Friday, 8 August 2025

Paper Tigers

In a world where unemployment is high and opportunities can feel scarce, it’s easy to feel stuck. So many people wait for something or someone to come and change their life. But what if the shift doesn’t come from the outside? What if it begins with how we see our own potential?

There’s a short but powerful instruction that we can look at: “Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest.” (Proverbs 6: 6–8, NIV).

This ancient wisdom paints a picture of the ant – tiny, easily overlooked, yet full of insight. The ant doesn’t wait to be told what to do. It doesn’t depend on a system or a boss or the perfect conditions. It simply works. Quietly. Consistently. Intentionally. It gathers what it can, while it can, knowing that the time for harvest will pass. It’s not driven by fear or panic, but by purpose.

Wisdom is humble and moves steadily forward.

In today’s world, many are forced to become resourceful. Formal employment may be out of reach, but that doesn’t mean we’re without purpose or possibility. If we do what we love, if we build something around our passion, no effort is ever wasted.

Like the ant, our strength lies not in what we have, but in what we choose to do with what we have. A skill. An idea. A small start. It may not look like much, but it can carry us far, especially if we stop waiting for the perfect time and simply begin. 

What stops most of us from beginning isn’t always circumstance. More often, it’s fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of getting it wrong. And that’s why Amelia Earhart’s words remain so relevant: “The most difficult thing is the decision to act. The rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life and the procedure. The process is its own reward.” 

A paper tiger looks fierce, but it’s made of paper. It can’t actually harm us. It only feels threatening.

Most of our fears are just that. They hold shape, but no true substance. And when we see them for what they are, we realize the hardest part was never the work itself. It was making the decision to start.

In 2 Thessalonians 3:10 (NIV), Paul writes: “The one who is unwilling to work shall not eat.” This isn’t said with cruelty, but with clarity. It’s a reminder that action is part of living. If we want change, we must take part in it – not sit back waiting for someone else to write our story. Work, in whatever form we can offer it, is not just about income – it’s about dignity, meaning, and contribution. 

We don’t need a perfect business plan or a groundbreaking invention to start. We just need a spark, a desire to build something, offer something, do something that aligns with who we are and what we care about. We can start small. Offer a service. Make something with our hands. Use our voice, a skill, or experience – even if it feels ordinary.

The ant never questions if it’s doing something great. It just works, and that work sustains it. At the same time, we need to remember that life is not only about producing or surviving. It’s also about enjoying the process. That’s what Amelia Earhart meant when she said, “The process is its own reward.”

There is joy in movement. Fulfillment in effort. Meaning in even the smallest of steps forward. 

Take a moment today and ask yourself:
Am I being held back by real obstacles, or by paper tigers?
Am I waiting for a miracle, or is it time to become the miracle in my own story?

The ant doesn’t wait for certainty. It acts. And so can you.  No matter how limited your resources, no matter how small your beginnings, act with courage, work with purpose, and follow what you care deeply about.

The world needs more people who are alive with purpose, not afraid of paper tigers, and willing to begin with what they have. The time is now. Consider the ant. See through the fear. And begin.

A final thought to consider…

John Steinbeck wrote, “I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen” (from The Winter of Our Discontent). This speaks to the invisibility of ordinary people, everyone who is trying to make a living. Whether someone is selling home-baked goods or offering a humble service, the effort behind that deserves our respect and support. Instead of judgment, let’s choose care and encouragement.

Everyone trying to make an honest living deserves to be seen and valued.






Thursday, 7 August 2025

We Don't See Reality - We See Through It

We like to think we see the world as it is. But we don’t.


We don’t see with our eyes. We see through them. Like light filtering through stained glass, our vision is coloured by everything we’ve lived. Our eyes might capture the image, but our minds interpret it. And what we perceive is never neutral. It’s shaped by memory, trauma, belief systems, fears, and hopes.


What we’ve experienced becomes a lens, tinting every moment.


A room isn’t just a room if you once felt unsafe in one.

A smile isn’t just a smile if you’ve learned not to trust them.

Even colours and sounds can carry emotional echoes we no longer consciously register.


We don’t notice everything. We notice what we’ve been conditioned to see. We scan for patterns that support the story we’ve always told ourselves, and we often miss what doesn’t fit.


And here’s another layer: our senses aren’t perfect. Even when fully alert and emotionally grounded, we still don’t experience the full picture.


Biologically, our eyes detect only a sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum. We miss the infrared, the ultraviolet. Our ears register only a limited range of frequencies. So even before personal bias comes in, we’re already working with incomplete data. We build entire truths from fragments. And what makes it worse is that we trust those fragments absolutely. We forget how much we’re missing.


So yes, the past shapes perception. But so do the natural limits of being human. We think we’re seeing clearly, but often, we’re just seeing enough to feel certain. And that’s dangerous.


This is the creative’s ache – one that artists, writers, and speakers know too well. It’s not just about craft. It’s about translation. Taking something filtered internally and trying to make it visible to others. The goal isn’t just accuracy. It’s honesty. To reveal not just what we see, but how we experience it. And that takes more than talent. It takes vulnerability.


In every painting, story, or speech, the creator’s internal weather is present. Mood shapes expression. Meaning every piece is more than creative output. It’s a mirror.


Can we ever see more clearly? Maybe. The path starts with asking better questions: Is this real, or is this my past speaking? Am I seeing this moment, or a memory dressed up as the “here-and-now”? 

Self-awareness helps us interrupt the automatic replay of old wounds. It allows us to meet the moment as it is, not as we once knew it. Healing our vision is the first step toward a better life. One not dictated by shadows.


Yes, it does matter that we don’t see objective reality. Because until we realize that, we’ll keep reacting to ghosts and calling them truth. The narrative of the past will dominate the present. That’s why so many people stay trapped in victimhood instead of showing up as survivors.


Memory doesn’t record facts. It stores emotionAnd over time, the line between what happened and how it felt begins to blur. We don’t just remember events. We remember how they made us feel. And those feelings become filters, colouring how we see now.


A kind word can sound like a warning if we’ve been hurt before.

A loving gesture can feel suspicious if trust has been broken.

Suddenly, we’re no longer responding to this moment. We’re reliving that one.


Without awareness, memory manipulates perception. And perception, in turn, becomes a prisoner of the past. 


So maybe the answer isn’t just to paint, write, or speak about what we think we’ve experienced. Maybe the deeper work is this: to explore it again. To find the truth beneath the emotion. To revisit the past, especially with someone who was there.


In the end, we have a choice. We get to decide how we see.


As for me? I am the captain of my creations, the master of my perceptions. Yes, I’ll probably always see the world through eyes slightly clouded by yesterday, but knowing that helps me pause. Even when I can’t name what’s haunting me, awareness gives me a choice. If I can feel it, I can face it. And whether I understand it fully or not, I can acknowledge it, release it, and choose to reframe it.





Tuesday, 5 August 2025

Subliminally Yours

We tend to think that we’re only aware of what we choose to focus on. The truth is far more unsettling. Our senses are wide open channels, and we’re constantly absorbing the world around us. Every sound, sight, scent, and sensation is being recorded, logged, stored somewhere deep within.

We are bombarded every day with subliminal messages. But before I go further, let me clarify the term. Subliminal comes from the Latin sub (below) and limen (threshold). It refers to anything that happens below the level of conscious awareness. A subliminal message, then, is something your brain absorbs without you realising it. Your subconscious mind picks it up and influences you.

You might not consciously notice it, but a flash of an image, a word buried in a song, or the subtle colours in an advert will affect you. Your brain registers it, and over time, those invisible things shape the way you think, feel, and respond to the world around you.

Your mind is like an ocean. Everything you’ve ever seen, heard, touched, or felt is submerged in those depths. Conversations you forgot, images you glanced at for a second, offhand comments from strangers are all in there.

If you could drop a trawler net into that sea of memory, what would you pull up?

A scent might trigger a childhood memory. A song might reel in a heartbreak you thought you’d buried. A passing phrase could awaken a belief you didn’t even know you held.

Subliminal messages are like tiny fish – small, unnoticed, but numerous – and together, they can shift the tide. Our eyes and ears are the primary gateways. They take in more than we can ever consciously process.

Your eyes register symbols, colours, and motion in milliseconds. Your ears pick up tone, pitch, and emotional undercurrents in someone’s voice. By the time your conscious mind catches up, your subconscious has already logged the data. This is how we end up carrying emotions we can’t trace, or forming beliefs we never questioned.

It’s no wonder, then, that we’re so emotionally bruised—constantly absorbing what we don’t even realise is harming us. To protect our mental clarity in a noisy world, we have to learn to train our eyes and filter what we absorb.

The internet, media, advertising are full of psychological hooks and emotional bait. If we don’t become intentional about what we see, we’ll passively take in everything — the fear, the comparison, the distraction, the noise.

Not everything visible is valuable.

Not everything loud is worth hearing.

We need a filter for the mind. A good filter is shifting our focus.

The Bible gives us a clear lens for filtering our focus. In Philippians 4:8, Paul writes:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.”

This verse is more than spiritual advice. It’s a survival strategy in a world of subliminal junk.

It’s a call to consciously choose what we give our attention to – and what we allow into the depths of our mental ocean.

Your mind is always listening.

Your eyes are always watching.

The question is: What are they being fed? And what kind of person are you becoming because of it?

It’s really the little things that turn out to be enormous. Choosing to speak kind words. Sharing a smile. Holding your tongue when tempted to argue. Making an about-face when you find your mind wandering into negativity (because you remembered the goal of Philippians: to focus on everything excellent). Apologising for speaking harshly or rudely instead of accepting your offensive behaviour as a good thing.

Philippians 4:5 reads:

“Let your gentleness be evident to all.” (NIV)

“Let your reasonableness be known to everyone.” (ESV)

“Let everyone see that you are considerate in all you do.” (NLT)

The call to “let your gentleness be evident to all” is more than just about behaviour; it’s about growing into spiritual maturity. It means becoming wise and self-sacrificing, calm and patient, peaceful and contented — traits that don’t come overnight but develop as we intentionally filter what we let into our minds and hearts.

In a world overflowing with noise and distraction, these qualities ground us. They allow us to respond thoughtfully instead of reacting impulsively. They help us choose peace over chaos and focus on what is good and true, even when the world tries to pull us in the opposite direction.

Choose wisely.

Trawl carefully.

Focus intentionally.



Wednesday, 23 July 2025

My African Home

Some days, I remember Bulawayo. I was fourteen when I left, and now I am sixty. Yet the city lives in me still. Undimmed. Unforgotten.

I remember the crisp morning air and the heavy, stifling embrace of summers heat. School days at Baines and Eveline were long, but in the afternoons, our pool’s water was a refuge. Cool, quiet, and soothing. 

The journey to Eveline Girls High on the city bus, from Paddonhurst to city centre, passed jacarandas standing sentry, their violet robes like solemn guardians. The city hall teemed with the pulse of life — the bus stop thronged, and the market spilled its wealth of colour — fruits, flowers, and wares wrought by patient hands. From there, my sister and I walked to school to join the late row for assembly.

I remember how fond I was of the area around city hall. There dwelt an air of dignity in the city whenever I visited Haddon & Sly and Meikles. The city with its broad streets was never loud; it didnt emphasize any clamour. It bore itself as an elder does — worn, wise, and watchful. 

In those days beneath the endless blue, before the world began to unravel, I was whole. Complete.

This I remember.

Yet, I am a child of Africa.

Born in South Africa, yet raised within the beating heart of another land, I know this continent. I know it by the scent of soil and the song of dawn’s first birds. The hadeda, Piet-my-vrou, and thrush, to name but a few.

I knew more about wild animals than farm animals. I recall the monkeys at Maleme Dam, bold and untroubled. The crocodiles gliding like shadows through the waters of Lake Kyle. The blue duiker flitting through the emerald hush of the rainforest at Mosi-oa-Tunya, where the mist rises above cascading waters.

I remember the orphans, lions, eagles, antelope, with every  visit to Chipangali; wildness preserved in trust.

I remember the fish eagle’s cry at dawn on the radio, clear and haunting, as if the land itself spoke. I listened to Afrikaans on the radio with quiet wonder, not fully understanding all that was said, yet knowing with certainty: it was part of me. My heritage. 

Nature is a quiet reminder that there are no borders. Trees flow across them: the flame trees of Matabeleland and Limpopo, their scarlet blossoms ablaze against the sky. The msasa, whose copper leaves turn in the vernal air, the yellow fever, kierrieklapper, mopane, acacia, and baobab.

Both here and there, I have wandered past wild hibiscus and flowering aloes, beneath the arching boughs of flamboyant trees in bloom. I have breathed the sweetness of yesterday-today-and-tomorrow mingled in the heat of the late afternoon. I have seen bougainvillaea climbing walls, and plumbago tangled with memory.

I know the scents of lemon bush, the stubborn brilliance of impala lily, the solemn grace of proteas, the sunburnt cheer of gazanias as they greet the light, and the strelitzia in bloom.

I have walked on mighty stones — not those that pave the city’s streets, but those that raised kingdoms. I have stood among the silent ruins of Great Zimbabwe, where the past rises from the earth in solemn majesty. I have heard of Mapungubwe — the ancient hill where golden rhinos once lay buried. I have stood on Matopos, and I have breathed the mist that crowns the Nyanga mountains, where silence reminds me that the world is cradled in the hands of its Creator. 

I remember the Bulawayo storms gathering in the hush of hot afternoons. Swollen with sudden quiet before the sky was rent asunder. The scent of rain on parched earth rose sharp and electric as the first drops fell. Granite drew lightning like a lodestone, and the heavens answered with fury. These were not gentle rains, but fierce and living things — storms that knew their names. Like horses wild, pulling chariots of sombre cloud, they charged across the vault of heaven, cleaving the light and reminding the land to whom it belongs.

I remember the taste of home. The warmth of sadza held in the hand and eaten with marog. The sweetest oranges ever known, sun-warmed and dust-kissed, their juice running down my wrists in childhood’s careless delight. I found comfort in the salt and spice of biltong, the smoke of a Saturday braai curling into the dusk. Crisp samosas, malva pudding, melktert, and koeksisters — tastes borne across borders, stitched into memory like thread through cloth.

These are not mere memories to me. They are roots.

I left a country, yes.

But I shall never leave Africa.




Saturday, 19 July 2025

Faith is Quiet Courage

Last night, I was watching the series Numbers when a line from one of the characters made me pause. He said: “Real faith doesn’t transcend knowledge. It can only adapt to it and embrace it.” 

The word real lingered in my mind. Why “real”? Is there another kind of faith? 

Let me start with the definition, because, while we all assume we know what faith means, there may be something we haven’t seen or understood. Faith is commonly defined as a strong belief or trust in someone or something, especially without needing absolute proof. The Oxford Dictionary describes faith as complete trust or confidence in someone or something. The Merriam-Webster says it is a firm belief in something for which there is no proof; belief and trust in and loyalty to God. 

How you understand or use the word faith all depends on what you’re emphasizing. For example, a philosopher will focus on belief without proof. A religious person will emphasize trust and loyalty to God. And many will see faith as confidence in someone or something. 

What does the Bible say? 

Hebrews 11:1 (NIV): “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” 

According to the book of Hebrews, faith gives tangible weight to our hopes. Faith transforms hope from an emotional desire into a spiritual certainty. Without faith, hope is fragile; with faith, hope is sustained, even when life offers no visible reason to keep believing. 

Hope is portrayed as forward-looking, while faith is the present assurance that the things we long for are not in vain. Faith doesn’t eliminate uncertainty, but provides a foundation in the midst of it. Hope thrives because faith makes it real, even when reality says otherwise.  

Faith can take many forms. Spiritually, there’s saving faith, doctrinal faith, and mystical faith. Each reflects a person’s connection to the divine. Psychological faith is emotional, rational, or rooted in self-belief. We see it in the way people live with trust or confidence. Philosophical and cultural perspectives express include existential faith, faith in humanity, or faith in institutions. Each of these types of faith trust something beyond the immediate or tangible. 

But what is real faith? 

Real faith is a deep, active trust that lasts through uncertainty and change. It isn’t blind or passive. Instead of avoiding doubt or resisting knowledge, real faith grows through learning. 

We often think of faith and knowledge as opposites. Faith is in the heart, and knowledge in the mind. Faith is emotional, and knowledge is logical. But in reality, the two are more intertwined than we realize. 

We can see this in our daily lives, in how we live. Especially in hard times. We exercise faith when we trust others, plan for the future, or believe in things we can’t prove but still know to be true. In those moments, faith is rooted in knowledge. It draws on past experiences, memory, and understanding. Likewise, knowledge often begins with faith. Faith that our methods are reliable, that truth exists, that understanding is worth pursuing. When we ask honest questions, new knowledge can challenge old assumptions. Real faith doesn’t ignore this. It welcomes it. It remains rooted in trust, open to learning, and committed to walking the lifelong path of growth and discovery. 

Of course, pursuing understanding isn’t always an easy task. Even the most intelligent minds work within limits. No one operates with full knowledge. From birth, we are shaped by biology, environment, education, and relationships. Our brains develop unevenly; our perspectives are shaped by what we’ve encountered and how we interpret it. And because our understanding is limited, and we live with so much uncertainty, we need faith to have a meaningful life. 

Real faith doesn’t freeze us in place. It moves us forward. It renews our thinking and strengthens our vision.

As Romans 12:2 (NIV) reminds us: “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” 

This verse is a call to change, to growth, and to becoming more than we were. 

Having said all this, I now fully understand the concept: Real faith doesn’t transcend knowledge. To transcend something is to rise above it. If faith tries to rise above facts or understanding, it would lead to the rejection of anything that threatens one’s belief system. It risks becoming hollow—detached from reality, even dangerous. 

Real faith doesn’t pretend to know everything. It listens. It questions. It arises from thought and often works alongside it. It can adapt when knowledge changes, resist when fear or uncertainty creep in, strengthen when reason supports it, and persist even when reason fails. 

In the end, faith doesn’t begin where thinking stops. It begins where thinking alone is no longer enough. It’s the quiet courage to trust in something more, even when everything we know falls just short of certainty.




Friday, 11 July 2025

A Love-Hate Affair


At the beginning of the year, I decided I was going to write my next novel. The struggle was real. My first attempt made it to five chapters before fizzling out. The second didn’t even survive past chapter three. I just couldn’t get my head in the game. (Peripheral neuropathy in my feet and hands doesn’t exactly help—concentration is like trying to hold soap with wet hands.)

Eventually, I thought, that’s it. No more books. I’d focus on designing adverts for my small business instead—something simpler, like arranging fonts and wondering if teal and pink are eye-catching enough.

But! Writing is part of who I am. It’s how I process the world, how I think, how I breathe. I love words. More than that, Writing is my teacher. I learn something new every time I sit down to write—usually something humbling, occasionally something useful.

So… I tried again. Third time lucky, right?

Right.

With a clear goal of 85,000 words, I started. Stuck to it. Wrote. Edited. Read each chapter a gazillion times. Despaired. Rewrote. And eventually, I self-published ‘I Think You Know’ on Amazon.

As always, amid the blur of writing and reading, I found myself face-to-face with my oldest nemesis: punctuation. Honestly, the endless debates in my head drive me nuts. To dash or not to dash? Dash or ellipsis? Ugh! And parentheses—where do they even belong? Comma here? There? Anywhere? Or maybe there are just too many commas.

Editing my own work—supposedly cost-effective in my mind—is rather expensive on time and sanity. I won’t even mention the future ‘hidden costs’ when all the editing lands me on a therapy couch for psychoanalysis.

As always, before writing, I watched videos and read articles about how real authors get it done. I explored different styles, themes, and tones of voice. Which narrator would work best—third person or first?

First person always seems like the right fit for the particular brand of crazy I harbour somewhere inside. It draws out the humour in my equally unhinged protagonist’s storytelling.

Of course, there’s always more to it than just some subtle research. There’s also the former-English-teacher in me who occasionally climbs out to join the circus. I have a natural flair for writing rigid, formal sentences—the kind with textbook-approved parentheses, neat and predictable, just like the lessons I used to teach. There’s rarely room for rogue punctuation running wild.

And yet, the imperfect woman I am—not quite English, not quite Afrikaans—somewhere between Engaans and Afringlish—makes many, many, many mistakes.

Believe me, when you read my work, it has usually been polished to the brink of madness. Any errors you find are simply the result of reaching that point of “I can’t see anything anymore”—blinded by the plight of my perfectionistic tendencies. Or perhaps there’s a trace of OCD quietly lurking between the lines.

Having said all this, it turns out fiction doesn’t much care for formal writing. In creative writing, brackets are the overachievers of punctuation—and they’ve been my go-to in every novel I’ve written.

By the way—if you’re still reading, colour me impressed. I’m genuinely smiling over here, knowing you’re still on board—and, miraculously, unbored.

Back in the day, I always told my students: the dash is the shorter line—it separates. The hyphen is the longer line—it joins. I taught it with imagery. For example:

You dash from the scene of a crime. You separate yourself from it. 
You say hi to join a conversation (hi = hy for hyphen.)

This year, while revising punctuation, I discovered a worthy replacement for the dash, the comma, and yes, even the bracket: the em dash. Apparently, it’s a thing. The free spirit of the punctuation world—unruly, versatile, and oddly good at making a sentence work.

And, just to be sure it wasn’t nonsense, I paged through a few novels and—lo and behold—authors have been using it forever.

The em dash interrupts, emphasises, and gives thoughts room to stretch:

She opened the door—then froze.
There was no other explanation—it had always been him.
His thoughts—scattered, rambling, brilliant—took over.

It mimics speech. It breathes. It sighs. It’s practically alive. The em dash is the jazz of punctuation—improvised, emotional, occasionally too much.

I never knew this, but now I do. Hence the earlier statement: Writing is my teacher. 

Almost 60 and still learning.

And just to stir the dash debate even further, it doesn’t stop there. 

Enter the en dash, a revelation. Slightly longer line than a hyphen, shorter than the em dash, used for ranges or connections: The 2022–2023 season was chaotic. Or. The Johannesburg–Cape Town route is beautiful. 

Retirement from teaching hasn’t stopped me from learning. If anything, it’s made me more curious.

But, of course, in a nutshell, writing shouldn’t be about rules. Even though I edit as I write, it doesn’t diminish what truly matters: emotion, honesty, and connection. Sometimes, the smallest mark—a dash, a dot, a well-placed comma—does more than hold a sentence together. It shapes meaning, guides feeling, and breathes life into words. Yes, punctuation is vital—but so are character development, authenticity, setting, and the careful build-up of suspense in the narrative, and all the other elements that make a book a great read. And if a touch of humour sneaks in? Well, that’s just a welcome bonus.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Maybe you, like me, find beauty in the art of writing. And maybe—just maybe—that’s where its true magic lies.

As Ernest Hemingway said, “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” 




Wednesday, 9 July 2025

We Are Not Alone

There are moments in life when the weight of hardship feels unbearable—as if the darkness pressing in from every side will never lift. Grief, illness, pain, and uncertainty can close in so tightly that it feels as if we’re being swallowed whole. And yet, even in the deepest pit of unhappiness, there’s a quiet truth that remains: God sees. God knows. God helps us endure.

“I, even I, am He who comforts you.”

— Isaiah 51:12, NIV

God is with us. He doesn’t wait for us to be strong to come close. He doesn’t require perfection. And His presence draws even nearer when we’re trembling, when we’re grieving, when we’re asking the hard questions. The world, in all its chaos and cruelty, may give us reason to despair—but even then, the very breath we breathe is evidence that we are still here. The story isn’t over. Not yet.

When we think about God, we are filled with awe:

“Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!”
— Psalm 8:1, NIV

Even when we struggle to understand His ways, we trust that He cares deeply:

“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars, which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?”
— Psalm 8:3–4, NIV

Many believe suffering must always lead to despair. But pain and peace are not always at odds. The presence of one doesn’t cancel out the possibility of the other. To suffer and still believe, to ache and still hope—that’s a quiet kind of courage. It’s the kind of wisdom that’s born not in ease, but through seasons of wrestling, of holding on.

We often hear we should “just stay positive,” but life doesn’t work that way. Balance is natural. We cannot live fully if we only allow ourselves to acknowledge the good. To ignore pain is to deny part of our own humanity. If we never sit with the hard things—if we never face the brokenness—we also miss the depth of joy. It’s in reflecting on the bad that we learn to treasure the good. It’s in the valley that we begin to recognize the strength and beauty of the mountaintop.

When we quiet our hearts and listen—not to the noise of the world, but to the still voice beneath it—we begin to hear peace again. Nature, with her gentle rhythms and steadfast persistence, reminds us: even after the longest, coldest winter, spring does return.

In the loneliness that suffering can bring, we might feel forgotten. But we are never forsaken. To know God is to know that even without answers, we are not without purpose. Even when we feel too weak to stand, we are not without help. Even when all seems lost, we are not truly poor.

With Him, we are rich in ways we often cannot measure. His protection doesn’t always mean we’ll avoid suffering—but it does mean we won’t face it alone. His peace shows up in the middle of the storm. Without Him, fear hollows us out. But with Him—even in our loss—we are found. Even in the valley, we are held.

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.”
— Psalm 23:4, NIV

The challenge lies in not giving up when the weight of the world feels too heavy. Every tear, every longing, every breath we take is being met by a faithful God who redeems all things in His time. His comfort isn’t shallow. It’s not fleeting. It’s deep, enduring, and profoundly personal.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18, NIV

So, we keep breathing. We keep hoping. We keep believing.

Because we are still here. We are not alone. And there is still purpose waiting to be fulfilled.



Paper Tigers

In a world where unemployment is high and opportunities can feel scarce, it’s easy to feel stuck. So many people wait for something or someo...