Poet. Blogger. Speaker. Author of “Moments: A Poetic Autobiography”. Unapologetically a lover of God, a lover of love and all things nature. Hardcore logophile with an epigrammatic style. Creative soul. Artsy to the core.
Beforeword: This spoken-word tribute celebrates the life and legacy of Jimmy Cliff, one of Jamaica’s most iconic voices. As a cento, it is crafted entirely from Cliff’s own lyrics but stitched together as both a celebration of his life and a rallying cry for hope and resilience for Jamaica’s recovery from Hurricane Melissa.
I can see clearly now the rain is gone, I can see all obstacles in my way. The dark clouds that had me blind, they’re gone I feel the sun returning to shine.
Take a look at the world, See the state it’s in today. I am sure you’ll agree We all could make it a better way, If we put our love together.
Man and woman, girl and boy, Let us try to give a helping hand— Lift each other up. Between the day you’re born and when you die, They never seem to hear even your cry. I’d rather be a free man in my grave, Than living as a puppet or a slave. The bigger they come, the harder they fall, one and all.
We still have—
Many rivers to cross, When you can’t seem to find the way over, Keep moving, as you travel along, your will keeps you alive
For— You can get it if you really want, If you try, try and try, try and try. You’ll succeed at last.
Afterword: I used 5 of his most popular and “truth-to-power” songs:
I Can See Clearly Now — A bright, optimistic anthem about overcoming obstacles and finally seeing hope after hard times.
The Harder They Come — A gritty, defiant song about struggle, resistance, and standing your ground against oppression. The movie, by the same name, brought reggae beyond Jamaica to a global audience.
Many Rivers to Cross — A deeply soulful reflection on hardship, loneliness, and the long journey toward freedom and peace.
You Can Get It If You Really Want — An encouraging, motivational tune about perseverance and believing in yourself despite setbacks.
Wonderful World, Beautiful People — A joyful celebration of love, unity, and the beauty of humanity set to infectious reggae grooves.
Rest in Peace & Power Jimmy Cliff. May your soul cross the river to its resting place.
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There is a quiet, stubborn force that runs through the blood of Jamaicans.
It shows up in how we speak, move, and survive. It lives right there in the word JamaiCAN — a declaration, not a suggestion: we are a people wired for CAN.
1988, four Jamaican men — Dudley Stokes, Devon Harris, Michael White, and Freddy Powell — took on the Winter Olympics in Calgary, Canada. Temperatures hovered around 14 °F (–10 °C), far colder than their tropical bodies were built for. Their bobsleigh crashed. They did not medal. But they stood. They walked off that ice and in true JamaiCAN spirit, they finished.
That story became the 1993 film “Cool Runnings”. Its theme song, Jimmy Cliff’s cover of “I Can See Clearly Now”, became the anthem of saying “yes” when the world expected “no”.
Decades later, on November 25, 2025, one day after Jimmy Cliff’s passing (may his soul Rest In Peace), the Jamaican 4-man bobsleigh team — Shane Pitter, Junior Harris, Andrae Dacres, and Tyquendo Tracey — made history!! They captured gold at an international bobsleigh competition in Whistler, Canada — Jamaica’s first.
I wonder if, as they hurtled down that icy track, they thought of home — battered and bruised from Hurricane Melissa?
I wonder if they vowed — not by kissing an egg like depicted in “Cool Runnings” — but on the lives of every Jamaican that this would be the year, this must be the time?
Whatever drove them, they delivered a victory when our country most needed a boost.
More than skill, dedication and precision was that indomitable yes we CAN spirit that took men from a tropical warm island onto an ice-cold track. And it is that same yes we CAN spirit that will rebuild Jamaica—one house, one school, one road at a time and keep hope alive.
Jimmy Cliff’s song, now part of our history, remains with us to remind us:
I can see clearly now the rain is gone. It’s gonna be a bright sunshiny day.
This is who we are. This is what we do. We CAN rise again! We are JamaiCAN!
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
I’ve been quiet here, not from lack of words, but because life shifted fast and hard. I recently relocated to Kenya for work — a major transition that has demanded my full attention, mind, and energy.
At the same time, my heart has been anchored back home, as I watched the devastation of Hurricane Melissa unfold across Jamaica. Many of you have shared kind words to the posts I managed to get out on the situation in Jamaica. Again, THANK YOU!
Holding both realities at once has been heavy. The emotional toll of uprooting, starting over in a new country, and witnessing so much loss in a place that shaped me has been A LOT. Some days I’ve felt stretched thin between responsibility and grief, between staying strong and needing rest.
I’ve taken this brief pause from this online space to steady myself and make space to process it all. Writing is never far from me, even when I’m quiet, and I’ll be back here soon with new stories, new reflections, and the same commitment to honesty and hope. I’ve got so much to share including from being on the ground in Jamaica, watch this space!
Thank you for your prayers and your steady presence here.
Quiet roots take hold Storms pass, tired hearts still rise Rest, to bloom again
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
October 28, 2025, Melissa roll een— category 5 a true Goliath, full a noise an’ might breeze a tear dun tree sea a climb ova hill she come wid a hundred-eighty-five mile a hour win’ pressure low like she mean fi mash up everyting
But she never know bout Jah-mek-yah dat Ja-mai-ca is more dan a place pan a map it’s a pulse, a community, a people weh she couldn’t stop an when she roar she wake up all a wi worldwide from Bronx to London tide
She never know wi bigga dan har storm— dat when wi unite, wi turn grief inna form an’ show di worl’ weh it really mean to be JamaiCAN
Wi aguh pick up di piece dem— bit by bit, brick by brick fram yard to lane, from mountain to sea Melissa wake up all a we an’ we aguh move togedda like one family
From di likkle one dem a sweep di yard to di elder a patch roof wid nail an’ hamma every han’ pon deck every heart a beat— yeh man, wi still deh yah
Di breeze try fi ben’ wi di rain nuh try fi drown wi but wi—wi aguh build back betta from storm an’ rain wi aguh sing again louda dan di soun’ a pain but resilience nuh mean we fi walk alone so sah even di mightiest tree need support jus’ like we
So yeh, wi proud— but pride cyan pour concrete Yeh, wi strong— but strent still need sleep fe keep Even tallawah need a han’ fi lif’ when troubles come heavy an’ penetrate deep
Wi likkle—but wi tallawah Wi batta—but wi beautiful still Wi shaken—but wi nuh bruk Wi hurt—but wi a guh ‘eal
Fram Black River to deep inna St. James Parish wi aguh rise again like mawnin’ sun pan Blue Mountain hill, we cherish wi not jus’ survivin’, but wi revivin’— wid one heart, one love, one will
So when di worl’ look pon wi mek we tell dem clear an’ true fram de diaspora to de yawd crew T’ough we batta an’ bruise We are JamaiCAN— so we CAN rise again Stronga. Betta. Jamaica!💚🖤💛
Afterword: Why I Write in Patois
I was intentional in using patois to write this tribute poem because some pain refuses translation. The pain of watching the land that shaped you being whipped out of shape by forces beyond human control can’t live comfortably in borrowed language. It has to be spoken in the tongue that raised you, the voice that knows your cadence, your memory, your silence.
Patois understands my inner being. It carries the weight, the humor, the ache, the defiance. It translates not just what happened, but how it felt. It connects me to every other Jamaican—whether in the diaspora or at home—as we collectively felt the trauma inflicted on our homeland and our people. When I speak in patois, I am not performing culture — I am returning home. To my people. To my roots. To the land that made me.
Some grief is only fluent in the language of home.
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
🇯🇲 Now the storm has passed, leaving behind a trail of devastation unlike anything Jamaica has seen in decades.
🇯🇲 Over the past three days, I’ve ridden waves of emotion watching the destruction of my homeland unfold in real time.
🇯🇲 There’s something about Jamaica—something magnetic—that makes even those not born there feel an unexplainable pull to it, a sense of home. Many have reached out to check in, and that solidarity has meant a great deal.
🇯🇲 What we’re experiencing is a collective trauma—felt both on the island and across the diaspora. Yet amid the heartbreak, what stands out most is the indomitable spirit of Jamaicans: people with machetes and chainsaws clearing fallen trees so aid can reach cut-off communities; others pushing ambulances through mud where roads no longer exist, determined that care be delivered.
🇯🇲 As I witness these acts of courage and compassion, I hear the first part of our National Pledge echoing:
🇯🇲 That is Jamaica—tallawah*, unbreakable, with grit and grace in equal measure. We are moving through grief and loss, we are doing so together, yet even the strongest hearts need lifting. Strength without support is not sustainable. And, the burden of recovery cannot rest solely on the shoulders of those who are suffering.
🇯🇲 For those asking how to help—every possible humanitarian need exists right now. Follow your heart in giving, but give responsibly. Make sure your support flows through credible channels that truly reach those most in need (the government of Jamaica established a site to ensure coordination of support: https://supportjamaica.gov.jm).
🇯🇲 Through it all, we will rise and rebuild—Jamaica strong.
🇯🇲 To my fellow Jamaicans and friends of Jamaica—may we keep showing up for each other, wherever we are in the world.
Credit: Jamaica Observer
*Tallawah is a Jamaican Patois word that means strong, fearless, or strong-willed, and it’s often used to describe someone who is not to be underestimated. It captures a sense of resilience and power, especially when used in the proverb “Wi likkle but wi tallawah”, which means “We are small, but we are strong.”
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
Beforeword: Hurricane Melissa is inching toward Jamaica. Jamaica often feels larger than life — bold in color, rich in sound, unbreakable in spirit. But right now our island feels really really small. Vulnerable. Exposed beneath the vast expanse of this storm, a reminder just how fragile we are, floating out here in the Caribbean Sea. Climate change has turned the balance we once took for granted into these unprecedented storms. This is my prayer — for Jamaica, for our people — it’s linked to our national anthem. It’s also a prayer for the planet we all share.
Eternal Father, bless our land, Guard us firmly with Thy hand — From the storm, protect this night, Respond to our cry with all Thy might. Melissa creeps across the deep, Slow and heavy — no rest, no sleep.
Our little island, tallawah, proud, Feels small beneath this swelling cloud. Swirling spirals, fierce and loud, Thunder speaks — the heavens bowed. O God of storm and stillness, heed, Cover our homes, our lives—indeed.
Keep us free from evil powers, Be our light through these dark hours. We still believe in mercy’s flame, We call upon Your holy name. No roof can stand this raging test, No road can outrun so much of rain’s unrest. And if the power fails us at night, We’ll hum our hope by candlelight.
For we’ve seen dawn break disaster’s chain, From wild Gilbert to Ivan’s reign. We’ve seen joy rise after pain — O spare us, Lord, from loss again. Let mercy move swifter than storm’s form, Let peace command winds to deform.
And when the tempest’s fury’s through, Let rainbows tell what You can do: You kept us — a symbol like Noah’s dove, As You always do — Jah-mek-yah, land we love.
Beforeword: You may be familiar with the Bible story of a young shepherd boy, David, who defeated a mighty giant, Goliath, with nothing more than a sling and a stone. I chose that story as the inspiration for a children’s lesson I was asked to teach at church about bullying. To bring it to life, I wrote a poem—a playful riff on one of my earlier pieces, “That’s It, I’m Telling Jesus”. The kids all joined in by shouting the refrain: “That’s it, I’m telling Jesus”.
He towered over me that day, Stomping so loud the earth did sway. He mocked my God, he mocked my song— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He shouted and laughed, then turned away, Like bullies do when they have their way. I felt so small, for I was just a boy, But I knew God had a plan, oh joy! That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He scared the people all around, Even the king went and hid his crown. But God gives courage to see things through— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I gathered my stones, smooth and bright, They’d be my shield today, that’s right! Pray and trust, then seize the day That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I swung my sling round and round, It made a swishy, twirly sound. But just before I let it fly, He called me a shepherd boy—oh my! It made me mad, so very, very mad— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I twirled my sling again and again, Then let it go with all my strength. The stone flew fast, straight through the air, AND GUESS WHAT? It hit him here!
Right between his beady eyes it land He fell with a thud by God’s mighty hand! The victory was not mine, I must give thanks— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
Afterword: David chose smooth stones for the task at hand. We can choose smooth stone words filled with peace, love, joy, hopewhen we come up against our giants (whatever forms they may be).
Beforeword: I came across this young poet—Cherry Paul Ede’s—powerful rendition of Fragile Dogubo’s poem: “Gucci Cross” which I first posted in 2022. Reposting it now with the lyrics:
“I don’t know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on a Gucci cross. He didn’t have on a crown of Versace thorns or Nike shoes on his feet when the nails pierced through. There was nothing bougie about Calvary. That old raggedy wooden cross wasn’t even befitting to hold the carpenter’s son, but there our God hung, held on by His love for us, by His love for all.
It wasn’t the red carpet affair for your favorite celebs. Matter of fact, the only paparazzi was an angry mob as a crowd of witnesses. Once upon a time, I thought the crucifixion was like the Grammys, an award show only for a self-righteous view. But the Bible didn’t mention an ovation – only wrongful accusation, hate speech and boos from fools. The King of Glory came through.
Jesus “felt every nail, felt every whiplash, every rib crack. It was for you that He embraced the pain.
Jesus was placed in the tomb, but then He showed up on the third day like, ‘I’m good, and you are, too’ — one with the Father, my blood makes you brand new. So what other proof do you need that God loves you?
So when the serpent comes to the ring – hissing, whispering deceitful accusations speaking in passive tongues. This is clapback season. Declare: fully my sins are forgiven.
I do not know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on the Gucci cross. It doesn’t matter your age, gender, race or net worth – only that you have been made holy.”
I’m grateful for the old rugged cross and the blood that saves!
Five years anniversary is symbolized by wood—the symbol of endurance, strength, and growth. When I began this blog, the world was shut down, literally, by COVID. In the stillness, I reached for what I knew best—writing—words became a refuge, a way to shape uncertainty into meaning. What started as a tender seedling has taken root, stretching upward and outward. Each post is a ring in the grain, each shared reflection a fruit carrying stories reflecting the world around me, each reader a branch that gave life to the tree. Looking back, I see how writing not only sustained me but connected me to others—you dear readers—reminders that bonds can be formed even in silence, and friendships forged even through words.
Blogiversary— five years of growth and beauty here’s to words, to us
Update: Thanks to Dagmara and the editorial team at Spillwords for publishing this piece. Please drop by and show some love with a 👍🏾❤️ or comment. Thanks 🙏🏽
This piece of mint upon my tongue, Cool and sharp, a memory clung. Refreshing tea, from pot, flow like song A feeling I had forgotten for far too long
Steam curls upward, time bends in its sway, Suddenly I’m taken back to Montego Bay. Rain ra-ta-tat on grandma’s kitchen zinc roof Her voice is a calm to thunder—a lullaby, my living truth.
“Endure the storm, my child, you’ll find your way— After the darkest nights, there’ll come brighter days.” While mint’s fragrance floats effortlessly, A healing balm for all that ails me.
Now, in this city—a jungle of concrete Where busyness masks life, blanketed in conceit The mint revives me—channeling memories of choice, Like grandma’s kitchen and her soothing voice.
And when the world around me feels heavy, unkind, That taste of mint reminds me what I must find: Strength that lingers, roots that last, A living hope connecting future and past.
Afterword: This piece written for Spillwords prompt: to create a piece where a character experiences a vivid, forgotten memory triggered by a specific flavor (e.g., burnt sugar, sour lemons, or something unusual). Weave the memory into their present-day conflict.
stones listening, ancient and still at the summit, trees embracing pain inked on paper, jagged edges scatter, confessions releasing like small birds from my hands mountain listens, no judgment—only air receiving what no longer serves me I breathe, heart restored held by something vaster than fear ENOUGH cares left hanging in the thin mountain air
Dawn nature serenades chirping birds, morning breezes eyes flutter open
David whiskers quiver in the air fangs clack toward windowpane
Dawn sunbeam on the sill paw lifts, curiosity stirs, reaching for light
David hands unclench bedside machines hum lashes twitch
Dawn curtains billowing softly like a prayer on the wind
David radio crackles Bon Jovi drifts through static song becomes the sky
Afterword: My first rengay!!! Thanks David for this beautiful collaboration! The co-creating process was flawless and flowed seamlessly—two minds working in synchronicity to create a single piece of art!!!!
Rain is precious Not just water— When meted out in the right measures, a treasure
I remember, as a child The first few drops on parched ground drinking like it had been waiting for forever and then—steam Lifting up, escaping And the smell? It was like earth opened her chest and breathed out life We’d dig in dirt in child-like abandon Mash it between our fingers Make mud pies Pies served to makeshift dolls
It was magic to my little girl mind
But night rain? Oh, that was a whole different vibe. When the drops hit zinc— rat-a-tat lullaby rising just above silence Better than any pill It lulled you into peace A deep sleep of sweetest dreams
I miss that— Those simple days when rain was enough. Enough to make magic. Enough to make rest. Enough to make me believe.
Afterword: This piece grew out of a comment I shared in response to a reader on an earlier post, which also touched on the theme of rain. My comment was:
When you’re standing on the edge of a major life change, it’s natural to feel a mix of excitement and anxiety. And when that change involves relocating to a new country? The stakes feel even higher.
I’ve learned that the best way to meet these moments is to pause, breathe, and deliberately make space for wellness. For me, that space opened up at La Quinta Resort & Club in Palm Springs (California)—a desert oasis that has been welcoming guests for nearly 100 years.
Palm Springs is already renowned as a wellness destination, with spas that rank among the best in the nation. But when a friend raved about her time at La Quinta, I knew I had to experience it for myself. It felt serendipitous, almost like a nudge from the universe saying: go, restore, and prepare for what’s ahead. And, I’m so glad I obliged.
From the moment I checked in, the service was impeccable. I was greeted by the assistant front office manager—who, to my delight, is Jamaican. (It’s true what they say: wherever in the world you go, you’re bound to find a Jamaican!) That warm welcome set the tone for the days to come.
I began my retreat with a symbolic act of release.
Taking the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway up more than 8,500 feet to the top of Mount San Jacinto, I carried with me the issues I wanted to let go of before stepping into a new chapter of life. With intentionality as my aim, I wrote them down on paper, tore it up at the mountaintop, whispered a prayer, and left it all behind—physically, mentally, spiritually.
There, at one of California’s highest points, I felt lighter, freer, ready for the days ahead.
Before my trip, I had been reading “Self-Compassion: The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself” by Kristin Neff. Her words reminded me that true wellness begins not just with external rest, but with the practice of inner kindness. I worked through her exercises, learning how to soften the harsh self-talk and extend to myself the same grace I so easily give others. I carried those lessons with me into La Quinta, approaching the retreat with intentionality—choosing to treat myself gently, to honor this pause as a gift rather than a luxury.
Each morning at La Quinta started the same way: quiet contemplation on the private patio of my casita, under the shade of swaying palms, with mountains rising in the distance and desert stillness all around. In that sacred quiet, I re-centered myself, tuning in to the Creator, finding oneness before the day unfolded.
The days were a perfect blend of indulgence and restoration. Spa La Quinta more than lived up to its reputation—no wonder it ranks among America’s Top 100 Spas. I treated myself to facial, massages, and the rejuvenating Vichy shower and CBD oils that left me glowing inside and out.
Meals were another highlight of my stay. Each day began with a hearty breakfast at La Quinta, but the most unforgettable dining experience was watching the sun sink behind the mountains while dining at the Peak Restaurant. Perched high above the desert and accessible only by the aerial tram, the restaurant offers amazing views of the valley miles below. It’s no surprise that Architectural Digest recently named it #8 on its list of the World’s Best Cliffside Restaurants. Dinners at the Cliff House and at Morgan’s in the Desert, were equally memorable.
And then there was the casita itself—a private sanctuary, complete with its own pool. Of course, the property also boasts an array of larger pools scattered across the grounds, so you’re spoiled for choice whether you seek solitude or a more social swim.
La Quinta is preparing to celebrate its centennial in 2026, when a time capsule buried a century ago will finally be opened. I couldn’t help but wonder what treasures will be unearthed—what messages from the past will speak to a future generation!?
My own time there felt like uncovering a treasure, too: a reminder that rest,reflection, and renewal are the most valuable gifts we can give ourselves.
When I left La Quinta, I carried more than memories of sun-soaked days and spa bliss. I carried a sense of restoration, of readiness. The desert had done its work. I was prepared to face the new challenges of living and working in yet another country—grounded, lighter, and whole.
Beforeword: A couple weeks ago the Poet of the Week over at the Skepticskaddish introduced the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. This collection coins new words to express emotions and experiences that once had no name in English. For the prompt, we were challenged to choose one of these words, use it as the title of our poem, and either weave the word itself into the piece or capture the essence of its meaning.
I chose énouement:
n.the bittersweetness of having arrived here in the future, finally learning the answers to how things turned out but being unable to tell your past self. Pronounced “ey-noo-mahn.”
The moment I read it, I knew exactly what I wanted to write. Still, the poem took me a couple of weeks to bring to life. My muse was heaven—of course, not a place I’ve been, but one I’ve imagined through the lens of biblical reflection. I’d say bittersweetness is not a term associated with heaven, but énouement captures the emotion of knowing I will never be able to turn back and tell my past self the fullness of what I now behold—an experience even greater than the words of Scripture managed to describe.
The streets are not just gold— they are light in motion, alive under my feet. The air breathes music. Colors sing. And Jesus— Jesus is here, looking at me like He’s been waiting since before the dawn of time for this exact moment.
This is the ending. The answer. The final piece that clicks into place and makes the whole puzzle beautiful.
Every midnight question— answered. Every prayer I thought went unheard— fulfilled. Every why— woven into Heaven’s glory.
And yet— there’s that feeling. Énouement. Not sadness— no, never sadness— but a tender ache that whispers, “If only I could tell my past self— you made it. And it’s so much more beautiful than you ever dared to dream.”
But I can’t. The past is sealed. The road is walked.
I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. The tears are sown. And now— the crown, shining with stars, is placed on my head by the very hands of Jesus.
I’m not longing for back then— Storms carved me, fire refined me. Faith tested, more precious than gold, shines to praise, honor, glory at Christ’s appearing. The waiting taught me to want Him more than the answer. Every tear, every trial, every shadow I walked through— all of it, shaping me into the child He would crown.
No eye saw this. No ear heard it. No mind imagined it. But now— I live in it.
Énouement in heaven is joy rooted in gratitude, dancing in the arms of the Father, and knowing— He always knew the ending.
They have this perfectly imperfect thing— it never faded, not with miles, not with years.
He loves her exactly as she is— the unpolished, the unguarded, And she loves him in every corner of her soul.
Yet, still… time keeps them on opposite pages.
What will it take for the clocks to agree, for the world to hush long enough for them to gather every stolen second, stack them into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into forever.
Until then, He’ll keep loving her in the milli—between—seconds, until the day time finally says yes to innumerable minutes together.
Beforeword: Each day of my restorative retreat at the legendary La Quinta Resort began with a ritual of quiet observation. From the shaded patio of my casita, I would watch the desert morning unfold—light stretching across the Santa Rosa Mountains, breezes moving peacefully through the palms. Their tall, slender forms swaying effortlessly. These palms, I discovered, are not native to Palm Springs but distant cousins of the California fan palm, the desert’s true original. This became a kind of muse for me, inspiring this Shabbat Shalom reflection captured in a haibun (Japanese form blending prose and haiku).
In the desert of Palm Springs, two kinds of palms rise against the sky—the native California fan palm and those imported, such as the Mexican fan palm.
The native California fan palm grows only where hidden springs surface. Its beauty is not in its appearance but in its unseen roots that drink from underground waters deep beneath the surface.
On the other hand, the imported palms, though graceful and tall, survive only by the care of human hands. Their beauty is in their appearance, but it is borrowed. For, without the living springs they cannot last.
So it is with the righteous—those planted by the stream of living water, nourished in the secret place of the Most High are able to endure life’s desert heat and its winds of trial.
Our faith must be more than ornamental—it must be rooted in Christ, the fountain that never runs dry.
desert wind tested— those planted in living streams bend but do not break
Afterword: As the week turns and the Sabbath rest arrives, may these swaying palms remind us to bend so we don’t break, and to stay rooted in what is lasting.
Shabbat Shalom.
2025 All Rights Reserved Images/Video by Dawn Minott
From my vantage point in a cozy California-style casita at the iconic La Quinta Resort, encircled by the Santa Rosa Mountains, I’ve come to see how the peaks of Palm Springs transform with every angle of the sun—shifting from radiant glow to deep shadow.
Through this haiku series I trace the desert’s quiet drama from morning to dusk—I chose haiku for it’s minimalist elegance mirroring the timeless simplicity of the mountains themselves.
This marks the beginning of my Palm Springs R&R travelogue—more moments, reflections, and snapshots from this desert retreat to come.
Sunrise
Golden blush awakes, Mountains stretch from their night’s dreams, Light crowns each sharp peak.
Midday
Heat shimmers the stone, Brown ridges blaze in full glare, Stillness holds its breath.
Afternoon
Deep shadows carve lines, Desert’s art in bold contours, Sun sculpts shifting shapes.
Sunset
Blanket in amber Peaks bow in a soft embrace, Day gives way to night.
My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me—holy is his name. His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation.
Mary’s prayer concludes this week’s “Ancient Prayers for Today’s Cares” series. Her prayer is actually a song outpouring with awe, humility, and joy. She marvels that the God of heaven has noticed her—a young, humble girl—and chosen her for His plan. Her words echo themes of God’s mercy, justice, and faithfulness, showing that she knew her story was part of a much bigger story.
What’s powerful about Mary’s prayer is how it shifts from personal gratitude to a declaration of God’s character for all generations. It’s a reminder that praise isn’t just about celebrating what God has done for us, but about proclaiming who He is for everyone.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Praise
Lord— My soul can’t stay silent— it rises, it magnifies You. My spirit comes alive because You looked at me— ordinary, yet seen.
Mighty One— You have done great things for me. Your mercy is new every morning, it stretches wide, generation to generation, never running dry.
Here I am, just one voice. Forever I will say: God saw me. God loves me. God is faithful.
So let my life sing Your name. Let my gratitude spill over until it blesses more than just me.
My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am not of it. Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth… My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you… Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.
Jesus prayed for me. Jesus prayed for you. Let that sink in!!
In His final hours before the cross, Jesus prayed—not for Himself alone, but for His disciples and for all future believers. His words carry the weight of eternity: a plea for protection from evil, for sanctification in truth, and for unity that reflects the oneness of the Father and the Son.
What’s remarkable is that Jesus knew the challenges His followers would face—opposition, division, temptation—yet His request was not for escape, but for strength to remain in the world as lights of truth and love.
This prayer reminds us that our faith is part of something much larger than ourselves; we are bound together across generations, cultures, and nations by the love of God.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Protection & Unity
Jesus— When You prayed that night, You saw ME! Before I ever spoke Your name, You spoke mine to the Father. I’m so grateful.
Protect me from the evil that prowls, not by pulling me out of the world, but by keeping me steady in it. Shape me by Your truth until my heart aligns its beats with Yours.
And Lord, Dismantle the walls we build to separate, Erase the lines we draw, so that love speaks louder than division ever could.
Let my life be the living testimony that the Father sent the Son, that the Son loves His own.
And Hezekiah prayed to the Lord: ‘Lord, the God of Israel … open your eyes, Lord, and see; listen to the words Sennacherib has sent to ridicule the living God…. Now, Lord our God, deliver us from his hand, so that all the kingdoms of the earth may know that you alone, Lord, are God.’”
When King Hezekiah received a threatening letter from the Assyrian king, he didn’t let fear dictate his next step—he took the letter straight into the temple and laid it before God.
His prayer teaches us to bring our threats—whether words, circumstances, or fears—directly into God’s presence. It’s a reminder that deliverance isn’t just about removing danger; it’s about making God’s name known in the process.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Deliverance
Lord— You are God over all kingdoms, all powers, all voices that rise against me.
You made the heavens and the earth; there is nothing beyond Your reach.
Hear me now. See the weight I carry, the threats that echo in my mind, the situations that mock my faith.
I lay them before You— not to tell You what You don’t already know, but to remind my own heart that You are still in control.
Deliver me, Lord. Not just so I can breathe easier, but so the watching world will know— You alone are God.
Lord, the God of heaven, the great and awesome God, who keeps his covenant of love with those who love him and keep his commandments, let your ear be attentive and your eyes open to hear the prayer your servant is praying before you day and night… Give your servant success today by granting him favor in the presence of this man.
When Nehemiah heard about the broken walls and burned gates of Jerusalem, he blended confession, remembrance of God’s promises, and a bold request for favor in his prayer as he prepared to speak to the king.
Nehemiah’s example shows us that before seeking human permission, we should seek God’s approval. His prayer asking for favor isn’t just about gaining opportunity; it’s about aligning the mission with God’s heart so that God’s hand is evident in the outcome.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Favor
God of heaven— Before I move, before I speak, I come to You first.
You see the broken places that break my heart. You hear the cries of my spirit before my lips form the words.
I confess my failings, the ways I’ve fallen short, And I lean on Your covenant love that never breaks.
Open Your ears to my prayer, and open the doors no hand can shut.
When I stand before those who hold the power to say “yes” or “no,” let their ears be open, let their hearts be softened, let their decisions tilt in the direction of Your will for me.
Grant me favor— not for my glory, but so that Your work can be done through my hands.
My heart rejoices in the Lord…. There is no one holy like the Lord; there is no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God…. He will guard the feet of his faithful servants.
Hannah’s prayer rises out of a season of deep pain—years of longing for a child, enduring misunderstanding and ridicule. When God answered her cry and gave her a son, she didn’t just rejoice quietly; she poured out her gratitude in a song of PRAYse that exalted God’s power, sovereignty, and faithfulness.
What stands out is that Hannah’s focus isn’t solely on her personal blessing. She praises God for who He is, not just for what He’s done for her. Her prayer reminds us that gratitude lifts our eyes from the gift to the Giver, turning personal victory into public worship.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Gratitude
Lord— My heart sings, not because life is perfect, but because You’ve proven Yourself faithful.
You took the ache that lived in my chest, the silent prayers only You could hear, and turned them into joy I can’t contain.
There is no one like You— no other place I can run, no other Rock I can stand on when the ground shakes beneath me.
You lift up, You bring down. You close doors, You open them wide. You write the ending before I see the beginning.
So I will boast, not in my strength, but in Your deliverance. I will praise You, not just for the gift, but for being the Giver.
My mouth will tell the story: God heard me. God helped me. God is faithful.
Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight; so you are right in your verdict and justified when you judge…. Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
This prayer of David is one of the most raw and honest moments in Scripture. When confronted, he didn’t hide, excuse, or downplay his sin—he brings it fully to God. His appeal isn’t based on his worthiness, but on God’s mercy, love, and compassion.
This prayer reminds us that forgiveness isn’t something we can earn; it’s a gift we receive when we come with a contrite heart. David also doesn’t stop at asking to be cleansed—he asks for transformation: a pure heart and a steadfast spirit. God’s forgiveness wipes away guilt, but His renewal changes us from the inside out.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Forgiveness
God— Have mercy on me. Not because I deserve it, but because Your love never runs out.
Wash me. Not just the surface, but the places no one sees— the thoughts I hide, the motives I wrestle with, the moments I wish I could erase.
Against You, Lord, I have fallen short. I admit it. I can’t fix myself.
So create in me what I cannot create in myself— a clean heart. Renew in me what I cannot keep on my own— a steadfast spirit.
Let forgiveness be more than a word I hear; let it be the freedom I live in.
Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain! And God granted what he asked.
This prayer is just one verse tucked away in a long list of genealogies—you could easily miss it, but when you read it — it’s impossible to forget. Jabez, whose name means “because I bore Him in pain”, makes a bold, faith-filled request for MORE. He asked God for expansion beyond “things” to a greater sphere of influence; for God’s presence to guide and protect; and for deliverance to reverse the label placed on him so that he would not cause pain.
And perhaps the most compelling part? “And God granted his request.” A reminder that God listens, and He answers.
What makes this prayer powerful isn’t its length or eloquence—it’s the courage to ask God for more and for being gracious to others while living in the blessings.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: More
Oh God, my Father— Bless me… Not in the small ways I can imagine, but in the wild, immeasurable ways only You can design.
Stretch me beyond my borders. Push back the walls of my comfort zone until my life spills into territories I never thought I could walk, places my feet have never dared to tread.
Let Your hand be heavy on me— guiding, covering, steadying my steps when the ground feels like it’s breaking beneath me.
Keep me from harm, Lord. Not just the harm I can see coming but the hidden snares, the silent traps, the pain that would leave scars deeper than skin.
Let my story be a testimony of love, not a tale of wounds I caused.
Oh God, my Father— do this, and I will know it wasn’t luck, it wasn’t chance, it was You.
And like You did before, grant me my request. Not because I am worthy, but because You are faithful.
I’ll be running a series this week reflecting on ancient prayers recorded in the Bible and applying them to the cares of life today.
The Bible is filled with prayers—some whispered in desperation, some shouted in joy, others spoken in quiet trust. They were born in ancient times, but they beat a timeless heart.
I’ll begin each post with the original prayer, pause to reflect on its meaning, before sharing my own prayer in spoken word poetry.
It’s an invitation to slow down, listen, and let these ancient words shape our modern prayers.
So join me in this week where we’ll reflect, pray, and then release it all into God’s hands:
For those with personality traits which can be classified as “introverted”, give them quiet chilled events, few people and less stimulating environments and they’re in their element.
I’m drawn to nature. I can spend hours by myself in a park, by a river, in a garden because the quiet and stillness that I find underneath trees and on river banks never fail to invoke wonder and contentedness within me.
For people with my personality traits, it means that we focus on internal feelings rather than seeking out external sources of stimulation. It doesn’t mean we’re shy, but more reticent.
With my quiet, reserved, and introspective way of being, the mask has been like my superpower. Not as a disguise but as a buffer. Behind the mask I can process some of the information I so readily take in from the environment and doing so discretely.
Suffice it to say, in 2025 I’m still wearing my mask —a.k.a. my superpower—in crowded enclosed spaces though it’s now okay not to mask up.
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Some think I’m distant or aloof, others say I’m intimidating
Nothing is further from the truth
It’s likely that I’m deep in thought
Or that I’m observing the environment around me
My life compass—it’s a never ending 3-60-degree focus
Always listening, always planning, envisioning or writing
The endless balancing of mind’s up-down climb on the decision tree of “what ifs”
Shy, I’m not, reticent though—that would be quite fitting
I’m likely not the first to speak, or may not speak at all
When I speak it’s a decisive choice, a point most necessary for the making
Adding value, adding integrity, moving the needle on what’s being discussed
By the time I’ve made a decision there’s been a hundred thoughts ahead
Give me quiet spaces, time alone to just be
This is how I gather energy
Don’t mistake, then, my reservation for lackluster
I’m introverted and that’s just that
Sincerely, an Introvert
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Beforeword: I wrote future-self a letter: Dear Future Me, if you ever feel distant from your WHY, let this letter be your guide.
Hey you— Yeah, you, The one standing tall in the AFTER, Wearing the GLOW of prayers answered And paths made clear.
When you get there— Where the air feels lighter And your shoulders no longer carry the weight Of the unanswered… I hope you’ll pause. Just for a moment. And remember me. Standing here In this messy middle.
I am the version of you Still whispering “maybe” Still holding space for something That hasn’t yet arrived— A job that feels like calling, A love that feels like home, A place to finally unpack all my boxes And just be.
Right now, I am Neither beginning nor ending— But… becoming. Unfolding. Stretching in faith like sunrise Even when I can’t see the sun.
I need you to know: Some days I wake up strong. Other days— I question everything. My place in this world. My direction. Even whether my prayers Are still being heard.
But still—I show up. Still—I trust. Still—I place one trembling foot In front of the other.
So when you arrive at the place I can’t yet see, Please—don’t forget me. Don’t forget how much courage it took To bloom in the uncertainty. To smile through silence. To hope in the absence of proof.
And I hope— Oh, how I hope— That it ALL found you. The promotion. The partner. The peace. Not all at once, But in the timing that taught you To value the journey as much as the arrival.
I hope your days feel settled now. That home is no longer a suitcase or a prayer, But the secret place of the Most High— A solace. A rhythm of peace. A presence that cannot be shaken.
And when the world tries to pull you into hustle, May you return to the quiet strength Of this moment— This version of us Who waited, not always with patience, but Who kept the faith When everything felt foggy.
So, when you get there— Laugh with your whole chest. Love like you were never broken. And live like the miracle you are.
And if ever again you forget who you are or your place in the world— Read this. And remember: You were always walking in the purpose of God. You were never lost. You were just in the middle Of God’s beautiful unfolding.
With love, Me—right now, Still waiting, Still becoming, But already knowing Me now… Me then… We are enough.
When a clay pot falls to the ground, breaking is inevitable.
The impact shatters what once was whole—jagged edges, scattered fragments, a loss of shape and function. Even if one dares to gather the pieces, attempts to put it back together often leave visible cracks—scars that speak louder than the former beauty. Scarred. Scarred for life. No longer fit for display. Discarding seems inevitable.
But what if that isn’t the end of the story?
Enter the ancient Japanese art of Kintsugi—the practice of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold.
Kintsugi doesn’t pretend the break never happened. It doesn’t hide the damage. Instead, it honors it, emphasizing the fractures, not to glorify the break, but to highlight the healing.
The gold-filled cracks become a testimony of endurance and transformation. The vessel, once discarded, is now more precious than before—made whole with beauty drawn from brokenness.
Psalm 147:3 says, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
God, the ultimate Kintsugi Artist, does not discard us when we break, when we shatter.
He does not hide our brokenness beneath shame or pretense. Instead, He gathers every piece—every break caused by sorrow or trauma—and binds them together with His grace, His mercy, His love. His healing doesn’t erase the wounds—it redeems them. The scars remain, but now they gleam with purpose.
Like Kintsugi, divine healing does not restore us to what we were before. It makes us stronger, more radiant, more whole in a new way—a living testimony of how God’s hands can turn brokenness into beauty.
So if you find yourself cracked, fragmented, or shattered, remember this: you are not ruined—you are ready. Ready to be remade by the One who sees your worth, even in pieces.
Hiraeth: “A deep homesickness; an intense form of longing or nostalgia; an unaccountable homesickness for a place you have never visited”.
Hiraeth!
Hiraeth! Something irretrievably lost, beckons
Beckons my soul from deep
Deep within, this unexplainable, unattainable longing
Longing—intense yearning, reminiscing for a place
A place I’ve never been but somehow
Somehow I know
I know it’s home
Home before I was born
Born into this displaced world
World of sickness and suffering and death
Death that’s foreign to my soul
Soul born to live
To live for forever
Forever, now irretrievably lost, so
So deep—it echoes, ricochets off the walls of my soul
My soul yearning for home, calling
Calling deep unto deep, the roar of Your waterfalls sweep
Sweep over me, the depth of my soul opens
Opens up and drinks, for I thirst
I thirst for Your presence Oh …
Oh God, like a deer panting
Panting for streams of waters I thirst
I thirst for You
You, Oh God, You are my home
After-word: How can you be homesick and nostalgic for a place you’ve never been? Because God built a desire for Himself in our souls—our very DNA yearns for Him. And the deep of our need inherently calls unto the deep of His fullness; and vice-a-versa, the deep of His fullness calls unto the deep of our need. Between our emptiness and God’s all-sufficiency there is a great divide and so deep calleth unto deep—our souls cry: hiraeth (Psalm 42:7).
Shabbat Shalom. May you find completeness in the deep mercy of God’s fullness.
Proud to celebrate the International Day for Women and Girls of African Descent!
Today, July 25th, as we mark the International Day for Women and Girls of African Descent, I reflect on the profound strength and unwavering spirit required in a time of deliberate pushback against fundamental rights, equality, diversity, and inclusion.
This moment demands a reckoning with the systemic barriers that Afro-descendant women and girls continue to face, even as their contributions and leadership are more critical than ever. It’s a reminder that the fight for justice and dignity is ongoing, and that every step forward is hard-won.
“Rising Together: Women and Girls of African Descent Leading with Strength” is not just a theme for today; it’s a living testament to the resilience, innovation, and leadership demonstrated by Black women and girls every single day. From community organizing to global advocacy, from scientific breakthroughs to artistic expressions, their impact is immeasurable. This day serves as a reminder of the collective power we hold, and the urgent need to dismantle the structures that perpetuate discrimination and inequality.
Let’s honor this day by not only celebrating but also by committing to concrete actions that support the rights, well-being, and empowerment of Afro-descendant women and girls worldwide.
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Came across this wall message and it got me thinking — the rescue plan for our lives start with a determination, a decision to change, now!
Not the perfect version of you. Not the future-you with all the answers. But the present-you who’s had enough. The you who feels the discomfort, who’s no longer okay with “just getting by.” That version of you is your own rescue plan.
The only person coming to save you is the version of yourself that’s tired of your current situation.
The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump.
Laughter is the only emotion that cannot be forced or faked for long.
It bursts forth unbidden, a pure expression of delight, surprise, or shared humanity.
It cuts through tension, lightens heavy hearts, and connects us in ways words alone cannot.
So … take a moment today to laugh. Laugh out loud. Laugh without hesitation. And, let laughter carry you through the rest of the week with a lighter heart.
The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump.
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Sitting here thinking how amazing it is that there is a community that follows and responds to what I write.
It was the early part of the COVID pandemic. Y’all remember that?! Seems so long ago now. The world had gone still—streets emptied, doors closed, and I joined many others in working from home. But inside, my spirit stirred.
With everything stripped back to essentials, I turned inward and found an urge to share—words, thoughts, reflections. All I had was a menu of words—too many to keep locked inside—and with social distancing strictly enforced, there was nowhere to express them out loud.
So I laid a virtual table, set it with truth, care and sincerity and set out to curate a diverse menu of expressed options. Each post was a plate, each sentence a spoonful of something honest. I knew no one in this new digital landscape. But I prepared it anyway. I didn’t know if anyone would come.
And then, slowly, you arrived—readers I’d never met, drawn not by name or face, but by the invitation of something true. You sat, you dined, you stayed. Strangers became companions through comment threads and quiet visits. I had offered my words. You received them. I am grateful.
To be read, a gift. To be known through one’s own words is to be affirmed.
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Beforeword: I saw this image of a child running toward a church altar and it made me think of a child tattling to a parent when bullied, and contrasted it to capture that same childlike honesty of turning to Jesus in times of struggle. Instead of fighting back alone, we can run to Jesus, our ultimate defender and protector. When life gets hard and the enemy presses in, the best response is not retreat—but to tell it to Jesus.
He pushed me down again today, Right when I bowed my head to pray. He laughed and snatched my peace away— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He took my joy, then ran and hid, Like playground bullies often did. I’m not as strong as I once thought— He lied, he mocked, he even fought. I bit my lip, I clenched my fist, But grace says vengeance don’t exist. So guess what now? I’m done with this. That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He stole my lunch of hope and cheer, Whispered, “You don’t belong here.” He scribbled fear across my name, Then ran before I could reclaim The strength I had in younger days— He muddied up my sacred praise. I won’t chase him. No more games. That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I’m tattling with holy tears, Unpacking all these grown-up fears. “Jesus,” I’ll say, “he lied again, He told me I don’t have a friend. He said my prayers just hit the sky Then fall like raindrops left to dry. He told me You’re too busy to see, And didn’t have the time for me.”
But I know better. I’ve been raised To trust in You through storm and blaze. So I’ll report what he has done, Then hide behind Your risen Son. And when he sees You standing tall, He’ll shrink down small, no fight at all. I’ve had enough of satan’s fuss— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
The number 7 in the Bible—it’s replete through and through This ode is the coming together of 5 and of 2 5 and 2 when placed in the hands of the Divine Gifts thought to be too small, with big destiny realign
It occurred after the disciples toiled in ministry all the long day Wearily returned to the Master, so much they wanted to say Excited to tell of bodies healed, of minds they saw set free The excitement trumped the weariness, but their loving Master sees
Compassion swelled His heart, seeing their full depletion All He wanted do was improve their weary disposition “Come away with me”, He invited, then turned and bid them follow They had no clue His invite would change their every tomorrow
Enthralled with the thought of together time with their Master It was enough to buoy their bewildered spirits higher Incessant talking, stories exchanging, changed their frame of mind Oblivious to the growing multitude gathering far behind
Everywhere the Master went, the crowds were known to come after This time they followed Him to a desolate place, there was no food, no water The Master taught, while all the time diseases He was healing Before too long, the day wore on, the masses needed feeding
Five thousand men plus women plus children, equalled ‘bout 15 thousand That’s a lot to feed, especially if you’re out on a deserted mountain “Send them away”, the disciples advised, “there’s nothing we can do” “Oh no”, said Christ, “they will be fed and it will certainly be through you”
“If you won’t send the crowd away, then would you bid us leave To the nearby towns so we can supplement the little we’ve received” “What’s that you have in hand”, the Master then inquired “Just 5 and 2, hardly enough for what this multitude required”
“Place your 5, place your 2 in my hands”, dear friends “Watch God multiply beyond what you will comprehend” Turning toward His Father, eyes cast up t’ward heaven Blessings He pronounced, multiplied their five and two—seven
What is the 5, what is the 2 you have in gifts and talents? It’s not too small when entrusted to the God who is so gallant Your 5 plus 2 will be multiplied for the purpose you were chosen For God has more than enough ways, He can multiply your 7
***
Afterword: Oftentimes we appraise ourselves as less-than the tasks at hand and look to others to sure-up what we think is too small. But you are enough, and you have more than enough. God has equipped you for the purpose for which you were born. This story in the gospels (which can be read here: Matthew 14:13-22) is to remind us—on our own, our gifts may seem small, but when entrusted to God we can do all things for in Him our 5 and 2 is more than enough for what we’ve been called to do!
2023 All Rights Reserved Republished 2025
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There was no map, only the certainty that what God placed in me was not random. I didn’t always know how to offer it—sometimes I held back, unsure if it was enough, unsure if I was enough. But the gift has a way of speaking even when we are silent. It opens paths that credentials cannot. It creates space in crowded rooms and summons unexpected invitations. I have learned that when you steward the gift with faithfulness and gratitude, not ambition, it will go ahead of you like a forerunner—making introductions, preparing tables, unlocking destiny.
So, now I show up with what I’ve been given—wholeheartedly. The gift does the rest. And, the gift is about to do it again because as the wisest man said:“A man’s gift makes room for him and brings him before great men.” — Proverbs 18:16 (NKJV)
Not by privilege Doors opened I knew not how The gift leads the way
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When we are rested and spiritually renewed, we are more patient parents, more loving partners, more attentive friends, and overall kinder humans.
And, it’s possible to find this rest—through observing the weekly sabbath.
With sabbath, we get to pause and ground ourselves, to draw our families close, and to focus on what truly lasts—meaningful connection with each other and with our Creator. When we do this our souls get refreshed so we can share strength and love with those around us.
And this kind of rest isn’t just optional; it’s a core part of how we were designed. Yeah, sabbath rest is hardwired into our very DNA by the One who formed us.
What is sabbath?
When God made the Sabbath, He did so by ceasing His work. Sabbath was God’s crowning act of creation. Simply by resting, God established the very first Sabbath—a sacred pause that has echoed through every generation since. Sabbath is rest and fellowship and worship.
So how do we enjoy the sabbath?
First, throw out any ideas of sabbath being a checklist of rules or empty rituals. Think of it instead as a joyful gift—a glimpse of heaven on earth—crafted to bring us delight, restoration, and peace.
Second? Throw out any ideas of sabbath being a rigid duty. Rather think of it as a gracious invitation. An invitation to adopt a weekly rhythm that stands in stark contrast to the world’s restless striving, and instead aligns our hearts with the rest God lovingly planned for us.
As this sabbath begins, may you hear and accept the invitation to:
Find your rhythm.
Take time to step back from the chaos.
Replenish your spirit.
Spend meaningful time with your loved ones.
Spend meaningful time with yourself.
Remember the One who calls you to rest.
Spend meaningful time with God.
Shabbat shalom.
Sharing one of the best, modern day explanation of why practicing a weekly Sabbath is so good for us:
They came with guns and greed Tore through shrines like storms Pillaged palaces with no regard for what they plundered Gods wrapped in grates Our story shipped to museums Our ancestors labeled “exotic”
They took the cockerel—Okukor, majestic, defiant They took the warrior-king, still standing in bronze They took the birds— The symbols of vision and flight But they could not take our sky
Now— Now they come, not with swords But with ceremony They bow They “symbolically” return what was never theirs to begin with
The bronzes have come home Like prodigal children who were never wrong The wooden ancestral head—sculpted memory Let the Okukor crow at dawn Let the warrior stand tall again— Feel the soil of Edo again Feel the air hum with remembrance Let the Oba receive them Not as trophies, but as Truth
Truth is … The return is not just about objects It is about dignity It is histories reclaimed It is altars rebuilt from fragments that refused to forget It is about names restored
We are not relics We are resurrection And this— This is just the beginning
So let the bronzes speak:
“Omowale”—the child has come home!
Afterword: When I lived in Nigeria, I was given the name Omowale, a Yoruba word meaning “the child has come home.” This name embodies the experience of reconnecting with one’s heritage and the profound sense of belonging it brings.
Thousands of brass, bronze, and ivory sculptures and carvings were looted from Benin City—priceless pieces of history scattered across the world for decades.
These Benin Bronzes, described as individual plaques that each read like a page in a book, together tell the rich, complex story of Benin.
Now, after years in foreign lands, these treasures are beginning to make their way back home. Their return marks only the first steps in a growing movement for repatriation—a movement that seeks to restore stolen heritage and heal historical wounds.
National Crown Day commemorates the inaugural signing of the first CROWN Act legislation, which passed in California on July 3, 2019. The CROWN Act stands for “Create a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair.”
It’s my style It’s the epitome of the expression of self
It’s rooted in my history It’s the connector with my ancestry
It speaks for me It’s the tenet of my collective story
It defines who I am It’s the liberation of my identity
It classifies me It’s the evolving of my destiny
It changes with me It’s the expression of my ideology
It identifies my lineage It’s the preservation of my hair-a-tage
I am my hair My hair is undisputedly, ME
After-word:The Crown Act is a law that prohibits discrimination based on hairstyle and hair texture. Currently 7 states have passed it (including California, New York, New Jersey, Washington). Cincinnati and Montgomery County in Maryland have adopted the law. Nine states are currently considering it (they include Georgia, Kansas, Connecticut, Louisiana). This means it’s legal in most states to discriminate against someone simply because they wear their hair in an Afro, locs, braids, or any other traditionally Black hairstyles.
To act in solidarity against hair discrimination you can use the hashtag #PassTheCrown on social media. And, you can sign the petition—click HERE—to encourage all states to pass the Crown Act and make hair discrimination illegal everywhere.
2022 All rights reserved [Republished]
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Beforeword: Had you ever heard of the Great Wall of Benin City? Until recently, I hadn’t either. When a friend mentioned it, my curiosity was instantly piqued. Naturally, I did some research. This spoken word poem was born from that journey of learning and reflection.
The Wall They Couldn’t See
They called it a wall— But it was more It was science wrapped in soil It was grit It was story A 19,900-mile long ingenuity of a people who carved equations into earth
The Great Wall of Benin City!
Longer than China’s wall But never longer in textbooks— because what conquerors don’t understand, they erase
It was the moat—a defense, a design Dug by Edo hands that understood symmetry topography strategy
The Benin Empire— One of the oldest, most finely honed states in West Africa Rising strong since the 11th century First the Portuguese Then the British They saw a city— Crime-free, clean Crowned with bronze and carved ivory A city where honesty lived in the marrow of men Where streets ran wide like open arms And governance? It had a pulse, steady and wise
Yet … They looked with blind eyes Called African brilliance “chaos” Called African symmetry “primitive” Because the math we mapped wasn’t chalked on their boards
They came with fire in their pockets and hunger in their eyes Trading for men And when the loot didn’t come fast enough They came with cannons
1897 Benin city A rhythm A revelation Burnt to the bone Stole the art Stole the gold Stole the breath
Now … The Great Wall lies hidden in the Nigerian bushes— Not gone, but grieving Not erased, just waiting
Waiting For tongues to remember For history to reclaim For voices to rise like the harmattan red dust and sing:
We were here We were brilliant We still are
Because the wall? The wall was never what they saw It was what they couldn’t
It was legacy It was light It was a people
Afterword: Almost 1,000 Benin bronze artifacts—including statues of birds, a warrior‑king, a cockerel (“Okukor”), and a wooden ancestral head—originally looted during the 1897 plunder, have been symbolically returned to the Oba of Benin in Edo State, their ancestral home!
29 years ago in a moment in time Your life matrimonially linked with mine You were my husband, you were my friend I was by your side to the very end
A heart of gold has stopped its beating Arms in teddy-bear like hugs no longer giving I’m left with memories my heart will hold That’s where you’ll stay alive in the stories to be told
Gone too soon—your life on earth, shortened If you could but see—there are so many disheartened A loss too much for us to bear Signs of you are left everywhere
There is so much I’ll miss about you All the kind and thoughtful things you do Your dedication in extending the gift of your charm I can still hear neighbors’ greetings: “Hello Mr Hall”
Reminiscing on the early years where we did everything together Strolling city streets hand-in-hand, young lover There was never something I asked you wouldn’t do Christmas by the Rockefeller tree, and road trips, and even Disney too
Those memories make me smile and others cause me tears It’s true, our marriage broke over the years Through it all we remained as good friends Through forgiveness—hurt feelings transcends
Work will not be the same without you I will miss knowing you’re a floor below doing the work you do I will miss so much, like hearing the sound of your voice But move on, I must, there is no other choice
I saw your last tears and wiped your face dry I know that you could hear me, though lifeless you lie I shared with you the deepest treasures of my heart I know you passed knowing in my heart you’ll stay a part
I’ll never understand why you had to die Taken so quickly, like in the wink of an eye Accepting you’ve come to the setting of life I commit you to Rest In Peace, my love, from all stress and strife
You left in the prettiest season of all Where trees are transitioning in the beauty of fall We’ll remember you always in the beautiful parts of your life Preserved in memory’s garden we’ll keep you alive
In loving remembrance Your wife, your friend to the very end
Afterword: This piece was commissioned by a wife to honor her husband after his passing. As with every commissioned work, I took time to speak with my client to understand the heart behind her story. I do this with every client because it allows me to create pieces that truly capture the essence of the message my clients wish to convey, rather than me simply weaving words together creatively.
Shalom isn’t just a greeting—it’s a name that points us to who God is. Shalom means peace, wholeness, and completeness, and our God is the God of Shalom—the God of peace.
But what happens when our lives feel shattered, when everything around us seems to be breaking apart, and peace feels out of reach?
In those moments, remember: the God of peace is also the God of piece. Piece by piece, He gathers the scattered, broken parts of our lives. Piece by piece, He heals our wounds, restores our hope, and puts us back together. Piece by piece, He makes us whole.
God’s peace is not a fragile stillness that fades when storms come. His peace is a powerful, steady presence that guards our minds and hearts, even when the world shakes.
“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” —Philippians 4:7 (NIV)
This Sabbath, may you turn to the God of Shalom. Trust Him to take every broken piece of your story and restore it, until His perfect peace fills your life.
Shabbat shalom.
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Before we shout “Well done!” Before the names are called, Let us take a moment—to honor it all: This church. This family. This ground where faith and growth both rise.
You’re a house of many nations, shades, and stories— Yet here, love is the common language. Where Grandma’s prayers cover teenage dreams, And uncles, aunties, elders cheer with eyes that have seen That excellence takes many forms, And no one journeys alone.
To the graduates:
We see you. Caps cocked, gowns flowing, Milestones in motion. From crayons to calculators, Fingerpaints to final exams— You made it! And your church stands to salute your stride.
Whether from kindergarten or college halls, From homeschools or trade schools, You’ve crossed a threshold. And the God who started you on this path Is not done walking beside you yet.
To the high-flyers, the focused, the driven: Your eyes were fixed on the prize. You mapped your way with purpose and passion. Late nights, early mornings, Deadlines met with devotion. You pressed forward. You pressed through. And the excellence we see Is not just in your grades— It’s in your grit, And the God who gave it to you.
To the ones still figuring it out: We see you! Excellence is not a straight road— It zigs. It zags. It waits. You’re allowed to pause, to wonder, To try, to fail, to ask: “What’s next for me?”
Let me say this: Even uncertainty is part of the plan. You are not lost—you are learning. Every step, every stumble is shaping the story God is still writing in you.
To the ones who didn’t know if they’d make it here: Maybe motivation left along the way. You know—life be lifeing, But look—you’re standing. That in itself is a win. That is excellence. Progress is praise-worthy. Each chapter a testimony. Don’t you go downplaying what God brought you through. Ask yourself: “What changed along the way?” Maybe it was you. Maybe it was your faith. Maybe it was that still, small voice That said, “Keep going.”
To our elders, our late bloomers, our lifelong learners: Let the world know— Learning does not expire. Dreams don’t have deadlines. And classrooms aren’t the only place where wisdom is born.
You’ve shown us what courage looks like When age walks boldly into new beginnings. You remind us:
You don’t stop learning because you grow old; You grow old because you stop learning.
So keep learning. Keep reaching. Keep believing.
And to all: This journey to excellence is not a solo flight— It’s Spirit-led. It’s prayer-powered. It’s faith-laced. You didn’t get here by accident. And you won’t go forward alone. ‘Cause: “Anyone who keeps learning stays young.” And anyone who walks with God— stays steady.
So walk on, graduates. With your heads high, your hearts open, Your dreams anchored in divine direction. And know this: excellence is not just a destination— It’s a journey. And yours has only just begun
Afterword: This piece was commissioned by a church. As with every commissioned work, I took time to speak with my client to understand the heart of their story. This process enables me to create pieces that authentically capture the essence of the message they wish to share, rather than me simply weaving words together creatively.
For this piece, I drew inspiration from the congregation’s multicultural and nurturing spirit. They wanted it to reflect the intersectional nature of their community, to inspire a love of lifelong learning, and, above all, to honor every graduate—from kindergarten to graduate school and everyone in between.
Have you turned on the news lately and felt your heart sink?
So many nations are caught in conflict. So much suffering.
Wars. Armed conflicts. Border shifts. Political power plays that dominate the global stage while diplomacy falters.
From Gaza to Ukraine, Israel to Iran, Haiti to Myanmar—the world trembles under the weight of violence, displacement, and fear.
We watch, we grieve, and sometimes we wonder if peace is even possible.
Our world is breathtaking in its design, created to be our home, a dwelling place, but now burdened by unrest and devastation.
And creation itself feels it.
It’s groaning —manifested in unpredictable weather patterns, unparalleled natural disasters.
The apostle Paul wrote about this. This is what he said:
“We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth [and not just in his time, but] right up to the present time.”
—Romans 8:22 (NIV)
Paul didn’t ignore the chaos. He traced it back to a deeper reality: that is—the world groans because things are not as God originally intended—caused by what the Bible defines as sin.
But thankfully Paul didn’t stop at groaning. He pointed to glory:
“But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
—1 Corinthians 15:57 (NLT)
Yes, the world groans—but it also waits.
Waits for redemption.
Waits for peace that no summit or ceasefire alone can secure.
Waits for the Prince of Peace who promises to make all things new.
As this Sabbath unfolds, may your soul find refuge in that promise.
May you find rest in the hope that even when nations shake, God’s love remains unshaken and unshakeable.
From experiences encountered each passing day She grows, just a little more But now she knows, inside, she’s never really fully grown For in her heart, buried deep within A child yearns to be known, to be loved, to grow
Unanswered questions played on repeat:
Was it me? Was I not the child he wanted? Did I cry too loudly? Did I make him mad? Did I bring him laughter? No! He must have been sad
There’s no other explanation He’d just simply gone away
Never held her as a baby Never fed her as a child Never called her his little girl Never owned her as his child
Growing up she felt abandoned Kept it hidden, deep down inside Didn’t want to let mom know Didn’t want make mom sad For he had left her behind too
Cried when she knew mom could not hear her Built a father in her mind— Not the one who left, but the one she needed He lived in memories that never happened Kept her sane, kept her dreaming
Part II: The Reuniting
Then that image, it got shattered Reality didn’t ask permission, it just came crashing in Tearing away what she had dreamed of Leaving her bare Scared again
Said he loved her, but he hit her Said he’d always be there, but vanished again
Alone
She survived on strangers’ kindness Curled up in corners not her own Love felt like waiting on empty And pain? A predictable “friend”, well known
Part III: Attempted Reconciliation
She tried to mend the broken pieces Three times Being rejected o’er again Sending letters Making phone calls He just didn’t want to be there She learned—you can’t find what won’t be found
Yes—there were nights when sorrow sang her to sleep And mornings when tears her only prayer But even then, God held each shattered piece And when she stopped chasing That’s when He started healing
The child within has grown up Now she can let him go— Not in anger but in accepting That sometimes silence is the answer And the space for love to conquer
Part IV: Resolution
In that healing she found forgiving So she didn’t break, but bloomed So the storms that came couldn’t drown her And the darkness her mind subdue So she could see that someone was waiting
Not the father who couldn’t stay—but the One who couldn’t leave Always right there by her side In the aching, in the silence, orchestrating her becoming
Part V: The Benediction
So to those who feel abandoned Confused, abused, used
Hear this:
God can mend the broken pieces Find your child who lives within He invites— Pick yourself up, begin again And, know this He’s the Father who stays He heals He restores And
When whole meets whole Two souls stepping into love Each already complete You bring your 100 And I raise you mine
Because love—real love— It needs commitment more than chemistry It needs building blocks more than butterflies Real love, it needs nutrients
So feed love with the elements that make life thrive:
Sunlight— Surround each other in warmth on those dark days Bring light that sustains not like fireworks that fizzle out, die But let truth rise between you like the sun, consistent and always present
Fresh air— Breathe space into the life you are building Creating room for each other to grow, to exhale No manipulating No control No stifling silence— just openness between you
Rest— Don’t wear each other down Become each other’s Sabbath, a place to lay, to rest, to be Let your love feel like coming home
Nutrition— Feed each other’s soul with words that nourish not tear down Serve each other honesty Feast on it like it’s a gourmet meal—so you grow
Exercise— Work at it Work it out Stretch into new understanding Run from pride Lift each other’s spirits Stay active in faithfulness Let there be no laziness in your love
Water— Stay hydrated in forgiveness Racing to be first to say: “I’m sorry” Wash away yesterday’s offenses Flow, not force Your love, like water, takes the shape of effort, breaking down resistance
And above all, put your Trust in God Staying rooted in the Divine Placing covenant above separation Pray to keep it right Praise when you’re confused Plant your love in the soil of something higher than yourselves With God in the middle Two wholes become one
So you bring your whole And I’ll bring mine Let’s grow a love nourished right— That won’t just survive It will thrive
Afterword: The inspiration for this poem is Newstart—a physician monitored, scientifically researched lifestyle change program based on eight fundamental principles proven to help us achieve optimum health: Nutrition, Exercise, Water, Sunlight, Temperance, Air, Rest, and Trust in God.
She scrolled through her feed, surrounded by messages but feeling unseen.
Loneliness had crept in quietly, even in a world buzzing with connection. Life hadn’t given her a choice in what she was facing, but she realized she could choose who she faced it with.
Fighters have a corner; she needed one too.
She reached out—to a friend from her sorority, a mom from her kid’s class. They weren’t perfect. Conversations were awkward at first. But slowly, honesty grew. They showed up. They listened. They prayed.
A support system isn’t built in crisis—it’s built before, on shared ground. Yes, it’s risky. You might get hurt. But “to hurt is to steal” only when you let it keep you hidden.
She stepped into the light. And there, she found fellowship—not weakness. Just real, messy love from people who chose to go through life with her.
Afterword: We all need a support system—a circle of trust-worthy friends who can see us through the seasons of life.
This piece of prosery (prose story), limited to 144 words by Li over at d’Verse, is based on the line “to hurt is to steal” by U2, from “Mysterious Ways”.
This new chapter— with you in it— has been more than I ever could have imagined
Our love?
It’s not just love It’s a revelation It’s revolution of the soul It’s exposed me to dimensions— deep layers of connection of intimacy of support
And though physical presence feels like oxygen now… What we’ve built? Oh, what we’ve built— Intentionally. Deliberately. The way we’ve poured into each other’s wholeness into each other’s healing has made this storm feel a little less violent
The memory of your touch? It still lingers like the smell of you in a room you just left
The way we’ve showed up? In words, In silence, In spirit— It’s the light, guiding now Through every unclear step
The comfort we’ve shared? It’s more than memory It’s a trail And we’re walking it Now Across this vast expanse of impasse and ache To find our way Back through the silence Back through the waiting Back through the distance—
Yeah, after all this time. After all the running, the hiding, the loud nights where I pretended I didn’t hear Him calling. After all the “I’m fine, I got this” lies I told myself— we got back together.
It wasn’t some grand moment— no fireworks, no choir singing, no hallelujah in the sky. It was quiet, almost shy, like old friends meeting after years of not knowing what to say.
I had my reasons for leaving— you know, life be lifeing—it gets messy, prayers feel like they hit ceilings, and shame? Shame builds walls so high, you think not even God can climb them.
But there He was. Not with anger. Not with a list of everything I’d done wrong. Just… waiting, Patient, like He always knew I’d come back around.
I didn’t bring much to the table. Just my broken pieces, my worn-out heart, my questions that don’t have answers, my faith, or what was left of it, clinging by a thread.
And you know what He said? “Welcome home.” Two words that melted years of distance. Two words that drowned out the lies I had told myself: you’re too far gone, you’ve messed up too much, you can’t come back.
But grace don’t work like that. Grace don’t do math. It don’t tally sins or measure the weight of regret. It just opens its arms, and says, “I’m here.”
Now, I’m learning to walk again, this time by His side. I stumble— oh, do I stumble— but His hand is always there, steadying me, reminding me that falling doesn’t mean failing when I’m falling into love like this.
So me and God, we’re figuring it out. It’s not perfect— I still trip, still doubt, still ask Him why the world is so heavy sometimes. But He doesn’t let go.
Every day feels like a second chance. Every sunrise whispers, “You are loved.” And maybe, just maybe, this time I’ll believe it.
I. They called it a joke A satire A smear of a man in a wig As if a Black scholar was too far-fetched to be anything but fantasy As if knowledge had a color and his wasn’t right
II. But Francis Williams— he was not their fiction He was fact Jamaican born under the tyranny of slavery He was freedom cracked open by a mind that would not be chained nor contained
He studied stars while they studied skin— Tracing Halley’s comet with ink-stained fingers His eyes aligned with the heavens while theirs were stuck in the mire of bigotry and hate
III. They bought the painting for the wood Fine mahogany—the kind enslaved hands carved but couldn’t claim Ignored the man standing proud, scrolls and instruments like armor around him They saw furniture They missed the future he foretold
IV. But truth has layers Centuries later X-rays peeled them back High-resolution told the tale: This wasn’t ridicule This was intuitive wisdom To commission a self-portrait not to mock but to mark a mind that mattered To inscribe in intricate details—preserved in posterity—a testament that his life mattered
A Jamaican polymath defying every odd He challenged the limitations of slave society With equations and celestial calculations that mapped freedom across the sky, across the centuries
V. They tried to erase him with silence But silence? It’s brittle And Francis? He’s breaking through One scan, one verse, one truth at a time
So, say his name Not as footnote, but foundation Say his name Like a revolution that rhymes: Francis Williams The genius they tried to forget The comet they couldn’t contain The portrait they tried to bury— but couldn’t keep in the frame
Backstory: This poem is based on the article in The Guardian, “X-ray evidence of Black maths scholar portrait reveals snubbed genius”. Clues in a self-portrait commissioned by Francis Williams—a wealthy Jamaican polymath who was born free under the tyranny of slavery —to prove that he successfully managed to compute and witness the trajectory of Halley’s comet over Jamaica in 1759.A complex figure himself, yet his intellectual achievements are worth preserving and retelling.
Short answer:To provide a space for my voice to be heard.
Why I write declaration: I will be brave, my voice will not die within me unexpressed and unheard.
This is therefore a brave and intentional space for creative self-expression.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. Maya Angelou
I am motivated to write from observing what I believe God created-by-design like nature, family, love, and relationship.
The title, “createdbyDEEsign”, therefore signifies the co-creation of the works here by my DaddyGod and me.
THE BLOG CONTAINS a collection of poems about love, life, relationships and nature; inspirational reflections in prose, poetry and images; and travelstories where I share less about the places I visit and more about what these places reveal about people, history and identity.
Whether you landed in this space by choice or curiosity, I hope being here inspires you to be brave and to use your voice and your mode of creative expressions to show up fully and influence the spaces you occupy.
I appreciate your choosing to meet me here and to interact with my thoughts, words and creative expressions.
To never miss a post click HERE👈 to subscribe & follow the blog. I love hearing from you, so remember to “like” & comment. For more content start HERE👈
In creative solidarity, Dawn
PLEASE NOTE: Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without the express and written permission from me as this site’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Permission may be requested through a comment to which I will reply granting or denying permission. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dawn Minott @ http://www.createdbyDEEsign.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Stay single till you meet the person who makes you smile from within and it escapes with such intensity it up-curls your lips from ear to ear, makes your cheeks go numb and your eyes light up
Stay single till you meet the one who proves himself worthy of you, who prioritizes you, amidst the busyness of life he makes time to see you— no lame ass excuses of “just because…” and “I was gonna but…”
Wait for the one whose touch ignites your senses, makes your knees buckle weak and your heart skip beats and your stomach butterfly-flutters, wait for the one who moves you
Stay single till you meet the one who’ll do anything for you— like walk a tight rope 50 feet above ground— because he knew you’d not ask if you didn’t need him to and because he knew you knew he’d be safe to do for you
Stay single till you meet someone who accepts you, not wanting to change the you that you are but who celebrates the essence of you, accepting you in all your quirkinesses and flawsomeness, someone who loves you for you
Wait for someone who is proud of you, celebrates your accomplishments as if they’re his own— your own personal membership to a one-on-one cheerleading squad, wait for the one who’s “got you”
Stay single till you find the person who makes you want to be a better you, who’s worthy to fight for and to fight with ‘cause—face it— love and life will derail fantasies of “happily ever after”, you’ll need someone who’s battle ready
Stay single till your desire to be booed-up is not from a place of brokenness, lack or desperation, but from a healed place, from a place of trust, love and vulnerability
Wait for someone whose words and actions go hand-in-hand; who will say what they mean and do what they say, wait for the one who is intentional about you
Stay single till the one who is for you finds you, and you know you have been found
The first Adam— breathed by the breath of God, stood tall in Eden’s garden, clothed in glory, created from dust infused with divine destiny. And from his side— not his head to rule, not his feet to be trampled, but his side— God pulled forth woman, and matched her bone to his bone, flesh to his soul. And from that union, the human family bloomed.
But, they ate from a tree Then came the fall— from trust, from dominion, from the divine design. Adam sinned, and the authority over the earth slipped from his grip, spilled like blood from pierced hands, and chaos crept in like a thief through one act of disobedience.
Yet Heaven had a plan. The Second Adam stepped in. Not made from dust, but descended from glory, wrapped in flesh to rewrite the story. Jesus—Son of Man, Son of God— walked where Adam fell, stood where sin broke lives, and carried a cross of salvation up a hill of redemption.
And when He died— Oh, when He died— they pierced His side.
Not coincidence. Covenant.
For just as the first woman came from Adam’s side, so now from Christ’s wounded side, the Church was born. Not bricks or steeples, but a living, breathing, blood-washed people. Bound by the bloodline of a Savior who surnamed us—called us family
From His side, we rise. From His pain, we proclaim. From His sacrifice, we unite— not scattered seeds, but one body, one Spirit, one eternal name.
So when you ask who I am, I say:
I am from the side. The pierced place. The precious space. I am born not of man’s will, but of Heaven’s decree.
I am church
From sin set free
Afterword: This poem was inspired by a sermon my pastor preached a few weeks ago, where he drew the spiritual parallel between the creation of woman from Adam’s side and the birth of the Church from the pierced side of Christ—His bride. I had never made that connection before, and it stirred something deep within me. I sat with it, let it take root, and out of that reflection, this piece was born.
In the liberty of freedom’s delight Lest we forget your dedicated fight Leaving all behind, a sacrifice profound To go to distant lands, lay all on battleground
While the horrors of war persists Amidst the devastation, courage exists For the lives lost from divisions and corps Am I worth the sacrifice they bore?
For every soldier, a heartfelt debt owed Your bravery speaks in sacrifice bestowed My duty will forever be clear— Honor your sacrifice, hold freedom dear
I took this picture of the plaque at the Pearl Harbour National Memorial bearing this prayer-poem Eleanor Roosevelt kept in her pocket during WWII:
Dear Lord, Lest I continue my complacent way, help me to remember somehow out there a man [or woman] died for me today. As long as there be war I then must ask and answer: am I worth dying for?
Yesterday I reposted the poem I wrote in the immediate aftermath of George Floyd’s murder—I Can’t Breathe.
In the harrowing moment when George Floyd was pinned to the ground—where racial oppression and systemic injustice converged in plain sight—a long-ignored truth was undeniable: racial justice is still the unfinished business of our time.
Five years later I reflect on the reality that true justice cannot stand alone.
Racial justice is inseparable from climate justice, reproductive justice, economic justice — because the same systems that exploit the Earth, police Black bodies, and restrict bodily autonomy are rooted in histories of extraction, enslavement, and colonization.
These struggles are not parallel—they are intertwined. And so must be our response.
We need courageous allyship — not performative, but principled. Allyship that listens more than it speaks, that risks comfort for conscience, that shows up when it’s hard.
We also need the radical empathy to call people in (as Professor Loretta Ross guides us to) rather than merely calling them out, to make room for growth, accountability, and transformation. This is not about softening the demand for justice — it’s about deepening the path to get there.
Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion [DEI] efforts matter, but they are only a beginning.
To honor George Floyd — and Breonna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, and so many others — we must go further. We must embrace a fundamental rethinking and dismantling of power structures, norms, and narratives that uphold racial and other hierarchies that lead to injustices.
From individual introspection to institutional reform, from boardrooms to classrooms, from policy to protest — the work must be as deep as the wound.
George Floyd should still be alive. So should countless others. Let their deaths not be in vain. Let them be the reason we build a world where justice is not a demand but a lived reality — shared, sustained, and centered in humanity.
George Floyd your life mattered. Your death sparked a movement. We will not forget. (Your sunset: 25 May 2020)
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back over 400 years to the belly of slave ships Summoning the plight of fore-mamas and -papas Black bodies snatched from homeland stacked up for export Crammed in places too cramped for air Constrained. Pressed. Till urine leaked, undignified Shackled and restrained from neck to feet Black bodies stretched out beneath deck, unseen
Too dark to see Too constrained to touch Too dense to be heard Too putrid to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back 46 years to the belly of his mamma To summon the space he’s always felt protected, safer Invoking relief from the indignity of shackled wrists Pinned under the knee-weight embodiment of bigotry and racist hatred 8 minutes:46 seconds Breath. Of. Life … deliberately snuffed out, stolen Black body stretched out for the world to view
Too riotous not to see Too palpable not to touch Too loud not to be heard Too blatant not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ricocheted off sidewalks from cities and towns around the globe Escaped the lips of mamas, papas, sistas, brothas of every age, color and creed Galvanizing protests undaunted by a pandemic Bodies of all races stretched out, collective voices shout Demanding revolution, transformation, radical alteration
Too multi-ethnic not to see Too seismic not to touch Too forceful not to be heard Too copious not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ignite change … too enormous not to see Ignite change … too radical not to touch Ignite change … too disruptive not to be heard Ignite change … too transforming not to breathe-in
Change.
So.
I.
Can.
BREATHE.
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Beforeword: When a church invited me to give the welcome for their 70th anniversary celebration of Ladies’ Day, I knew this couldn’t be just any ordinary greeting. Seventy years of legacy, faith, and sisterhood? That calls for something memorable, creative — and a little unexpected.
So buckle up, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride as I deliver a welcome with a twist — flight-attendant style! ✈️
Good morning, brothers and sisters, saints and seekers! I am your flight attendant.
Welcome aboard Flight 777, non-stop service to Higher Ground, operated by Kingdom Airlines, under the divine command of Captain Jesus Christ and navigated by the Holy Spirit.
If this is your first flight with us, we are thrilled to welcome you aboard. If you’re a frequent flyer, welcome back — your seat in heavenly places awaits!
At this time, we ask that you turn off all cellular devices and put aside distractions — including scrolling, swiping, and texting — as they may interfere with our direct connection to God.
As we prepare for takeoff, please ensure that your heart is tuned, your attitude is in the upright position, and your faith is fastened securely. All carry-on burdens should be stowed away — they’ve already been checked in and covered by the blood of Jesus.
Our more seasoned saints are invited to assist those newer to the flight path. You are our in-flight guides, pointing others to the throne of God, using clear instructions from the Bible — our spiritual safety manual.
Our flight pattern today will take us through clouds of “Hallelujahs”, winds of “Amen”, and occasional turbulence of “Praise the Lord!” Should things get loud or louder, simply lean into His everlasting arms and whisper, “Thank you, Jesus.”
In compliance with Federal Spirituality Regulations, we kindly remind all passengers to worship with reverence and joy throughout this heaven-bound flight.
If there’s anything we can do to make your worship experience more spiritual or more blessed, please don’t hesitate to let a member of our crew — ministers, deacons, or ushers — know.
On behalf of the entire Kingdom Airlines crew, thank you for choosing to worship with us today.
We’re honored to journey with you — now let’s lift off in spirit and in truth!
Afterword: Ladies’ Day began as a way to recognize and uplift the contributions of women in the church during a time when they were largely excluded from leadership roles and decision-making. In many congregations, women were expected to serve quietly in the background — organizing events, teaching children, and supporting male leadership. But over the past 70 years, we’ve witnessed powerful change and undeniable progress.
Women are now standing in pulpits, being ordained as pastors, and leading ministries with vision, strength, and spiritual authority.
Ladies’ Day is not just a celebration — it’s a testament to resilience, faith, and the evolving role of women in the body of Christ.
2025 All Rights Reserved Photo Credit & Set Design: Nephrattiti
After days of steady rain, the garden is singing with life—fresh greenery and fragrant blooms everywhere you look! I’m enjoying an incredible lineup: clematis, garden and creeping phlox, bellis, coreopsis, azalea, iris, foxglove, a rainbow of roses, Asiatic lilies, plantain lily, shasta daisies, daylilies, black-eyed Susans, hydrangeas, big blue, tickseed, gardenia, hosta, rhododendron, carnations, sage, catmint, lilacs, hydrangeas—and more surprises on the way.
It’s nature’s encore, and I’m here for every petal of it!
it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knocked with determination on the entrance entrance of her mind awakened awakened from stupor gathering gathering her wits about her down down the stairs across the hall meandering meandering through the passage way she she peers through the peep hole of the door door to her mind and she sees—it it—is sinister sinister a force forces its way in uninvited uninvited into the deepest recesses recesses of her mind cobwebbed cobwebbed like a closet blacker blacker than the darkest night night formed from childhood hurts grown grown-up disappointments her mind now mildew mildew-stained of if-only-could-o’-been-not-enough-what-if if her mind now molded-grief from loss loss from betrayal from rejection in those those dusty crevices resides a familiar familiar stranger her thoughts redirecting redirecting her emotions orchestrating there there staring right back at her—it it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knock knock
Afterword: Darkness can be from issues that you dare not let anyone see or know about, the issues you struggle with alone and silently … it’s time to open the door, let in the light, you’re not alone!
First published 2022 All Rights Reserved GIF powered by Tenor
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Beforeword: “The Chosen” retells the biblical account of a woman who bled for twelve years—likely battling what we now know as endometriosis. Doctors failed her. Society shunned her. But her faith pressed through the crowd and reached for the hem of healing. With one touch, she drew virtue from Jesus. The way this act was portrayed in “The Chosen” tugged at my heart and inspired this poem about a bold, desperate, and unshakeable kind of faith.Mark 5:25–34
Twelve years. Twelve long, leaking, limping years. Not of just blood, but of being bled— by shame, by silence, by systems that said: “You’re unclean.” “You’re unworthy.” “Stay unseen.”
She was hemorrhaging more than her body could bear— her hope dripped slow, like her dignity, into dusty streets that never remembered her name.
But this—this is a story of a woman who reached when religion said “Don’t.” Who touched when culture said “Stay back.” Who dared to believe healing was not just possible— but personal.
She said, “If I but touch the hem…” Not his hand. Not his face. Just the fringe of grace. She didn’t need center stage, just the edge of mercy.
And when her fingers found the thread— Power moved. Time froze. Heaven stood still.
And He said, “Who touched me?”
Not out of rebuke, but revelation.
She came trembling, expecting judgment, but found joy. Expecting condemnation, but got confirmation.
He didn’t call her “woman.” Didn’t say “healed one.” Didn’t say “formerly unclean.”
He called her— Daughter.
And the world shifted.
Because God doesn’t rename without reason. When He calls you something new, it’s not just a title— it’s a territory. It’s the unlocking of destiny. An announcement of assignment. A sign that your suffering was not wasted— it was womb.
Daughter.
That’s not just comfort— that’s commission. That’s “Welcome to the family.” That’s “Your faith just opened a door.” That’s “You have access to more.”
Because every new name in the Bible was a passport into purpose: Abram to Abraham—father of nations. Jacob to Israel—wrestler turned warrior. Simon to Peter—reed to rock.
And now: Unknown to Daughter. Outcast to Heir. Bleeding to Blessed. She didn’t just get healed— She got elevated.
So now, when you feel unseen— When your wounds whisper you’re not worthy— When the crowd calls you forgettable— Remember: Faith rewrites stories. And sometimes all it takes is a reach.
For the God who knows your name is waiting to call you something greater. Something weightier. Something woven in love.
Daughter.
Because your healing isn’t the end— It’s your beginning. Your new domain. Your new name.
Who are you? A mother. A father. A CEO. A pastor. A judge behind the bench, a teacher in the class, A voice in the crowd or the first, not the last.
We throw it around— “Just do you.” Sounds cute, right?! I’ve said it too. Like it’s a mantra. A mirror. A mood. But what if “do you” Is misunderstood?
What if— Your identity’s not in the job, the title, the crew? Not in the flex, or the fame, or the things you do? Your identity— Is rooted in what you give your heart to. And if you gave it to the One who made you, Wouldn’t that shift the whole view?
See— To “do you” You must know you. Not the version crafted by culture and code, But the truth that was spoken Before time even flowed.
Who does God say you are? Not broken. Not lost. Not barely getting by. You— Are a child of the Most High.
But if you don’t see yourself in this divine design, You might be whispering—“Fix me,” Not boldly declaring—“Do me.”
And let’s be real— You can’t fix yourself When you didn’t form yourself. You are not your own creator. So how can you be your own savior?
Truth is, When you know whose you are, You’ll know who you are. And when you know who you are, You won’t just “do you”— You’ll live true. Aligned. On purpose. Brand new.
She’s not the one to chase if you’re still running from yourself if your soul is a question mark if your dreams are still waiting in line for you to claim them if you’re still figuring out relationship goals, lost in a maze of exploration
She’s for when you’re ready— ready to rise ready to strive ready to build something real ready to love not just pass time
Now—
She’s not the one to curse you out but don’t mistake her class for naïveté her elegance for submission her silence for permission her loyalty for weakness
She speaks in measured tones but don’t get it twisted— she will not be subjugated not by what masks as love not by fear not by the weight of someone else’s uncertainty
She’s walked through too many storms to be swayed by a drizzle she’s built too much of herself to shrink into someone else’s confusion
If you’re still figuring out who you are still tracing the outline of a future you can’t commit to? she’s not the one keep walking— but don’t look for her in the shadow of your uncertainty your searching your wandering
It started as a digital tidying But there in the sanctity of my contact list: names to numbers I hadn’t dialed I couldn’t dial anymore Gone. Not lost in a move, not ghosting in silence— but gone. Ashes to ashes Dust to dust Gone.
Each tap of “delete contact” felt like a tremor in my chest. We were the same age range Grew into adulthood side by side, laughed through the recklessness of youth, grew wiser, grew weary, and now some have simply stopped growing.
I stared at their names before letting go— as if one more second on my screen could keep them tethered to this life.
Death It just lingers— in old photos, in stories we still tell, in the echo of their number no longer in service.
And now, my list is shorter. My heart, heavier. Not just for them, but for what it means— that I, too, am walking the edge of a vanishing point: Mortality
Life is fragile. I knew it. But now I feel it— in every deleted name, in every quiet reminder that I am still here and they are not.
She disembarked the express train at Grand Central Station, fresh from one appointment and with exactly ten minutes to get to the next — a ten-minute walk away. Which meant she’d be either perfectly on time or inevitably late.
Photo provided by Pexel
She puts on her “don’t talk to me” face — the commuter’s shield — and dove into the current of bodies, weaving through crowds, dodging subway detours, blinders on, purpose clear.
At the top of the stairs, just before the turnstile, she saw him.
Tall. Sharp. Walking with intention. Right toward her.
But with her game face on and a schedule to keep, she didn’t slow down — until his voice cut through the noise.
“I need help—”
She froze.
Her mind spun into its usual fast math: Help him? Keep moving? Hmm… he’s kinda cute…
She turned. Met his eyes.
Oh. He IS cute.
He repeated, “I need help finding an organic…”
Organic what? Store? Juice bar? Directions? Oh God, I’m terrible with directions…
“…growing smile.”
Wait—what?
Oh no, he didn’t. Oh but, he did!
Her mouth rebelled first. A corner twitched. Then lifted. First the smile, then came the laugh — full-bodied, gut-deep, unstoppable — bursting out amid the rhythm and rush of Grand Central.
He’d found what he was looking for.
When her laughter ebbed, she tilted her head, amused. “Good one. Organic.”
Turned out, he was selling something.
Of course he was.
Still — what a pitch, uh?!
She walked on, whispering, “You gotta give a brother credit.”
Late to her appointment. But with an organically grown smile.
First published 3 May 2021 Republished 2025 All Rights Reserved
Abundance begins in the hush of dawn The sun lingers, lower now Casting longer shadows like memories on the backs of budding trees The wind, a whisper, to honor the end of April Leans in, to pause. Morning dew clings to blooms like beads of sweat anticipating April’s warm exhales, It’s breath perfumed with lilacs’ fragrance
Praise ricochets off the fluttering wings of birds Resounding off rain drip-dropping on thirsty ground Restoration creeps in with the light of morning Tender and sure as a heart beating into Intimacy, rising in the stillness of twilight The ache of what’s leaving dulls in the hope of what’s remaining— Love. Love does not vanish; it transforms with the turning And I, like the season, return to abundance
Video and images by me, complements of the NY Botanical Garden
Contributing to David’s W3 challenge by poet of the week, Di.
Beforeword: We end this journey where all true journeys with God should lead—love. The kind of love that transforms. The kind of love that sees God in each other. The kind of love that doesn’t just stay hidden away in the privacy of our prayers but spills out into our words, our actions, our world. In this final week of April, as I conclude the restorative quest of birthMONTH 2025, I embrace love as choice, action, power!
Join me in making this last week a celebration of the greatest calling we have been given: to love and be loved.
The Shape of Love
Love looks like open hand to hold, console It sounds like laughter shared with no abandon Like forgiveness offered before words come easy
Love wears every color speaks every language holds every story
It is patient in the waiting It is fierce in the protecting It is gentle when the world is harsh
Love is not something we earn— it is Someone Someone we meet again and again until we learn to live as if love is all we have Because it is Because He is
Love is God reaching for us before we knew how to reach back Love chases— pursues the hearts that keep running Like a bridge, it carries over troubled waters
Love is the beginning, the journey, the home.
The challenge: How to participate
In these last days of April, look for small ways to show love—send a word of encouragement, listen deeply to someone, forgive quickly, offer help without being asked, or spend unrushed time with someone who needs it.
Begin each day with a simple prayer: “God, show me how to love today.”
Dear Mother Earth, where do you hurt? Your seas, your hills, your forests — are they tender to the touch? With 8 billion humans treading upon your surface do you tremble at your core? Is it a pain within, is it a pain without? Or is it both?
Mother Earth, we breathe of your air freely, yet live recklessly in your bounty We take and keep on taking while replacing you with so very little Still, from verdant valleys to mountains high your landscapes paint a breathtaking sky Through changing seasons, your cycles dance a consistent renewal waltz
From scars run deep within your glaciers melting, your tears turning to streams that swell Oceans covering places where islands once were Now they are no more
Mother Earth, is this pain too deep flickering flames now metastasizing fires’ rage, fiery tongues lashing Devouring all that could not withstand Turning forests to ash smoke cascading dimming the Skies, obscuring sun’s light from Canada to the USA across borders, a wake of destruction unfurling Embers dancing, fueled by winds’ cruel breath Smoke billowing forth, a somber cloak in the air
Through hazy skies, we get a glimpse of your wounded land A scar etched upon your surface, an anguish etched across your sky
Mother Earth, My heart burns with you, consuming with your fire My tears flow with you, cascading with your storms My body pains with you, thumping with your quakes How many more wake-up calls To cherish your wonders, protect them for all
In understanding Honor Mother Earth’s splendor Time is running out
2024 All Rights Reserved Republished 2025
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Beforeword: This week, the journey turns inward. After exploring God’s abundance, lifting up praise, and making space for restoration, we now lean into intimacy—not as a concept, but as a lived relationship.
Intimacy with God is not about perfection.
It’s not reserved for saints, monks, pastors, imam or priests. It’s available to each of us—right now, right where we are.
How does our friendships grow? It’s through time spent together, honesty, and presence, so does our closeness with God. He longs to walk with us in the details of our days, to hear our laughter, to hold our pain, to speak to us in the stillness, in the mundane.
This week is an invitation to draw closer—to speak freely, to listen deeply, and to rest in the nearness of a God who delights in you and calls you His son and His daughter—heirs!
Unending Conversations
With all there is to say to God— the thanksgiving, the praise, the adoration, the questioning…
the joy, the sorrow, the loss, the longing, the aching…
the wonderings and what-ifs, the near-misses, the could-have-beens—
my prayers become unending conversations.
They unfold with eyes wide open, or tightly closed, while I stand still or kneel low.
Sometimes my hands are folded, sometimes raised— sometimes trembling.
My prayers carry emotion in the shape of tears— tears of joy, tears of grief.
They echo in my laughter, in my sighs, in the silences that say more than words.
Sometimes, they are loud like declarations, sometimes, soft as a whisper.
And sometimes— there are no words at all, just groans, just breath, just presence.
And still, God listens.
The challenge: How to participate
Choose a consistent time each day—morning, midday, or evening—for your “God Time.”
Come as you are: with joy, with questions, with nothing to say. Just come.
Sit in silence, or write a letter to God; take a walk and talk to Him aloud or silently; or listen to worship music.
This week, don’t strive—abide.
Let your intimacy with God be less about doing and more about being. He’s already near. Just draw close.
“Are Easter bunny and Jesus best pals?” And what about the eggs and chocolate and Easter characters?! The queries of this 3-year old girl is eye opening. See her questionings here:
It is true, Easter often brings images of pastel eggs, chocolate bunnies, and playful hunts across green lawns. Fun? Absolutely.
But the heart of Easter runs deeper than sugar and spring décor.
For Christians, Easter is the cornerstone of faith—the celebration of Jesus Christ’s resurrection from the dead.
It’s not about candy-coated traditions, but about conquering sin, defeating death, and offering new life.
Beforeword: A poetic meditation on the sacred arc of Holy Week. Each poem will capture the essence of a pivotal day—Good Friday’s deep sacrifice, Holy Saturday’s aching silence, and Resurrection Sunday’s glorious salvation. Together, they invite you into reflection, reverence, and renewed hope. May these poems stir your spirit and draw you closer to the heart of the Easter story.
See the cross on the hill? Can you hear it— the echo of nails driven deep, the labored breath, the whispered prayers between the pain?
Darkness gathers, pressing in, watching, waiting, smirking.
Satan leans in close, fingers steepled, smile slow. “This time,” he hisses, “This time, the light goes out for good.” And for a silent Saturday, it seemed like he was right.
His breath—stolen. His body—wrapped. The tomb—sealed. The sky—mute. The earth—still. Mary weeps, John trembles, Peter remembers the rooster’s crow and drowns in regret, The disciples scatter like leaves in the wind, Hope lies buried behind a stone.
But wait. Listen. There’s a rumble in the dark. The grave shudders. Stone grinds against stone. The breathless King— inhales.
And just like that— Death loses its sting. The heartbeat of eternity kicks open the door of death.
And the stone— the stone rolls back like a defeated tide. The grave gasps, Satan stumbles, Heaven’s angels sing, “He is not here. He is risen.”
Do you hear it now? The sound of victory echoing through time? The whisper of mercy rewriting history? The roar of love that death could never hold?
Let the mourning turn to dancing. Let the silence break into song. Let the world know— Sunday speaks. And the grave has no reply.
My poem, “Sunday Speaks” which focuses on Jesus’ resurrection was showcased in a dedicated featured post by Dagmara and the team over at Spillwords. I’m truly grateful.
Please drop by Spillwords and give my work some love!
Beforeword: A poetic meditation on the sacred arc of Holy Week. Each poem will capture the essence of a pivotal day—Good Friday’s deep sacrifice, Holy Saturday’s aching silence, and Resurrection Sunday’s glorious salvation. Together, they invite you into reflection, reverence, and renewed hope. May these poems stir your spirit and draw you closer to the heart of the Easter story.
Saturday Was Silent
Saturday was silent— not a holy hush, but a penetrating, deep silence. A silence that reached the portals of heaven, A silence that echoed in the hearts of men, A silence that rang through the corridors of time, touching the cosmos so that: The sun dimmed its fire. The heavenly hosts hushed, as if afraid to speak out of turn. The song of creation paused, mid-note. The universe—watching still— whispered among itself, “Was this the plan? Is this the end of mercy’s reign?”
The disciples dazed— dreams unraveling. They had seen Him— walk on water, raise the dead, breathe peace into storms— and now? He was the one entombed, sealed behind a stone?
Without the shepherd the sheep scattered like dust in the wind, hope gutted, hearts hollow. Peter still tasting his own betrayal, John clutching pain where once beat a thunderous love, Mary— aching, no more place to collect her tears.
The unfallen worlds leaned in, uncertain now. How could the Author be erased from His own page? What was Saturday supposed to be? A pause? A reset? They had seen the war rage, a third of heaven deposed, but Never the Word silenced. Never the Light buried.
Heaven wept. Counted every rotation of an earth trying to orbit without its center.
And beneath— hell threw its victory party. Satan smiled, a grin too wide, too wicked. Death bowed, received its applause. The grave stood tall. They whispered through cracks the cross made in creation: “This is it. Let the curtain fall. Saturday is silent, forever!”
What they did not know— was that silence isn’t always surrender. Sometimes, God holds His breath before He speaks the loudest word.
But, On that Saturday— the world didn’t know that. On that Saturday, it just hurt. They just wept. They just waited, afraid.
Reposting this reminder of God’s unconditional love for us:
God SO loved us that He willingly divested Himself of glory, stepped into human flesh, and entered the world as a vulnerable baby—exposed to the frailties and suffering of humanity. He chose death, the ultimate sacrifice, so that we might receive grace and be spared from eternal separation.
Beforeword: A poetic meditation on the sacred arc of Holy Week. Each poem will capture the essence of a pivotal day—Good Friday’s deep sacrifice, Holy Saturday’s aching silence, and Resurrection Sunday’s glorious salvation. Together, they invite you into reflection, reverence, and renewed hope. May these poems stir your spirit and draw you closer to the heart of the Easter story.
Friday, The Longest Night
The Via Dolorosa—a path of pain Through narrow streets, beneath the jeering crowd He bore the weapon of His demise Each step a testament to enduring love The cross, His burden Our salvation, His aim
This was the hour The great reckoning The weight of a world’s sin pressed into His wounds, wrung from His lips a cry that shook eternity: “Father! My Father! Why have You forsaken me?!
The Innocent condemned The Creator crushed The King dethroned The sky wept The sun turned its face as if the heavens themselves could not bear to look The unfallen worlds held their breath— watching, waiting, as Love was lifted high
Above, the hosts of heaven stirred— Hands on hilts Wings poised for flight Their hearts burned to intervene, to descend with righteous fury, to rescue their Lord from mortal anguish Yet the Father’s silent command restrained For the cup must be drained, the sacrifice must be completed
And below, The serpent coiled at the foot of the cross Hissing triumph, spitting scorn: “Look at Him now! Powerless. Forsaken. Is this your mighty God?”
Pierced hands stretched wide between judgment and mercy
A gasp. A groan. A final breath, torn from a broken body expelled three words of finality— “It. Is. Finished.” Words that rolled from time’s beginning They shuddered the earth, It quaked They gripped the temple veil, It tore But still, He chose to hang there— Extended Silent Still Life slipping away
And then—nothing.
The air grew thick with mourning The heavens dimmed The earth held its grief Angels turned their faces, unsure, uncertain, for the first time afraid
No voice from heaven. No chariots of fire. Just silence. Just darkness. Just death.
The body wrapped. The stone sealed. The tomb cold. He laid.
Could this be it? Was this the end?
And all of creation asked the question that no one dared answer—
Special thanks to Melissa for featuring my piece “Purpose Drops” on her new platform Collaborature. Please head over there in support of Melissa and while you’re there also show my work some love. Thanks!!
Jamaica is approximately 4,411 square miles. It is the third-largest island in the Caribbean, after Cuba and Hispaniola, and boasts three international airports located in Kingston, Montego Bay, and Ocho Rios.
On this return trip, I arrived through Kingston’s Norman Manley International Airport and departed from Sangster International in Montego Bay, bookending my journey with two of Jamaica’s vibrant gateways.
Join me on a reflective journey across the island, as I retrace the steps of my birthMONTH adventure—a soulful reconnection with places that have shaped my story. From the cultural heartbeat of Kingston (Jamaica’s capital), the scenic charm of St. Andrew (Bull Bay and Gordon Town), the coastal delights of St. Ann (Ocho Rios), to the resort elegance of St. James (Montego Bay), this was more than travel—it was a homecoming.
There is just something about flying into Jamaica.
The moment the plane touches down, that unmistakable wave of nostalgia and warmth that only comes with landing back in Jamaica washes over you!
It’s a unique kind of homecoming that stirs in the heart. A reconnection with history, with food, with friends, with wellness, and with memories tucked away awaiting that moment to be rekindled.
First stop on this journey? The beloved Devon House—a Kingston gem that merges elegance with island flavor.
Built in 1881 by George Stiebel, Jamaica’s first Black millionaire, the estate is a proud symbol of Black excellence and ambition. Today, it’s a lush escape where the city comes to exhale. Under the canopy of mango trees you’ll often see families sprawled on picnic blankets, couples sharing ice cream cones, and children running free across the lawn.
Of course, I had to pay homage to their famous ice cream.
Their slogan, “I scream for Devon House Ice Cream,” is no lie—I was screaming for more after one scoop of Gingerific. Creamy, cool, and spiced just right, it was the perfect treat in the tropical heat. You’ll also enjoy the Devon House Bakery—the curry goat patty? Pure perfection.
The estate also features a number of charming eateries and local boutiques, making it a must-see whether you’re a first-time visitor or lifelong islander.
There are a number of exquisite hotels to choose from across the island. In Kingston, I chose an old favorite! You can’t go wrong with the refined comforts of Terra Nova All-Suite Hotel, a colonial-style mansion turned boutique hotel tucked away in the heart of the city.
For over 20 years, their head chef has lovingly curated a breakfast buffet that’s nothing short of a culinary celebration. From ackee and saltfish to fried plantain, callaloo, and yam, every bite took me deeper into the soul of Jamaican cuisine.
Their Sunday brunch is also mouth-watering good!
The hotel’s ambiance is old-world elegance with a distinctly Jamaican twist—perfect for slow mornings and full plates.
To balance indulgence with self-care, there is Jencare Skin Farm, one of Kingston’s most revered spas. Jencare has been a sanctuary of beauty and wellness for decades.
From the moment you walk in, you will be enveloped in calm. Whether a soothing facial or therapeutic massage, your tension will melt away. Their signature skincare line and warm, professional staff are just part of what makes Jencare a beloved local treasure—a place where beauty rituals are both luxurious and healing.
I also carved out time for a reflective visit to the now refurbished Hope Gardens and Zoo. Established in 1873, this 230 acres stand as the largest public green oasis in Kingston.
As a child, I ran through its paths with wide-eyed and carefree wonder, and walking them again brought a wave of sweet remembrance. The towering palms, vibrant flowers, and playful chatter of children made the gardens feel timeless. On the day I visited a group of school girls, who were winners in their school’s beauty contest, were visiting.
Among its many treasures is Poets’ Corner, a tranquil nook that honors the words and legacy of Jamaica’s renowned poets and literary minds.
A Bull Bay Sunset
Bull Bay is nestled along the southeastern coast of Jamaica, just a short drive east of Kingston. The area is known for its surfing spots, laid-back vibe and rugged natural beauty.
I had the pleasure of soaking in the beauty of the simultaneous setting of the sun and the rising of moon from a rustic Airbnb perched above the coastline. With life-long and new friends, we let the afternoon melt into evening—music playing softly, laughter echoing, and a competitive yet light-hearted game of Ludo unfolding on the table.
As the sky flamed orange and gold, the sea mirrored every hue, creating a view that felt both surreal and grounding. There, in the golden hush of sunset, surrounded by love, joy, and the lull of waves, I was reminded of the simple moments that make life truly unforgettable.
For more on the drama of Jamaica sunsets, click here!
Traversing From Kingston to Montego Bay
Traveling from one end of the island to the other is made easier with the new North-South Highway (a.k.a. Highway 2000).
If you want the most scenic travel across the island, climb aboard the Knutsford Express. This coach double decker bus service offers WiFi, AC, and spotless rest stops. The ride from Kingston to Montego Bay was scenic and smooth and only about three hours long. As the bus driver “tek time roll” (drove carefully) through winding roads, coastal views, and mountain backdrops, I watched the island shift and unfold.
Montego Bay greeted me with glittering waters and slower rhythms balanced with water sports and oceanfront lounging at the luxurious Jewel Grande Resort and Spa.
There I met fellow birthday celebrants and a great majority of visitors who were returning for up to as many as five times.
Jamaica is truly a vibe!
A Foodie’s Delight.
Jamaica’s fruit scene? Unmatched! Among those I feasted on were: otaheite apples, custard apples, mangoes, naseberries, papayas, pineapples, and juicy watermelon. And nothing cooled me off better than fresh coconut water, straight from the shell.
When it wasn’t coconut water in hand, it was a Ziggy Marley (similar in look to the Bob Marley, but without the spirited zing of alcohol).
Jamaica is a gastronomy mecca! For some of the culinary delights that tantalized my palate, see these posts—click on links to Miss T’s Kitchen and Pretty Close.
Reconnecting With Friends
And perhaps the most soul-nourishing part of all—meeting up with childhood and long-time friends. This brought to life the Jamaican proverb: “Good friends better than pocket money.”
We caught up as if no time had passed, sharing laughter, stories, and reminders of who we’ve always been. Each meet up held the past and present side by side.
This trip reminded me that Jamaica is a land of beautiful contrasts.
It’s both rustic riverbanks and regal resorts; childhood nostalgia and grown-up indulgence; street-side sweetness and five-star finesse. It has a bit of everything for everyone.
I bid farewell to this beautiful island from Sangster International Airport, with a full heart.
No flight from Jamaica is truly complete without spotting at least one box of the legendary Wray & Nephew White Overproof Rum tucked securely under a seat. On my flight, it was just across the aisle. I waited patiently for its devoted owner to rise, just so I could snap a clear shot of this cultural icon.
More than just a drink, this overproof rum carries the spirit of home—a staple in Jamaican households, not only for celebrations but for its traditional “remedies” too: dabbed on foreheads to ease headaches, or used in ancestral rituals and medicinal blends passed down through generations. It’s not just rum—it’s a ritual, a memory, a piece of home.
From Kingston’s heartbeat to Montego Bay’s glow, this island never stops revealing new ways to be enchanting.
Whether it’s your first visit or your fifteenth, Jamaica meets you where you are—and leaves you better than it found you.
So, as the Jamaica Tourist Board implores: “come to Jamaica and feel alright”.
Walk Good!
[This is Jamaica’s way of saying: Take care / Stay safe!]
2025 All Rights Reserved All videos and images by me
Beforeword: Today, I reached back for my younger self.
Standing at the threshold of change, on the edge of something new, there are things I need her to remember.
She’s walked this road before and this time, I needed to reassure her—we’ll be okay—so I wrote her this reminder in poetry:
Hey little one— You’re only two, wide-eyed, standing at the door of the world, Taking it all in, piece by piece, Not knowing yet the weight of the questions That will settle on your shoulders— Where do I belong? Who am I? And whose am I?
Somedays, you’ll feel lost, Caught between here and there, Between this and that, Betwixt and between— Displaced in your emotions Like a traveler with no map, Like a song missing a beat.
But listen— You will find yourself. You will find your way. You will find your voice. You will find your strength.
Fast forward— You’re on your way to university now. And girl, this is where the spark ignites. The fire in your belly will burn for justice, For voices unheard, for lives unseen. You’ll stand tall, speaking truth, Championing the fight against violence, Lifting up those who thought they had no wings.
It won’t be easy. The challenges will be mountainous, But you, my love, we were built to climb. And when they call the top achievers at graduation— Guess who’s standing tall? Yeah, that’s you. Top of your class. Unstoppable. Unbreakable.
You, my dear, you are a seeker, A wanderer with purpose. The world is calling, and you will answer. Your dreams will take you across oceans, Through cities humming with stories And villages whispering wisdom. And everywhere you go, you will leave footprints Not just on soil, But on hearts.
But before you go too far, Listen up. I don’t want you to ever forget. There are lessons I learned that you need to carry in your heart’s pocket:
One: Never, ever take your relationship with God for granted. He’s your anchor in the storm, your light when the night feels endless. Pray first. Move after.
Two: Trust your instincts. Take risks. Fall down, get up, laugh, repeat. Be gentle with yourself—you are stronger than you know. And baby girl, you’ve got bounce-back-ability.
Three: Forget fitting in—you were made to stand out. The tallest girl in the room, rocking four-inch heels like a queen. Own it, flaws and all.
Four: Live by what sets your soul on fire. Not by status quo, not by what they say you should be. Write. Speak. Empower. Be the force only you can be. Let no one put a price tag on your worth.
Five: Choose your tribe wisely. You won’t be the girl with a lot of friends. But the ones you have. They’ll be ride or die. Hold on to them. They’ll catch you when you fall, celebrate you when you rise.
And just as she was about to leave I wanted to be sure she heard me on this — so I pulled her into a tight hug and in her ears I whispered deep:
Life will challenge you. Some days will feel like a storm, But sunshine will always break through. You will smile more than you cry, You will gain more than you lose, You will love, And oh— You will be loved.
Go, Live loud, live bold, With fire, with love, be brave. And when you look back, You’ll see— Through it all, You were always gonna be, okay.
Beforeword: Welcome to week 3 of my birthMONTH journey — a sacred pause, a time to reflect, to renew, and to realign heart. This week is restoration. You don’t have to travel to a tropical island to be renewed (though it doesn’t hurt!). God invites us to experience deep healing and soul-refreshing restoration wherever we are.
Restoration means allowing God to meet us in our broken, tired, or weary places—and trusting that He is making all things new.
Restore Me Again
Restore me again, O Breath of Life— where I’ve been running on empty, where days seem like one long night, where the spark has dimmed, and joy feels like distant memory too far to reach.
Yeah … meet me there.
In the middle of the mess. In the depths of my spirit. In the quiet that screams louder than noise. Meet me in the hush where healing takes place.
Restore me— not to who I used to be, but to the me You dreamed when You first said, “Let there be.”
Pour peace into places I didn’t even know were bleeding. Shower mercy into the cracks I’ve tried to hide. Let Your love rebuild what I thought was lost— not back to before, but forward into what is to be.
Take the broken pieces, the bruised hopes, the delayed dreams— and breathe new meaning into them.
Make beauty rise where ashes lay. Make purpose bloom where doubt once sway.
Restore me again. And again. And again— until I shine with the glow of Your purpose, until I walk in the unconditionality of Your love, until my rest becomes Your testimony in me.
Restore me again, O Breath of Life.
The challenge: How to participate
This week, take intentional time each day to create space for restoration. That might mean
sitting quietly with God for 10 minutes,
journaling about a place where you need healing,
walking in nature,
or even taking a restorative nap without guilt.
Restoration is an act of surrender. It invites God to do the work of healing while we rest in a “soul vacation” in Him—right where we are—giving Him access to our tired hearts.
Who’s ready to make space for wholeness this week?
There are the 5 love languages, then there’s Jamaican food—the 6th love language!
I’ve been to Ocho Rios many times, but somehow, I had missed this gastronomic gem—and trust me, you don’t want to make the same mistake.
Whether you’re planning your next trip to Jamaica or you’re lucky enough to live on this island paradise, Miss T’s Kitchen deserves a spot at the top of your must-visit list.
With one long-time and one new-found friend, we drove in from Montego Bay, winding our way along Jamaica’s north coast. The road was mostly single-lane, curving through lush greenery and glimpses of the Caribbean Sea.
Ocho Rios is probably best known for Dunn’s River Falls, one of the wonders of Jamaica and one of the very few travertine waterfalls in the world that empties directly into the sea.
Ocho Rios is a vibrant town in St. Ann Parish, often called the “Garden Parish” of Jamaica. Now I know that it’s not only home to iconic attractions, but also this hidden culinary treasure—Miss T’s.
Tucked into a tropical courtyard just off the bustling streets of Ocho Rios, Miss T’s Kitchen welcomes you in a warm gastronomic embrace.
The restaurant’s eclectic, vibrant interior is a joyful explosion of color, culture, and character—mismatched chairs, painted tables, and murals that each tell a story of island life. Even the toilets—Miss Jane and Mas Joe—were brought into the artistic cultural expression complete with a dutchie for the face basin!
Miss T’s Kitchen is where love is the main ingredient.
The most endearing theme woven throughout the space is love. Love for food. Love for heritage. Love for community. Love in every nook and cranny of its decor—from the handwritten quotes on the wall to the lush plants hugging each corner, Miss T’s feels less like a restaurant and more like a home.
And then there’s the food!
There are meals you eat, and then there are meals you experience.
Let’s talk about the oxtail.
It was presented (not just served) in a miniature dutch pot (dutchie), tucked into a traditional coal stove, instantly transporting me back to the days when my mom cooked over one just like it. Instantly the meal turned into a nostalgic nod to home, to heritage, and the soulful simplicity of island life.
This dish alone is worth the journey—tender, slow-cooked, and seasoned with a depth of flavor that speaks to generations of culinary wisdom. It was testimony to the award hanging on the wall.
But Miss T’s doesn’t stop at oxtail. Every dish we ordered—whether, curry goat or salmon—was comfort food on a whole new level.
Locally sourced ingredients, and locally made dinnerware, and a focus on authentic preparation made the experience vibrant celebration of Jamaican flavors, art and culture. Each plate was garnished with a piece of leaf from the banana tree a nod to its versatility and intricate role in Jamaican cuisine. Even the drinks and desserts carry that same thoughtful, soulful touch. Of course I bypassed the long list of drinks offers for coconut water straight from the shell.
The best meals are shared, and I was lucky to enjoy this one with friends—one of whom was also celebrating his birthday.
Dinner at Miss T’s Kitchen was more than a stop on my itinerary—it was a reminder.
A reminder that the journey matters.
That simple spaces can hold profound beauty.
That when love is the foundation—whether in food, friendship, or life—it always leaves a lasting impression.
So if you ever find yourself on Jamaica’s north coast, make the drive to Ocho Rios. Follow the scent of seasoning, the sound of laughter, and the feeling of home. At Miss T’s, you’ll find them all in one place.
It’s that time again—when I quench my wanderlust with my annual birthMONTH explorations. And this year, I chose to celebrate with a soulful return to the island of rhythm, roots, and radiance—Jamaica—a.k.a. Jah-mek-yah!
First, a hidden gem nestled in the cool hills of Gordon Town, in St. Andrew Parish—Pretty Close.
If you’re looking for a slice of authentic Jamaican magic—off the beaten path but full of soul—then welcome to the @prettyclose1876 experience.
With my sister and a dear friend, we made our way from Kingston, navigating the winding roads to Gordon Town—the birthplace of the legendary Miss Lou. It would take an entire post to do her justice, but suffice it to say she is the matriarch of Jamaican folklore, the cultural icon who lovingly gave voice and dignity to patois, Jamaica’s local language, and shared it with the world.
In the heart of the town square stands a statue in her honor, which is not only a powerful reminder of her legacy but used as a landmark in the directions given to find this hidden gem.
Directions are shared via WhatsApp—part of the rustic feel of this evolving Jamaican tourism product.
So this is the blue face truck!
This isn’t just a place to eat. It’s a full-on experience that feeds your body, your spirit, and your sense of adventure.
Imagine this: seated on tree trunks in the middle of a gently flowing river, your feet dipped in the cool water, a plate of steaming, home-cooked Jamaican food in front of you. That’s exactly how the day started—surrounded by nature, eating meals prepared right there by the river.
We started with a savory soup, sipped fresh coconut water—cooled in the river, laughed freely, and allowed the rhythm of the water and the food to set the pace.
Then came a short, scenic hike to Orchid Falls, a tucked-away treasure that felt like stepping into a postcard.
After getting drenched by this cascading beauty and snapping a few pics, we headed back down the river and along it’s banks for round two: more laughter, more food, and more of that soul-deep feeling of contentment.
The real star of the show? Omar, the chef behind the flavors, who cooks like your favorite auntie or grandma—with love, depth, and serious skill.
The cooking is done over an open wood fire, just like my grandma used to do back in the day. The pots are skillfully balanced on stones atop the wood fire. You can see the smoke wafting gently from the makeshift kitchen beside the river, carrying the earthy aroma of something special in the works. The smell of ital cooking is distinct—no salt, no butter—just the pure, unprocessed goodness of Mother Nature where the flavor is drawn from the land, the wood fire, and the love poured in.
Every bite was a reminder of why Jamaican cuisine is world-renowned: bold, fresh, and absolutely unforgettable. Served in calabash bowls in keeping with the natural experience—it was good to the last bite.
Roasted breadfruitRice and peas The menu: fried fish, fried plantain, roasted breadfruit, rice and peas, ital stew
What I loved most is that it’s pretty close to / not far from Papine, a bustling metropolis, but it feels like a world away from the hustle and bustle of Kingston.
Pretty Close is a peaceful escape, rich with local charm and natural beauty.
If you ever find yourself in Jamaica, do yourself a favor and add Pretty Close to your itinerary. This spot is a must-visit. Period.
Beforeword: Praise is more than celebration—it’s surrender, trust, and presence. When we choose to praise, even in difficulty, we shift our hearts toward God’s faithfulness.
Praise reverberates from grateful heart A song that rises when words fall short It’s more than melody, more than a rhyme— It’s choosing joy in the uncertain time
It’s the quiet thanks in the busyness of the day The whispered hallelujah when cloudy is the way It’s lifting our eyes when we’d rather look down And finding our voice when sorrows abound
Praise is a posture, humble and true It’s a way of saying, “God, I trust You” It’s dancing on the ashes, singing through the pain Believing that sunshine still follows rain
I will praise in the breaking Praise in the bloom Praise in the silence Praise in the gloom Where answers are absent, or there is fear This I know—God is still worthy year after year
The challenge: How to participate
Be intentional about living in a state of gratitude—being in awe and appreciation no matter what’s happening.
Let’s fill the week with gratitude that flows into praise.
This blog, titled "Empowering Leadership: Building a Harmonious Partnership Between School Management and Principals," explores the essential factors that foster a strong and effective relationship between school management and principals. Drawing on historical context, philosophical principles, Indian legal frameworks, and mythological analogies, the blog offers insights into creating a balanced dynamic where principals are empowered yet accountable. It provides practical strategies for ensuring the administrative, academic, and financial health of educational institutions through clear communication, shared vision, and mutual respect.
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