What is Stored in your Storehouse?

I've been thinking about the things we carry inside us. The things nobody can see until, usually at the most inconvenient moment, they find their way out. Anger, frustration, bitterness, envy, spite, resentment, jealousy, pride, suspicion, unforgiveness, disappointment, hatred, impatience, guilt, and shame. Even the need to be right, to be recognised, to be understood, or to make someone else realise just how badly they've hurt us. We all have our list, and some of us have been adding to it for years.

The heart is a storehouse. We put things in there, some deliberately and others almost without noticing. A hurtful remark, a betrayal, a disappointment, something someone did to us that we simply can't forget. Because it hurt, we keep it. We tell ourselves we keep it because it matters, because we need to remember, or because remembering will protect us from allowing the same thing to happen again. But there's a difference between remembering something and carrying it.

I know this because I've spent a great deal of time looking backwards. I've replayed things that happened years ago, wondered what I could've said differently, what I should've done, why someone behaved as they did, and whether I could somehow have changed the outcome. The mind's remarkably creative when it's given an old wound to work on. It can return to the same conversation hundreds of times and produce a different ending every time. Of course, none of those endings changes what actually happened.

Perhaps you know what I mean. Someone hurts you, and the hurt's real. You're angry. You're disappointed. You may even have every reason to be angry and disappointed. But then something happens that we don't always notice. The person who hurt you goes on living. They get up the next morning, have their coffee, go to work, make plans, laugh with their friends, and continue with their lives. Meanwhile, you're still carrying something they may not even remember doing.

They may've forgotten the words they said. They may've forgotten the incident altogether. They may not even know that you're still having conversations with them in your head. Yet they've taken up residence in your storehouse, and you continue to give them space there.

That's where we need to pause. Someone else may be responsible for what they did to you, but they can't be responsible for everything you allow that experience to become within you. They may've caused the wound, but they didn't necessarily put the bitterness there. They may've disappointed you, but they didn't necessarily put the resentment there. They may've treated you badly, but at some point, you have to ask yourself what you're doing with what they did.

That's not an easy question because it gives some responsibility back to us. It's much easier to say, "I'm angry because of what they did." And perhaps that's true. But how long will you remain angry? How many times will you tell the story? How many years will you carry the same disappointment? How much of your present life are you willing to give to something that happened in your past?

I'm not suggesting that we simply forget. Some things can't be forgotten, and perhaps they shouldn't be. There are lessons in what happens to us. There are boundaries we learn to establish. There are people we learn not to trust again. Experiences change us permanently. Forgiveness doesn't mean pretending that something didn't happen, and it certainly doesn't mean allowing someone who hurt you to hurt you again.

Perhaps forgiveness is simply deciding that you're no longer willing to carry the weight of what someone else did.

And this is where the storehouse becomes important. What have you stored in yours? Have you stored the lesson, or the anger? The wisdom, or the bitterness? The experience, or the resentment? Have you kept what happened because it helped you grow, or because some part of you is still waiting for the person who hurt you to understand what they did?

There's a difference.

There comes a time when we have to clean out the storehouse. What happened mattered, but our lives also matter. We can't change what someone else did. We can't go back and remove the words, undo the betrayal, prevent the disappointment, or make another person behave differently. What we can do is decide what we'll allow to remain inside us.

That's where the choice begins.

I can be hurt without becoming hateful. I can be disappointed without becoming bitter. I can be angry without making anger my identity. I can recognise someone's wrongdoing without allowing their wrongdoing to determine who I become. I can acknowledge that something was unfair without spending the rest of my life trying to make the scales balance.

And perhaps most importantly, I can stop giving permanent residence to people who should've been temporary visitors in my life.

That doesn't happen overnight. I know that. We all have our cycles. Some days we think we've finally let something go, only to discover that it's still sitting quietly somewhere inside us. We open a door we thought we'd closed, and there it is again. That doesn't necessarily mean that we've failed. It simply means that there's more work to do.

I'm learning that healing isn't always about removing the past. Sometimes it's about changing the space the past occupies. The chapter remains, but it doesn't have to be the chapter I keep reading. What happened can remain part of my story without it becoming the whole story.

So perhaps the question we should ask ourselves isn't only, "Who hurt me?" and not even, "Why did they do it?". The quieter take on it is to ask, "What have I allowed that hurt to become inside me?"

There's a strange freedom in realising that I don't have to keep everything that's happened to me. Some things can be acknowledged and released. Some things can be forgiven. Some things can simply be put down. And some things can be turned into wisdom and left behind.

We all have a storehouse. We all put things into it. We are all responsible for what we choose to keep there. Eventually, what we store inside us finds its way out. It appears in our words, our reactions, our relationships, and in the way we see other people.

It's good to open the door every now and then and have a good look around. There may be things in there that once protected us but no longer serve us. There may be things we've carried for so long that we've forgotten we're carrying them. And there may be things we're finally ready to put down.

I'm learning that I don't have to carry yesterday simply because I lived it. I can keep the lesson. I can keep the memory. I can keep the wisdom. But I don't have to keep the poison.

The most important thing is that we heal from the past. Healing is not about forgetting what happened and pretending it didn't hurt. Healing is finally deciding that what happened won't have the final say in what happens within us.

Service is not Weakness

In South Africa, we live with the assumption that the system will cope, that the country will cope, and that whatever is strained, whatever is broken, whatever is slowly falling out of alignment, will simply be carried, absorbed, and endured.

And so it does, until it doesn’t.

We see it in the pressure on roads, hospitals, schools, and institutions that are expected to carry more than they were built for. We see it in communities constantly adjusting, constantly finding workarounds, constantly building personal solutions to problems that should not have been left to individuals in the first place. And now, more visibly than before, we see it in people who have lived here for years (who built lives here, worked here, raised families here,) being sent away, packed up, moved on, as though belonging was always temporary, even when life itself was not.

And it raises an uncomfortable question: what does it say about us when belonging becomes conditional only after time has been given, labour has been offered, and life has already taken root?

When a country begins to treat permanence as uncertain (not only in systems, but in people), it reveals something deeper about how stability itself is being understood. Not just who is included or excluded in a moment, but what kind of idea of “home” is being protected at all.

It is not only leaders who shape this. It sits in policy, enforcement, public reaction, and in a wider culture that has grown used to the idea that South Africa will simply absorb pressure without needing to redefine itself.

And in that assumption, something changes.

Responsibility becomes easier to postpone. Standards become easier to bend. What should be consistent becomes conditional. And what should be firm becomes flexible depending on circumstance.

So people begin, quietly, to adjust not to what they believe is right, but to what they believe will still function under strain.

For many, this becomes the lived experience of the country itself: a place that is always managing, always coping, always adapting, but less and less often insisting on what it should be.

And then, even resilience starts to change meaning. What once looked like strength can begin to look like endurance without direction. What once looked like adaptability can begin to look like quiet acceptance of instability.

What also sits quietly underneath all of this is the question of money (not in abstract terms, but in very real ones). The money that is taken from taxpayers, from people who work and contribute every month, is not symbolic. It is responsibility in financial form.

And the expectation is simple: that it is used for the public good. For infrastructure, for services, for the systems that hold everyday life together. Not lost through inefficiency, mismanagement, or diverted into private benefit.

Because when that link between contribution and care is weakened, trust weakens with it. People begin to feel that they are paying into something that is no longer being fully returned to them in the form of functioning public systems.

And over time, that too becomes part of the normal landscape, not as a single moment of failure, but as an ongoing condition.

Yet beneath all of it, the same question remains: is a country defined by how much it can absorb or by what it refuses to accept as normal? Because what becomes normal eventually becomes identity.

And so we return to the question at the heart of it all: what is it that we really need to make us stand out as a nation?

Is it a World Cup, a moment of global attention, pride, and visibility that shines brightly and then passes? Or is it something far more difficult to build: a world-class nation?

A country where service is not occasional, but constant. Where systems work not because they are under the spotlight, but because they are maintained. Where leadership is not measured by performance in moments of attention, but by consistency in moments of pressure. Where people do not have to work around failure, because failure is not allowed to become normal.

A World Cup can make a country seen, but only standards, kept over time, can make it respected.

A world-class nation is what we become in what we choose to tolerate, what we choose to fix, and what we refuse to let define us.

For tomorrow’s leader, the message is simple: lead in a way that leaves less damage than you found, more trust than you used, and a country more stable than the one you inherited.

Because power is never neutral. It always moves a country somewhere. The only question is whether it moves it toward strength or toward exhaustion.

Service is not weakness. It is the highest form of leadership, the quiet discipline of choosing responsibility over advantage, and people over position.

Quiet Revelations

There’s something deeply human about the way we try to make sense of change. We reach for images and stories, because the real thing is often too heavy to hold all at once.

Gold is one of those stories.

It’s never found already perfect. It begins hidden in rock, mixed with everything it’s not. And before it ever becomes something valuable, it has to be broken open. Then comes fire — not once, but often more than once — until what doesn’t belong slowly falls away.

What’s left isn’t something new. It’s something true. Something that was always there, just uncovered.

Life can feel a lot like that. Not always gentle. Not always clear. 

During the storms of life, it’s easy to think things are falling apart. But sometimes, what’s actually happening is a quiet kind of revealing.

Like a real storm that reveals what is unstable and weak, the difficulties we experience reveal what can’t hold in our lives. These things begin to loosen. What was built on fear, habit, or just survival starts to fall away. And underneath it all, something more honest begins to surface.

We often think strength is something we carefully build — through effort, discipline, and time. And yes, that’s part of it. But there’s another kind of strength too. The kind that only shows itself when life presses in, and there’s nowhere to hide. 

Like carbon becoming diamond under pressure, it isn’t something added. It’s something revealed.

Fire doesn’t create gold. It refines it.

Pressure and storms don’t create strength. They reveal what was already there.

Scripture speaks about this.

In 1 Peter 1:6–7 (NIV), faith is described as something refined through fire — not to destroy it, but to purify it, like gold: “These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith — of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire…”

In Isaiah 43:2 (NIV), the promise isn’t that we won’t pass through deep waters, but that we won’t pass through them alone: “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.”

And in Romans 5:3–4 (NIV), even suffering is not wasted — it becomes part of a slow shaping that forms endurance, character, and eventually, hope: “Suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”

None of this denies how hard life can feel. Some seasons are heavy. Some days feel like too much. And it’s okay to be honest about that.

But not everything that feels like breaking is loss. Sometimes it’s making space. A gentle stripping away of what can’t stay. A quiet removal of what was never meant to carry you forward.

And when the storm passes, you don’t come out unchanged. Something has shifted. Something unnecessary has fallen away. And something deeper — something steadier, more honest, more anchored — has been gently revealed.

Don’t let the world convince you that any form of trial is the end of you. Life will knock you down, again and again. But if you can learn to see what the trial is shaping rather than only what it is taking, you won’t stay down as long as you think you will.

Because whatever you are experiencing, God is not absent. You are not alone. 

You are not being undone. You are being formed.

Living with the Decision

We make countless decisions every day, often without even realising it. Even the ones we make consciously don’t always come with clarity. There is no sign, no guarantee that the choice we make is the “right” one. The opportunity is there, and we have to decide: take it, or leave it. 

And yet, we like to think there’s a right choice. Most of the time, there isn’t. We choose with what we know, shaped by past experiences, and with who we are in that moment. Often, the quick choice we make is guided more by emotion than by reason. 

This is why the real work begins only after the choice is made. We have to live with it, without constantly circling back to the one we didn’t take. Peace doesn’t come from making the “perfect” decision. It comes from settling into what is. 

Abraham was seventy-five years old when God called him to leave everything familiar – his home, his family, his country. He had no knowledge of what lay ahead. Yet, he stepped forward, trusting God’s promise of a land, a people, and a future he could not yet see. 

“The Lord had said to Abram, ‘Go… to the land I will show you.’ So Abram went…” – Genesis 12:1,4 (NIV) 

He didn’t wait for clarity. He didn’t divide himself between staying and leaving. He chose obedience and moved. 

Isaac faced a different kind of test. Famine came, and it would have been natural to leave the land God had promised. But God told him to stay, to plant and settle, to trust without immediate reward. 

“Stay in this land for a while, and I will be with you and will bless you.” – Genesis 26:3 (NIV) 

So, he stayed. He dug wells, built altars, and lived faithfully where he was planted. Nothing dramatic at first. No immediate signs of prosperity. Just trust and steady presence, and in time, God’s blessing followed. 

Then there’s Ruth, a widow in a foreign land. She could have returned to her family, to security, to familiarity. Instead, she stayed with Naomi, her mother-in-law, choosing loyalty and love over comfort or certainty. 

“Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay; your people will be my people and your God my God.” – Ruth 1:16 (NIV) 

Her choice wasn’t about a place, but about the person she committed to, the life she chose to invest in. And once made, she didn’t waver, or stand divided between two lives. 

This is the pattern. Not one path over another, but the posture within it. Each of these Bible characters chose, and then lived fully inside that choice. 

These experiences that have been written in the Bible are given to us as an example. Today, God doesn’t speak in ways we can hear, and many people don’t believe in signs. But I believe that God is in control. When things fall into place, when circumstances align in a way that feels right and fair, it was meant to be. 

Here’s my own story as an example. 

I remember saying for many years that I needed to prioritise my health and resign from the teaching position I was holding. But I didn’t want to just leave. I needed a sign. I needed God to show me the way. So, I stayed. 

My health deteriorated, and still I stayed. There was nothing that clearly indicated it was time to stop teaching. People advised me. Friends guided me. Family supported me. Yet, I wasn’t comfortable with leaving before the time was right. 

I prayed often. I asked God to give me patience, to help me choose the right moment. And then I continued, even in ill health, to teach. 

By 11:00, my strength was gone. I could no longer function as I should. School only ended at 13:30, and the hours stretched endlessly. 

One day, I was standing by the cupboard in my classroom, searching for important documents. As I had done so many times before, I quietly said, “I can’t do this anymore.” And then, something shifted. A sense of relief came over me. I stepped back, looked again, and there they were. The documents. Right in front of me, as if they had just been placed there. I looked up and thanked God. I walked to the office and told the principal I was done. I left on sick leave immediately. From there, the process began and long sick leave became early retirement. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t happen without problems. I waited patiently for the Department of Education to contact me. Three months passed, and still nothing was happening. When I phoned the department to follow up, I was told I could return to school. 

I was so confused. I soon learned that my documents for long sick leave and early retirement had been filed incorrectly. Instead, I had been placed on long-COVID leave. I explained my situation again. I was then told that I would have to see different specialists again for all the tests already done, to confirm I was truly unfit for teaching. 

I couldn’t understand why I had to go through all the tests again. It took another eight months of doctor visits, tests, and document submissions before the department was finally satisfied. At last, early retirement seemed possible. 

And then, unexpectedly, my brother died. He and my mother had been living with us for almost 8 years. After his funeral, my mother moved to Langebaan to live with my sister. 

I waited another four months before my early retirement was approved. 

Of course, my brother’s death opened the door for my move to Langebaan. It wasn’t my first choice, but it became the only choice. My husband and children agreed that we could move as a family to the Western Cape so that I could be near my mother. This gave me a sense of purpose to move across the country. 

What I’ve learned over the years is that it’s not just about opportunity. It’s about accepting the choice once it is made. That’s where calm is found. Not in avoiding consequences, or knowing the future, but in refusing to live divided – half in the present, half in the imagined alternative. 

Go, and go fully. Stay, and stay fully. 

  

When the Work Is Too Heavy

More people, regardless of their position, are feeling overloaded with work. Everything seems to rest on them. The deadlines, the decisions, the responsibility. Do you feel the same?

You show up, you push through, you keep going, but under all of that, exhaustion begins to settle in. It doesn’t always show on the surface, but it’s there all the same. By the time you realize it, it’s too late. You suffer from burnout, which is a profound, chronic exhaustion of mind, body, and spirit. 

This isn’t new. One of the most well-known leaders in history, Moses, found himself in that exact situation. In Exodus 18, we see how he leads the Israelites after their journey out of Egypt. His role isn’t just symbolic. He’s the person everyone goes to for guidance, judgment, and answers. Every issue, every dispute, and every question finds its way to him, and from morning until evening, he sits while the people stand in line and wait to see him. He carries it all. 

When his father-in-law, Jethro, arrives, he doesn’t rush in or try to fix anything straight away. He just watches. And what he sees isn’t strong leadership, but strain. The kind that can’t last. So he asks Moses a simple question that cuts through everything: “What is this you’re doing for the people?”

What follows is a truth that still feels relevant today. “What you’re doing is not good. You and these people who come to you will only wear yourselves out.” Exodus 18:17–18 NIV. 

There’s something in this lesson that lands deeply, because it challenges a belief many of us carry. If one person can hold everything together, then they should. But that’s not what Jethro sees. He sees the cost.

He doesn’t stop there. He offers a way forward. He tells Moses to focus on what really matters and to choose capable, trustworthy people to share the responsibility. The smaller matters can be handled by others, while the heavier ones can still come to him. It’s not about reducing impact, but about finding a way to carry it that can last. 

“That will make your load lighter, because they will share it with you.” Exodus 18:22 NIV.

Moses listens, and everything begins to shift. The people are helped more efficiently, leadership becomes healthier, and Moses no longer carries a weight that was never meant for one person alone.

This story speaks directly to how we work today. We often mistake being overworked for being valuable, and we see taking on everything as a sign of strength. But Exodus 18 challenges that way of thinking. Burnout isn’t dedication. It’s a signal that something’s out of balance.

Healthy leadership and healthy work environments are built on shared responsibility. So if you find yourself overwhelmed, stretched thin, and carrying more than your share, take a moment to sit with this. It’s not good to do everything alone, and it isn’t sustainable to be everything to everyone. Sometimes the most responsible thing you can do isn’t to take on more, but to allow the load to be shared. 

Moses had to learn that. And maybe, we do too.

So if this feels close to home, don’t keep carrying it on your own. Talk to someone you trust. Ask for help where you need it. And give yourself permission to make the adjustments that protect your health.

Because not everything is yours to carry. And you were never meant to carry it all.

If you could value yourself

If you could see the constellation within you, understand how much of the universe lives under your skin, would you love yourself more?

There is stardust in your bones, a tidal pull in your blood, a quiet orbit in your heart, an atmosphere in your lungs that rises and falls. Electric stars fire in your mind, while minerals and crystals form and dissolve softly within you.

If you could fathom this inner galaxy working without rest, faithfully keeping you alive, would you see creation differently? Would you look at people with more admiration?

If you could measure life, would you stand in awe of the vessel that holds you, and find worth in the person it contains?

Because if you could value yourself a little more than gold or platinum, a little more than even the oxygen you breathe, you might value others too, and feel less frustration at their existence.

instagram.com/astron0mers/

With a Grain of Salt

No Judgment

I too am human.
Imperfect.
Inclined to sin.
And I cannot judge you for being the same.

There are ten commandments in the Old Testament. And Jesus gave one new commandment in the New Testament that folds every rule, every law, and every expectation into a single, piercing line of truth: 

Love God with all your heart, and love your neighbour as you love yourself. 

My questions:

How do we follow that commandment in a world where God is forgotten in the noise, and where so few people genuinely love themselves?
How do we love others when we barely understand our own hearts – our wounds, our shadows, our contradictions? 

I think this is where humanity becomes both simple and complicated. 

The Empty Boat 

From as far back as I can remember, I’ve been an empath. When people said or did hurtful things, my instinct wasn’t to judge – it was to understand. I cried at times. I dwelled on their words. I obsessed over the meaning. But even in the hurt, I “saw” them. I “heard” them. Not their behaviour alone, but the unspoken language underneath it – the language of their past: trauma, fear, old wounds, defence mechanisms, and survival instincts formed long before I ever appeared in their story. 

Much of that language was one I didn’t fully understand, but I recognised the tone. And so, in my mind, their boat was always empty. 

The “Empty Boat Mindset” teaches this: 

When someone bumps into you – with their words, their anger, their carelessness, or their silence – it often has nothing to do with you. Their boat is empty. They are navigating stress, memories, triggers, fears, insecurities, and emotional blind spots you may never know about. They aren’t strategising how to hurt you. They aren’t plotting emotional warfare. They are simply doing what they’ve always done to survive whatever moment they’re in. 

When you learn to see the empty boat, you realise not everything is personal. You stop reacting to every slight. You stop assuming intention. And more importantly, you begin assuming humanity. You don’t do this to excuse bad behaviour. You do this to protect your peace. 

Respect and Imperfection 

Imperfect people strut around expecting respect from other imperfect people. Some say, “You must earn respect.” Others insist, “You don’t earn respect – you are respect. Behave accordingly.” 

And while everyone argues about respect, the word “decency” bounces around the room unnoticed. 

Here’s my imperfect viewpoint: 

The one demanding respect is often just as indecent, flawed, reactive, or unreasonable as the one refusing to give it. Respect becomes a badge people want to wear without doing the work that makes it real. We shout for respect, but live in ways that contradict the very thing we’re insisting on. 

So let’s pause and ask a very simple, very uncomfortable question: What does respect even mean to you? 

Is it tone?
Is it obedience?
Is it being agreed with?
Is it silence when you’re wrong?
Is it people tiptoeing around your sensitivities?
Is it validation – even when you don’t deserve it?
Or is respect something deeper?
A basic human decency?
A way of speaking?
A way of treating people?
A willingness to pause before harming?
A consciousness of your own flaws before pointing at someone else’s? 

Because decency – not ego, not entitlement – is the real foundation of respect. Without decency, “respect” becomes nothing more than a performance. A demand. A one-way street built by someone who thinks their imperfection is holier, tidier, or more justified than yours. 

So again... What does respect truly mean to you? 

Always Offended 

Why are we so quick to feel offended? Why do the smallest words, glances, pauses, or comments ignite something in us? 

Because being offended is almost never about the present moment. It’s about history. It’s about the old bruise the new comment touched. It’s about the trigger we didn’t know was still alive in us. 

We get offended easily because

- we carry unhealed wounds,
- we expect others to fix what we haven’t faced,
- we personalise everything,
- we assume intention,
- we fear being seen for who we really are,
- we crave validation,
- we want to be right,
- we’ve normalised outrage, and, most of all,
- we forget that other people are just as imperfect and fragile as we are. 

To be offended is human. But to stay offended is a choice. 

Most offence is nothing more than our ego screaming for protection. Or our insecurity begging for reassurance. Or our past mistaking the present for danger. And when we finally understand this, something shifts:

Instead of reacting, we reflect.
Instead of attacking, we breathe.
Instead of assuming intention, we assume humanity. 

Offence loses its grip when we realise people don’t exist to emotionally stabilise us. They are living their own stories – messy, confused, traumatised, distracted – and sometimes their rough edges scrape against ours. Not out of malice. Out of being human. 

So the question isn’t, “Why did they offend me?” The question is, “Why did it land so deeply?”

And that’s where the real work – the healing work – begins. 

The Lie 

We all lie. Let’s just start there, because the foundation needs to be honest before we go any further. Some lies are big. Some are small. But at the end of the day, a lie doesn’t become holy because it’s tiny. This is the big-sin / small-sin game we love to play, as if softening the edges changes the shape. It doesn’t. A lie is still a lie. Sin is still sin. An excuse is still an excuse – based most often on a lie. 

But lying is not a simple “good people don’t do this” and “bad people do.” No. It lives in the grey. It sits in the in-between where human psychology complicates everything. People lie out of fear, embarrassment, shame, habit, survival instinct, conflict avoidance, people-pleasing, ego protection – the list goes on. 

Someone tells part of the truth. Someone avoids a detail. Someone sugar-coats because they think you’ll crumble if they serve it straight. Someone lies because the truth costs too much. And sometimes you lie because confronting reality is harder than rearranging it. 

And this brings us to the uncomfortable part – the moment we ask:

When someone lies to me… what role do I play in that interaction?

Not “What about me caused the lie?” but “What about my reactions makes truth feel unsafe?” 

It takes two to tango, not because I force someone to lie, but because I am part of the emotional ecosystem where the lie happens. If I explode at honesty, people will hide from me. If I punish vulnerability, people will choose comfort over truth. If I treat mistakes like mortal crimes, people will protect themselves from me. These are not excuses for dishonesty – they are insights. Reflections. A willing look in the mirror instead of pointing at everyone else’s cracks while pretending mine don’t exist. 

And when someone lies to me, I can’t just ask, “Why did they do that?”

I also have to ask, “How do I respond to truth? How do I respond to discomfort? Have I really never bent the truth myself?” 

We judge loudly the things we’ve done quietly. 

And yes, there is a difference between a human who lies once and a person who habitually lies. One is a stumble. The other is a pattern. And patterns require boundaries, not just forgiveness. Knowing which is which saves a lot of heartache. 

But let’s not pretend we’re above the little lies – the socially acceptable ones. 

Someone asks, “Am I fat?”
You respond, “No, you’re beautiful, just the way you are!”
But the truth might be:
“Well… you aren’t thin.”
Or even more honestly:
“Yes, you’ve gained weight.”

But we don’t say that. We’re terrified of hurting people. Terrified of consequences. Terrified of being the villain in someone else’s story for speaking plainly. So we sugar-coat – and then convince ourselves that sugar isn’t just another form of deception. 

Another example:

“Hi, how are you?”
“I’m fine, and you?” 

We say it automatically. A script. A reflex. A polite social handshake. But let’s be honest: no one is “fine.” Not really. Not fully. Not every day. And we don’t say what’s actually going on because… we don’t want to overwhelm someone; we don’t want to seem weak; we don’t trust them with our truth; we worry they’ll judge us; we fear becoming “too much”; we sense they don’t actually want the real answer; or we simply don’t have the emotional energy to unpack our own chaos in the middle of a grocery aisle or WhatsApp chat. 

So we lie. A tiny lie. A socially acceptable lie. A lie wrapped in a smile. Not because we’re deceitful, but because vulnerability feels dangerous. We say “fine” because it is the safest answer. The least complicated. The most protective. It’s a shield, not a deception. A way of keeping the world out until we decide who is safe enough to let in. 

But it still proves the point: 

We all lie – sometimes to others, sometimes to ourselves – not out of malice, but out of fear, exhaustion, caution, or habit. 

Even the smallest conversation reveals how complex truth really is. 

Take a look at the rants on Facebook. Someone posts about how exhausted they are, how awful their week has been, and how life has drained every last drop of patience from them. And then the story shifts: They describe the “bitch-face” woman standing in the coffee aisle – taking up too much space with her fully loaded trolley and her “humongous body.” And because this woman existed in the wrong place at the wrong time, BAM – slamming a trolley into her becomes justified. Worth it. Almost heroic. How dare she block an aisle! How dare she not read the emotional radar of someone having a terrible week! How dare she simply… be there. 

And how do the fans, followers, friends, and family respond?

“Yes! Well done!”
“They deserved it!”
“You showed them!”

Really? Is that the truth? Is that wisdom? Is that kindness? Is that decency?

Or – and this is far more likely – are we just applauding bad behaviour because it’s easier than being honest? 

Honesty takes courage. And courage is not something everyone uses daily. It is far simpler to validate someone’s rage than to gently say, “Hey… maybe that wasn’t okay,” or, “Maybe your bad week doesn’t justify harming someone else,” or, “Maybe the aisle-blocker wasn’t your enemy – maybe she was just a tired human too.” 

But calling someone out requires bravery.

It requires maturity.
It requires risking their anger – risking the relationship – in order to speak truth instead of feeding ego. 

Our Debt has been Paid 

And now we reach the heart of the matter – the thread that holds all of this together: 

Jesus died for our sins. Every one. Big, small, polite, messy, intentional, accidental – all of them. 

Living a Christ-like life doesn’t mean perfection. It doesn’t mean parading our righteousness like a trophy. It doesn’t mean stoning ourselves to pulp every time we fall short. It means aiming for the bullseye every single day. Trying. Reaching. Turning our faces toward the character of Christ even when our feet stumble. 

And when we miss – and we will miss – we don’t sit in the dust and punish ourselves. We pray. We ask for forgiveness. We breathe. And tomorrow, we try again. 

There is no need to weaponize Scripture. No need to force-feed verses while pointing fingers at everyone else’s failures. No need for the “holier than thou” act that fools no one – not even ourselves. The truth is simple and humbling: 

I am a sinner. And so is he. And she. And them. And everyone around me. 

We will offend. We will lose it. We will say the wrong thing. We will bend the truth. We will hide. We will fail. But we will also rise. We will find our centre again. We will apologise, adjust, grow. 

We will get up – or get over it – and we will go on. 

Yes! Indeed! I, too, am human.
Fragile. Flawed. Learning.

I’m trying every day to be better than yesterday, but never pretending I don’t fall short. And some days, I might even be too tired or depressed or anxious to bother being better! There may be many of these days. And so be it!

Because? 

God reads the heart. 

And that’s the truth – the hard truth, the soft truth, the human truth, and the truth that sets us free. 

Teach Me 

Take all of this with a grain of salt. Leave a comment. Teach me how you see it. 

I’ve always believed that life is a school, and I’m a lifelong learner – able and willing to learn from others. 

Every perspective, every story, every truth and lie, every stumble and rise teaches me something. And if I can keep learning, growing, and reflecting, then maybe that’s enough.