose not to.
Here's the catch, I've never actually seen Melisandre raise a person up from the dead but I still believe she can. She has done some pretty neat tricks with her powers. You don’t even want to know. Lol.
You see that I take my fiction a little too serious. This was why I always thought I was a member of the X-men and the 4th member of the Power puff girls.
In reality though, I have a few Jon Snow situations in my life, maybe not so dire but still in need of a miracle. There's only one person that can help me and i know. God. Even though i've never actually seen him do these particular things, i'm certain, without an iota of doubt that he can. I've seen him do very, very neat tricks incessantly in my life and in the lives of others. Already, creating a universe so diverse and yet so wholesome is a pretty neat trick! He is a creative problem solver and let's just say we all have a few problems scattered here and there. God is eager to help us through the diciest situations, he just needs our belief in his ability to sit until it coagulates into something dangerously potent!
When people ask about our "Jon Snows", we must reply assertively, "God has some neat tricks up his gold-hemmed sleeves! I'm very confident he will do it."
How often do you remind yourself that God has your back? Are you a GOT fan? Did you watch the last episode? Who is your favorite character?
If you’ve ever been pregnant, or if you ever read that pamphlet your doctor gave you on that awkward day in front of your parents, you’d know that pregnancy is pretty much contingent on the Law of Cause and Effect. There’s just no other way. If perchance you are with child, then only you, God and Billy know what you have been up to. There was one woman who did not obey this law, however, her name was Mary...