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 summer’s 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 didn’t 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.

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.

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.” 

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.

Quiet Moments of Faithfulness

We’re living in a world that feels increasingly unsettled.

Wars rage. Natural disasters devastate. Economies wobble. And beneath it all, people are losing hope — trying to hold together some sense of purpose in the chaos.

Even on a personal level, there’s a restlessness we can’t quite name. We scroll through endless reels on social media — people trying to be funny, wise, relatable, “real” — all in the search for likes, validation, connection. There’s this collective striving to be seen, to matter, to make a difference.

It’s not vanity, really. It’s something deeper: a yearning to contribute, to be useful, to leave a mark that outlives the noise.

And yet, in the search for something big, we often overlook the simple.

Not everything that matters goes viral. Some of the most powerful things we’ll ever do won’t be posted, recorded, or applauded. They’ll be quiet moments of faithfulness, acts of goodness offered not to the world, but to the person right in front of us.

I may have mentioned this in a previous article, but it’s worth repeating. If you missed it the first time, here it is again. Leo Tolstoy once told the story of a king who believed that if he always knew the right time to act, the right people to listen to, and the right thing to do, he would never fail. So, he sought the answers far and wide. But it wasn’t any of his wise men who showed him the truth. It was a humble hermit, a man worn by time but grounded in stillness, who led the king to discover that truth doesn’t always speak; sometimes, it reveals itself in silence, in service, in surrender.

The king learned not through words but through presence. He came to see that:

The right time is now because now is where eternity meets us. The present moment is sacred. It’s not just convenient; it’s consecrated.

The most important people are those you are with in this moment — not the influential or impressive, but the souls entrusted to your path right now. They are not random. They are divine appointments.

And the most important thing to do is to do good, not because it earns favour, but because it reflects the nature of God Himself. Goodness is the imprint of heaven on earth.

This is not just moral advice; it is a spiritual calling.

We live under the illusion that we’ll have more time, that tomorrow will offer a better moment to show love, to offer help, to extend grace. But delay can become disobedience. Procrastinated compassion often becomes missed purpose.

God doesn’t ask us to change the whole world in one sweeping act. He simply asks us to be faithful in the moment, to be present, attentive, and willing. Goodness is not measured by scale but by sincerity.

We were never meant to live in theory or intention. The Spirit moves in real time. And the fruit of that Spirit — love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness — is meant to be lived now, not later.

So pause. Look around. The people around you aren’t just background noise. They are your mission field, your ministry, your mirror. There’s no need to impose yourself or your kindness. But if an opportunity presents itself, be fully present.

Do good. Do it now. And do it to those with you now.

Not because it’s easy. But because it’s holy.

The Messenger Painting - by Kathy Linden

A Shift in Interest

I’m an empath, and over the years I’ve noticed how easily attention sharpens when something truly interests a person. Details then become clearer, the mind is more alert, and energy is more focused. Why? It’s simply because we are governed by our interests.

We tend to see, understand, and respond to the world around us when it’s directly tied to what we care about. When we’re passionate about a subject or invested in a goal, we notice things others miss. We become more capable, more aware, more alive.

But what happens when our interests are misaligned? Here lies the problem. 

One example is our interest in other people. When we become far too interested in the downfall of others—their failures, their flaws, their drama—we are attracted to everything negative. We spend more time on news feeds that are flooded with scandal and controversy. Conversations veer toward criticism rather than celebration. And all the while, the world quietly falls apart—not because we’re blind, but because we’re looking the wrong way.

Another example is sport. Think of a passionate sports fan. They know the history of their team, every player’s stats, the game schedule, even the nuances of the referee’s calls. Their interest sharpens their senses—they notice subtle plays, strategy shifts, body language. It’s not because they’re more intelligent than anyone else—it’s because they care. Their focus is fueled by passion, and as a result, their awareness and insight deepen.

Now compare that with someone watching a game they don’t care about. They miss the details, the tension, the artistry. The same event unfolds before both people, but only one is truly awake to it. That’s the power of interest.

But even in sport, misaligned interest shows up. Fans can become fixated on an athlete’s mistakes rather than their effort. A missed goal, a bad pass, a defeat—and suddenly the tide turns. Harsh words fly, online abuse spikes, and judgment replaces admiration. Talent is overshadowed by one bad moment.

What would happen if we became more interested in people’s progress than their mistakes? More invested in solutions than in problems? What if we paid attention to the quiet acts of courage, the slow climb of someone rebuilding their life, the small but significant steps of someone chasing a dream?

Interest is power. It directs our energy, our attention, and ultimately, our actions. When our interest shifts from destruction to development, from judgment to encouragement, we start to rebuild not just others—but ourselves.

So here’s a challenge for all of us:Take stock of your interests. What are you drawn to? What captures your attention? Are you feeding your mind with negativity, or are you tuning in to things that elevate, inspire, and push you forward?

Because the truth is, the world becomes what we choose to focus on. And if we want to live in a better one, we need to care about better things.

Stay focused. Stay inspired. Choose interest that builds, not breaks.

Casting Stones

In my previous post, I wrote about the refining fire — a mysterious and holy process. While it strips us, shapes us, and ultimately transforms us, in our pain, in our surrender, we come to know God more intimately. We discover that we are not as strong as we thought, not as self-sufficient, not as in control. We are, in truth, deeply dependent on grace.

And yet… even in this place of personal refinement — or perhaps because of it — we sometimes fall into a strange posture: judgment.

We start noticing other people’s faults more easily. Their choices. Their flaws. Their failures. We start measuring them against standards we ourselves are struggling to meet. We watch them fumble and fall, and before we even realize it, we’ve picked up a stone — perhaps not in our hands, but in our thoughts, our words, our tone, our assumptions.

John 8:7 (NIV) “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone...”

Judgment isn’t ours to carry. None of us are sinless. None of us are done being refined.

Yet, while sitting in the fire of our own transformation, we still believe we have the right to judge someone else’s?

Malachi 3:3 doesn’t say the fire is for some — it says God sits as a refiner and purifier of His people. All of them.

Each of us.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: We don't always look refined while we're being refined. Sometimes we look raw, messy, unhinged, immature. Sometimes we’re stuck in patterns we don’t know how to break. Sometimes we fall back into old habits, or lash out from old wounds, or act in ways that make others question if we’ve grown at all.

But does God walk away?

No. He sits. Patient. Present. Watchful.

And if He — the only one truly worthy of judgment — chooses to stay and work gently with each of us, how much more should we offer that same grace to each other?

The person you’re tempted to criticize might be standing in their own fire right now. You may not see the heat, but it’s there. And God is sitting with them, just as He sits with you. Refining. Purifying. Waiting for His image to appear.

So maybe instead of casting stones, we can extend compassion. Speak gently. Pray quietly. Trust that their process — no matter how messy — matters to God, too.

Because the fire is not a place for comparison. It’s a place for surrender. And none of us comes out of it shining because we were better than others. We shine because God stayed with us long enough to bring His reflection to the surface.

So if you're in the fire today, let it humble you — not just for your own growth, but so you can be a safe place for someone else in theirs.

Ask yourself today:

Am I offering the same grace I so deeply need?

Am I making space for others to be refined, or am I judging them while their fire still burns?

Lay the stone down. The fire is doing its work.

And none of us is finished yet.

When God sits by the Fire

Today, a dear friend shared something on social media with me. It’s a well-known sermon illustration tied to Malachi 3:3: “He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver…”

To better understand these words, a woman visits a silversmith to understand how silver is refined. The smith explains that the silver must be held in the center of the fire — right where it’s hottest — to burn away all impurities. He sits and watches the process closely, never leaving, because if the silver is left in the fire even a moment too long, it will be ruined.

When asked how he knows when the silver is fully refined, the silversmith replies: “When I can see my image in it.”

I sat with this for a while and then wondered… Does God allow us to go through suffering, pain, and loss to refine us — until His image is reflected in us?

Because if you’ve lived a little, you know life doesn’t leave us untouched. Over the years, we gather experience, opinions, patterns, pride. We learn how to survive, how to stand on our own two feet. We become self-reliant, efficient, even impressive. But in the process, we can also become distant — layered, defended, weighed down.

The world taints us. It influences our thinking, our values, our pace. It teaches us to strive, to perform, to compete, to prove ourselves. And slowly, we begin to draw away from what really matters. For many of us, our faith becomes a duty instead of a relationship, because we support the world’s systems without even realizing we’ve stopped seeking God’s ways.

Then life interrupts. A loss. A crisis. An illness. Something shatters, and suddenly, the scaffolding we built our lives on crumbles — and we’re left standing in the heat of it all, wondering: Is this the refining fire?

And maybe it is. Because when we go through hardship, something happens: We are often stripped of our pride, ego, and the illusions of self-sufficiency.

Our attachments to worldly things — status, wealth, reputation, even our well-worn beliefs — are exposed as fragile.

Our inner life comes to the surface: our faith, our fears, our identity, our capacity to love.

It’s with this stripping away that we can become more open to faith, love, compassion, humility, mercy, and dependence on God.

Romans 8:29 puts it plainly: "For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son..."

That’s the refining process. That’s what all the fire is for.

Not to destroy us, but to conform us to the image of Christ. Not suffering for suffering’s sake, but transformation through surrender. A becoming. A revealing. Until one day, when God looks at us, He sees something familiar. His reflection.

And that makes the fire, while still painful, not pointless.

So if today feels hot… if you feel pressed, stripped, broken, exposed… remember your Silversmith. He sits by the fire. He watches. He never leaves. Because you matter too much to be left unattended.

And He knows the moment your heart starts to reflect His own.

Find a quiet moment today and ask:

Is there something God may be refining in me — not to harm me, but to bring something deeper to the surface?

Let that question sit with you in the stillness.

 

Tolerate and be Tolerated

You’ve probably heard something like this before:

• “Don’t talk about so-and-so in front of me.”

• “I don’t want to hear anything that questions my beliefs.”

• “You can’t say that—it’s offensive.” 

We all have lines we don’t want crossed. That’s fair. Boundaries are important. But lately, it feels like personal preferences have become public commandments. Not just “please respect my space,” but “you’re a bad person if you don’t agree with my rules.” 

I can’t help but think: Is this what the Pharisees did? 

In religious texts, the Pharisees were the people who added layers and layers of rules, turning something meant to be freeing into something heavy and exhausting. They were more focused on keeping people in line than actually helping anyone. 

I’m not saying people today are quoting scripture at each other, but we do something similar. We throw rules into the room like grenades: 

• Don’t bring up that politician.

• Don’t question this narrative.

• Don’t say anything that makes me uncomfortable.

And when we do, we’re shunned. Cancelled. Labelled. Branded. 

What happened to live and let live?

Real tolerance isn’t agreeing with everyone. It’s not pretending we all think the same. It’s letting people be—even if they’re wrong, even if they push your buttons, even if they make you pause and think. 

We’re losing that. We’re replacing it with a culture where everyone has to tiptoe, where people talk in code, and where a single misstep means you’re done. 

We’ve gone from sharing space to shrinking it. From being honest to being afraid. 

The moment we start slapping labels on people—“ignorant,” “toxic,” “problematic”—we stop listening. We stop seeing people as people. We reduce them to a word and dismiss them. 

Some of us go even further: we tighten the noose. We hold people to an impossible standard. Say one wrong thing, and they’re hung out to dry. No conversation. No grace. Just judgment. 

It’s exhausting. It’s not kind. And it’s not working.

Let’s be honest. Some subjects make our skin crawl. We react. We get angry. Defensive. Hurt.

 

Why? Because it’s not just about the topic. It’s about what it touches in us.

 

1. It’s personal

Some things hit a nerve because they remind us of pain. Our past. Our upbringing. A wound we haven’t dealt with. When something feels personal, it’s easy to take it as an attack—even if it isn’t meant that way.

 

2. It challenges us

Sometimes we’re not as sure about our beliefs as we thought. A challenge feels like a threat. So we double down instead of admitting, “You’ve given me something to think about.”

 

3. It threatens our sense of identity

Beliefs have become identities. It’s not just what I believe—it’s who I am. So if you disagree with me, it feels like you’re rejecting me. That’s dangerous. It turns every disagreement into a battle.

 

4. It reminds us, we’re not in control

Some topics remind us we’re not in control. Injustice, grief, regret. It hits a place we don’t want to go.

 

These feelings are real. They’re human. They’re not shameful.

 

We can’t stop people from saying things we don’t like. But we can stop and ask ourselves: 

• What’s really going on inside me right now?

• Is this about what they said—or about something I haven’t dealt with?

• Can I be curious instead of just angry or hurt?

That kind of honesty isn’t easy. But it’s freeing. The more we understand what’s behind our reactions, the less we need to control everyone else just to feel okay.

 

 

 

Sway, Stretch, Adapt!

The oak fought the wind and was broken, the willow bent when it must and survived. ~ Robert Jordan

The hard truth about life is that it doesn’t care if you’re ready. It’ll huff, it’ll puff, and it’ll blow you down whether you’ve reinforced yourself with bricks of endurance or just slapped on some faith so that you don’t fall through the cracks. You can either stand like a stubborn old oak and snap under the pressure of every bad thing that happens, or you can bend like a palm tree and ride out the horribleness of it all.

I can’t talk for everyone, but I can look at my own reactions to hardship. I tend to make it harder on myself. I bulldoze over my own limits, ignore the flashing neon signs my body throws up, and then act surprised when I feel awful—physically. I know not every gut feeling is a wise old sage whispering secrets. Sometimes it’s just trauma or bad habits that die hard. But there’s still wisdom in listening to my body.

I’ve learnt that the whole “push through at all costs” mindset is a fast track to burnout. Yes, I break. Yes, I bend. But I’ve also learnt to extend. I’ve learnt to extend myself a little grace. I’ve learnt to extend my awareness past the need to just get through an upsetting experience and actually “experience” it head-on.

Life can’t be good all the time. If it were, we’d never grow. Instead of treating life like a battlefield where we’re either victorious or roadkill, maybe we should learn to move with it—sway, stretch, adapt. Because real strength is not just about standing tall. It’s knowing when to lean, when to flex, and when to throw our hands up, eat a chocolate, and try again tomorrow. 

Afterall… tomorrow is another day!  

Set the Bar Higher

When you set the bar too low—when you tell yourself that dreaming bigger is pointless—you’re basically rolling out the welcome mat for mediocrity. Maybe you think you’re being practical, avoiding disappointment, but let’s be honest: you’re selling yourself short. Worse, you might be relying only on your strength, measuring your potential by what you can do instead of what you can do with God. Going solo in life is like trying to assemble furniture without instructions. Frustrating.

Your mind is your only prison, and the only enemy is the part of you that refuses to be tamed—the doubt, the fear, the voice that tells you to play it safe. With faith as small as a mustard seed, you can move mountains. When you team up with God, doors open that you didn’t even know existed.

A good way to seize the day is to avoid settling. Instead of shrinking your goals to fit your fears, stretch beyond your comfort zone—way beyond—because that’s where real growth happens. That’s where faith is tested, courage is built, and transformation takes root. Set the bar higher than comfort and higher than reason. When faith gets involved, the impossible starts looking an awful lot like your next big challenge. And it’s not always about winning. It’s about learning how to live fully, in gratitude, while rising and staying above the muck and mire of the world.

The Good, the Bad, and the Grey In Between

I want to send a little apology to anyone who sees the world in black and white—because, let’s be honest, life is one giant grey area with a whole lot of messy in between. We all like to think we’re the good guys, the ones making the right choices, doing the best we can. But the truth is, without a little darkness, we wouldn’t appreciate the light. And without the light, we’d never see our own shadows creeping along behind us.

The biggest achievement in life is not perfection—it’s self-awareness. It’s about knowing who you are, quirks, flaws, bad hair days, and all. It’s about owning your mistakes, laughing at the ones that don’t sting too much, and learning from the ones that do. Sometimes, we’re the hero of the story, and other times, we’re the villain in someone else’s story. And that’s okay.

Life is like a game of darts. We aim for the target, the perfect bullseye, and half the time, we miss. Sometimes, we hit the wall instead. Because we’re imperfect, we’ll always fall short. In the end, what matters isn’t the miss, or the fall, or the failure; it’s the fact that we keep trying, adjusting, figuring things out as we go. Taking responsibility when we knock over the metaphorical beer on the counter, and celebrating the moments when we actually land a solid hit.

It’s not about having all the answers. It’s about being open, being real, and maybe, just maybe, having a little fun along the way.