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.
Life is a play that does not allow rehearsals— You step on the stage raw Your heart your script Your conscience your guide God by your side Live, love, laugh out fully Because the hands of time move forward, never back
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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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; and midweek motivational boost and inspirational reflections in prose, poetry and images.
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/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.
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.
Beforeword: True abundance isn’t measured by what we have but by how we see. Abundance in gratitude is a shift from a mindset of lack, opening our eyes to the richness of God’s provision all around us.
Abundance is the morning light, spilling through my window, a whispered promise in the quiet like mercy, it comes again.
Abundance is the breath I breathe, easy, unworried, full and free, pulse of grace— the gift unearned yet freely given to me.
Abundance is the laughter shared, the hand outstretched, the love that stays, the meal made warm, the prayer made whole, the kindness woven through my days.
It isn’t wealth, it isn’t store— not counted coins nor things possessed, but how my heart receives in simple joys, in peace, in rest.
Here I stand with open hands, not grasping tight but ebb and flow, for what God gives is always full— enough to take, enough to sow.
And this year, I’m celebrating in a special way—by stepping back from the hustle and bustle of life. Instead of just marking another year, I want to embrace this month as a sacred pause, a time to reflect, renew, and realign my heart.
And I want to invite you to join me in this journey.
I will be guided by five words—one for each week—that form an acrostic:
Abundance – Shifting focus from scarcity to sufficiency.
Praise – Living in gratitude.
Restoration – Being open to healing and renewal.
Intimacy – Deepening connections.
Love – Living in and through love.
Each week, I will share a poem inspired by the theme and a challenge to help us embody it in our daily lives.
We are whole— Strong. Unshaken. Shaped by history’s hands, fired in the kiln of time. But when the weight of patriarchy pressed too hard— Cracks appeared.
What does the world do with women it tries to break? It tries to—
Dismiss them. Silence them. Bury them.
They say once something fractures, it can never be the same again. That the scars will always tell a story of loss, of defeat, of what can never be reclaimed.
But they are wrong.
Because struggle is not the end. The fight is part of the becoming.
Kintsugi—golden repair— Not to erase the cracks, Not to hide our place in HIS-story, but to illuminate our legacy— our resistance, our resilience, our power. To honor our voices. To make them art.
So let us treat our pain that way. Let every crack of injustice, every fracture of oppression, every attempt to silence us be transformed—not hidden, but held.
What if… our wounds weren’t wounds at all, but spaces waiting to be filled with something precious?
What if… our struggle wasn’t our ruin, but our revolution?
What if we take this pain, these centuries of resistance, this history soaked in defiance, and forge something new?
What if like seeds, we grow Piercing through, defying the -isms of oppression
What if we melt down discrimination into gold, pour it into the cracks, and let it bind us together— not in spite of our struggle, but because of it?
We do not bow. We do not break. We rise.
We are not just survivors. We are warriors. We are visionaries. We are unstoppable.
Mirror, mirror on the wall not for vanity at all but for reflection’s call Now the whispers grow louder, not from the world, but from within.
It was never just about beauty. Not the tilt of your chin, or the grace in your walk— but the fire in your voice when you finally stopped asking for permission.
You look back not with regret, but with awe at how far you’ve come. Bearing the stories of survival, You thrive Not confined to the borders drawn by others.
They can stare. Let them. Their curiosity can’t contain you. Their silence can’t stop you.
You are light, and shadow, and the spectrum in between. You are allowed to take up space. To be loud. To be seen. To simply be— the imperfectly perfect you.
2025 All Rights Reserved Image Facebook/unknown source
Orchid mom’s delight: these variegated beauties making my heart and home smile
#Shadorma is a Spanish poetic form consisting of six lines (a sextain) with a syllabic pattern of 3-5-3-3-7-5. It has no set rhyme scheme and often conveys deep emotions or vivid imagery in a brief, structured way.
In the beginning, before the rush, the grind, the deadlines, before the calendars filled themselves like storm clouds, before work became a badge of worth, God stopped.
He shaped the world with words, spoke light into being, breathed life into dust, separated waters, stretched out the heavens— and then, He did something radical. God rested.
Not because He was tired. Not because He ran out of ideas. Not because He needed a break before the next big thing. But because stopping was part of the design.
God stopped working. Not to be more productive later. Not to maximize efficiency. Not to hustle harder tomorrow. But to see, to savor, to call it good.
And yet, here we are— worn thin like paper pressed too hard, calling exhaustion ambition, calling busyness purpose, calling depletion devotion.
But what if stopping was sacred? What if rest wasn’t a luxury, but a law written into our bones? What if we weren’t made for the race, but for the rhythm— work and then cease, create and then breathe, to remember that we are not the sum of what we produce?
God stopped working. And maybe, just maybe, we should too.
Let joy sneak up on you Like the first breath of spring after a long winter Like an old song you forgot you loved
Let wonder catch you off guard Like a child chasing fireflies Like laughter spilling out at the wrong moment
Loosen your grip on what must be Let the unplanned The unexpected The beautifully uncertain Reshape what you thought you knew
Not everything needs an explanation Not every step needs a map Some of life’s best moments arrive unannounced, wrapped in the ordinary, waiting to be noticed
Let life interrupt your plans Turn left when you expected right Not every answer is yours to hold Some things are best discovered in the space between knowing and not knowing
So open your hands Open your heart And, Stay surprise-able
Facebook reminded me of this post I made on that platform in 2019!!!Different platform, different dates, but the sentiments of the message remains the same — stay surprise-able!
Heaven is not still. Not now. Not when the hourglass is down to its last grains of sand.
The throne room pulses, electric with anticipation, the atmosphere thick with expectancy. The angels shift in place, their coronation songs echo in celestial halls. They know their next cry will not be soft, but a trumpet blast so fierce it will shake graves open, call sleeping saints from their slumber, and send the living skyward their burdens abandoned in the wind.
And there—on the edge of His throne— Jesus leans forward. One foot planted in the courts of heaven, the other pressing against the rim of the earth. His gaze is locked on a world unraveling, His hands grip the armrests, His voice a whisper beneath His breath: “Father, is it time?”
Heaven holds its breath.
Guardian angels stand at attention, hearts pounding with urgency Rehearsing the stories they will soon tell— of unseen battles, of near-death moments turned miracles, of the countless times they blocked, protected, shielded, intervened, and whispered: “Hold on just a little while longer.”
Below—chaos is raging.
The earth is squirming in agony— its bones fractured by quakes, its lungs scorched by fire, its veins flooded by tsunamis and storms. Cities are crumbling, nations are falling, war drums thundering, famine spreading, and the air is thickening with the stench of genocide, infanticide, suicide.
Men’s hearts failing them for fear— fear of the unknown, fear of the inevitable, fear that the darkness is winning. Lawlessness rises like smoke, murder stains the streets, red Despair grips the souls of the broken.
And hell? Hell is unhinged.
Demons are moving amidst the earth without restraint, their assault — reckless their attacks — relentless because they know their time is just about… up.
And heaven? Heaven is about to move.
A white horse stands ready. Its rider breathes in the last moments of waiting. He’s about to exchange His ministering gown for Kingly robes, clothed in righteousness, His eyes ablaze with justice, His name inscribed for all to see: King of Kings! Lord of Lords!
No manger this time. No wooden cross. No crown of thorns pressed into his brow.
This time, He rides in power! This time, He comes in glory!
The sky is about to shatter like glass, The heavens will soon roll back like a scroll, and the sound of His name will shake the foundations of the earth.
Every knee will bow— willingly or by force. Every tongue will confess— in joy or in terror.
And in that moment, when heaven and earth collide, eternity will kiss mortality, sorrow will be swallowed up in defeat, the grave will lose its victory and the King will gather His own— Thundering the words they have longed to hear: “It is finished! Welcome home!”
Hold fast. The King is on the edge. The command—“Go! Go get My children!” That time is almost… now.
To the woman that you were— I see you. Standing in storms that tried to break you, yet you bent like the willow, never snapping, never folding. You held your ground, turned pain into power, turned silence into voice, turned fear into fuel. I admire your resilience, your unshaken resolve, your quiet strength when the world tried to tell you to hush.
To the woman you are— Your journey is not complete. But oh, how far you’ve come! You walk now with wisdom earned in fire, scars that no longer bleed but blaze— reminders that you lived, that you learned, that you are still here. You hold space for growth and grace, shed doubt like autumn leaves, rooted deep in lessons you once feared. You are the bridge between who you were and the promise of who you will be.
To the woman you’re becoming— You are a whisper of dreams realized, a vision not yet fully seen, but I know you’re there, waiting. A phoenix rising, a story still unfolding, a force stepping boldly into her becoming. You carry all that was, but you are free to be. No chains, no fear, no limits— only the boundless sky ahead.
Beforeword: Forty years ago today, We Are the World brought together some of the biggest voices in music for a cause greater than themselves. Written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie, and recorded by an all-star ensemble, the song raised over $80 million for famine relief in Africa, proving that music has the power to move not just hearts, but mountains.
Since then, many have tried to imitate its magic, but none have truly duplicated its impact. It wasn’t just the melody—it was the message: unity, compassion, and a shared responsibility for the world’s most vulnerable. And looking at our world today, we need that message more than ever. Hunger, war, displacement, and inequality still demand our collective response.
We Are The World
As we mark this milestone, let’s not just remember We Are the World—let’s live it.
There comes a time When we heed a certain call When the world must come together as one There are people dying Oh, and it’s time to lend a hand to life The greatest gift of all We can’t go on Pretending day by day That someone, somewhere will soon make a change We are all a part of God’s great big family And the truth, you know, love is all we need We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me Well, send them your heart So they know that someone cares And their lives will be stronger and free As God has shown us by turning stone to bread And so we all must lend a helping hand We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving Oh, there’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me When you’re down and out, and there seems no hope at all But if you just believe, there’s no way we can fall Well, well, well, well let us realize Oh, that a change can only come When we stand together as one (yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah) We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There is a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me Alright, let me hear you We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (said, we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a brighter day Just you and me, come on now, let me hear you We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me, yeah, yeah We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making And we’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world (one world) We are the children (our children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world, we are the world (we are the world) We are the children, yes, sir (we are the children) We are the ones that make a brighter day (we are the world) So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me (ooh-ooh, dear, God) We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones that make a brighter day, so let’s start giving Alright, can you hear what I say? (So let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making, we’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day
Beforeword: Whenever multiple planets become visible to the naked eye, it is often referred to as a planetary alignment. On the other hand, a planetary parade describes the breathtaking phenomenon where planets appear to form a “straight line,” as if marching in unison across the night sky. This cosmic event is usually of 4, 5 or 6 planets but 7 is quite rare. On 28 February 2025, 7 planets perfectly aligned, displaying the grandeur and harmony of the universe, a fleeting spectacle that connects us to the vastness beyond our world.
This shadorma captures the essence of this rare cosmic dance across the February 28th night sky.
Planetary Parade
Mercury
Plus Mars, Jupiter,
Uranus
Neptune joined
Rare—seven planets aligned
Venus, Saturn too
#Shadorma is a six-line (sextain) poetic form with a syllabic pattern of 3-5-3-3-7-5.
The zero-sum game in love is always lose-lose, never win-win. 100% or nothing.
Love measured in fractions isn’t love at all because —
Love demands presence, not pretense; commitment, not calculation.
When one must lose for the other to win, both hearts bear the cost.
True love, like true success, multiplies rather than divides, expands rather than contracts.
The moment love becomes a competition, it ceases to be love and becomes a transaction—one where everyone walks away empty-handed/hearted.
The same is true in life—the zero-sum game in life is always lose-lose, never win-win. 100% or nothing.
Progress in life, built on someone else’s loss is not progress at all because—
True advancement uplifts rather than undermines.
When one person’s success comes at the expense of another’s dignity, opportunity, or well-being, it is not progress—it is exploitation disguised as achievement.
This is the fallacy that fuels resistance to gender equality: the mistaken belief that when women gain, men must lose.
But gender equality is not a competition—it’s a collective advancement.
A world where women thrive is a world where everyone benefits.
Stronger economies, healthier families, more just societies—these are not prizes won at someone’s expense but shared victories that uplift us all.
True equality doesn’t divide; it multiplies.
The only real win is one we build together.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
Beforeword: This piece was commissioned by a bride who was renewing her wedding vows and wanted a piece to cover her walk down the aisle. It was to start with visualizing her love relationship with God, then the love relationship between her and her husband and culminate in imagining what it would be like to have a face-to-face encounter with God.
When a piece is commissioned I usually consult with the client to get the backstory to create a piece that is personal and reflective of the context the client wishes to convey. In this case the client gave me a song as muse. On the day, the piece was narrated to that song: “I Can Only Imagine”.
Although You have proven Yourself to be true
And there is nothing else You will ever have to do to show Your love, to prove Your faithfulness
To reassure me that You are love, you are faithful, that You hold nothing from my past against me—in You I’m forgiven, renewed
What manner of love is this?
A love that loves me, restores me, completes me
Now I stand at the beginning of a path to walk
To walk in whole-completeness
In His perfect love
Fear casted out perfectly
Perfect love remains resolutely
And me—I remain in Him
Whole—a state of being
I could only imagine
And you, who are you?
Who is this man that I will walk to?
I see in you the embodiment of Christ
His on-earth love to me personified
A glimpse, a manifestation of His in-glory love for me
But I will not mistake His place for you
In my life, He comes first
For it is He who first loved me
Before you, He engraved me in the palm of His hands
Before you, He emptied Himself of everything
He gave Himself for me, for you
I walk in His love to recommit my life to you
Can you imagine?
I imagine you, my arrival awaiting
Like the church, His bride, expecting His returning
I imagine you, me, wondering what we may feel, anticipating
Will our feet allow us to dance?
Or our voices allow us to speak?
Standing still or prostrate falling?
Dumbfounded or shouts of hallelujahs exclaiming?
What will our eyes see?
What will our thoughts be?
You and me, His majesty beholding
Nothing will compare
Check the reference, if you don’t believe me:
1st book to the Corinthians, in the 2nd chapter and the 9th verse you’ll read—
No eyes have seen, no ears have heard, nor has it even entered within any heart to conceive
In the splendor of His grace
We’ll stand together, husband and wife
To behold Him face to face
I can only imagine
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
Beautiful black skin we age with grace Testament to the strength of melanin flowing through our race A positive stereotype about physical appearance While all the time oppression wearing down mental perseverance
Erasure of oppressions in subtle superficial narrative: “black don’t crack” Historical misconceptions, lay weight on black women’s back Superwoman schema, generations of history—a heavy load Cape-like shield, deflect society’s discriminating code
Obliged to show strength, while hiding tears Suppressing emotions, internalizing fears Vulnerability, misconstrued, like foe to resist Success pursued, while resources run amiss
Juggling roles, carrying burdens not her own Strength for all, unrealistic seeds are sown Grounded in racist history, archetype cast The Mammy’s devotion, dangerous legacies that last
At the intersection of expectations, unrealistic Femininity and strength, a delicate balance characteristic The scales tipped her resilient stride “Strong black woman” trope, stereotypes collide
That’s what they say: “black don’t crack” Racist expectation of strength, attack Express no emotion, hide fear, hold back tear “Superwoman” schema, worn as protective gear
Yeah! That part … we dismantling that
For what won’t crack will surely break Unravel, put a whole race at stake So take your label, and take your trope Being black is … well, yeah, it’s dope
I’m a black woman, see this face Beautiful melanin, skin age with grace I’m Educated. I’m Empowered. I’m Motivated. For my strength, for my resilience—loved? Nah, that’s hated
But that’s what haters do Prejudice won’t let love come through You won’t bring me down though, make me feel blue Your hate is your own poison, I ain’t gonna chew
The “strong black woman”, sexist-racist construction We taking back our power, reset the foundation Resilient women of African descent Across the diaspora, beyond the continent
We come in all shades of choc-lit Like fire, we blaze legit, won’t quit Hear us roar, our beautiful is black, back We define our strength, yeah, that won’t crack
Women who stay in abusive relationships often hear the same questions: “Why don’t you leave?” “Why do you go back?” But leaving isn’t always simple. The ties that bind are deeper than what the eye can see—woven from fear of retaliation, financial dependence, isolation, and the emotional manipulation that distorts reality.
Help is Available
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, you are not alone. There is help. In the US:
The flight took off through snowstorm’s might We trusted the forecast, we trusted the flight But when time came for landing, the winds took their stand As if the enemy determined, “They won’t safely land”
The engines groaned, the wings bowed low City lights flickered, dimmed to a glow A whispered prayer, a held-back scream— A battle raged beyond what can be seen
I believe God stood, firm in the darkened sky “Their purpose remains, they shall not die” Plane nose dipped down—the runway clear The wheels reached out, the ground drew near
But darkness grinned, the crosswinds rose And up we climbed—the landing closed Four times the storm would toss and turn Four times the pilot’s skills would burn
Yet heaven’s hand refused to sway “Not on My watch, not now, not today” Guardian angels wove through the steel A hush of peace the soul could feel
The winds did howl, the tempest rise But God still reigns beyond the skies “My child, hold on, for I am here Your time’s not up—give not in to fear”
Back to the start, though shaken still Weary, yet heart with gratitude is filled To breathe, to rise, to see the dawn— A life preserved, a journey drawn
Now I stand on solid ground With grateful psalms, my praise resounds For what was spared, for what’s in store For battles ahead and victories more
Afterword: As I pondered how to capture that night in poetic form, I was reminded of a powerful quote from one of my favorite spiritual writers, E.G. White, in The Great Controversy:
“If the veil could be lifted, and we could see the struggle of the angelic hosts with the powers of darkness, and the efforts of our guardian angels to protect us from the snares of the evil one…”
Reflecting on that night (6 Feb 2025) I cannot help but see it as a battle between good and evil—each attempted landing thwarted by the winds as a struggle for the souls aboard that small aircraft. But through it all, my good-good Father prevailed. Even now, I’m still in awe of His protection.
2025 All Rights Reserved Image by me (from plane window of return flight to NY)
Mirror, mirror—what do you see? No masks, no tales, the truth of me. Full lips, proud nose, skin sun-kissed like earth at dusk. Wearing hair-itage like a crown, a symphony of strength and soul.
Let them look— The questioning gaze. You were never made for their approval. You were made to radiate. To take up space. To shift rooms.
No need to chase what already lives within. No need to mold what was meant to be free. You are the art, the standard, the source. Unapologetically the quintessential you.
Before-word: This is a paraphrase of a psalm penned by my best-Bible-friend, David (King of ancient Israel), as recorded in Psalms 139.
Dear God, investigate my life; get all the facts firsthand. I’m an open book to You; even from a distance, You know what I’m thinking. You know when I leave and when I get back; I’m never out of Your sight. You know everything I’m going to say before I start the first sentence. I look behind me and You’re there, then up ahead and You’re there, too— Your reassuring presence, coming and going. This is too much, too wonderful— I can’t take it all in! Is there anyplace I can go to avoid Your Spirit? to be out of Your sight? If I climb to the sky, You’re there! If I go underground, You’re there! If I flew on morning’s wings to the far western horizon, You’d find me in a minute— You’re already there waiting! Then I said to myself, “Oh, He even sees me in the dark! At night I’m immersed in the light!” It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to You; night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to You. Oh yes, You shaped me first inside, then out; You formed me in my mother’s womb. I thank You, High God—You’re breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made! I worship in adoration—what a creation! Like an open book, You watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before You. The days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day. Your thoughts—how rare, how beautiful! God, I’ll never comprehend them! I couldn’t even begin to count them— any more than I could count the sand of the sea. Oh, let me rise in the morning and live always with You! Investigate my life, O God, find out everything about me; Cross-examine and test me, get a clear picture of what I’m about; See for yourself whether I’ve done anything wrong— then guide me on the road to eternal life.
“There’s no way your flight will take off in this weather. You’ll be back soon.”
With those parting words from my other-mom on February 16th, I headed to Pearson International Airport, bracing myself against one of Toronto’s worst snowstorms in recent history.
Toronto digs out from biggest winter storm in more than three years Credit: The Weather Network
As the Uber driver cautiously navigated through snow-laden side streets and treacherous highways, I gripped my seatbelt tightly, my foot pressing an imaginary brake, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
All day, I had been refreshing my flight status, fully expecting a cancellation.
At the airport, a complete whiteout swallowed the tarmac; not a single plane was visible. Yet, somehow, our flight remained scheduled. Trusting that the weather forecasting service deemed it safe, I boarded.
After an extended de-icing process, I willed myself to sleep, hoping to escape the turbulence I was certain awaited us.
But no intensity of sleep could have prevented me from this experience.
I woke up as we began our descent into LaGuardia—a route I had flown countless times. But this time it felt different. The plane trembled violently, the wing I had my eyes fixated on was swaying against the wind. My body tensed, pressing into the seat for stability. I could see the landmark buildings and high rises. Then, suddenly, we lurched into a steep climb—our landing aborted. The city lights below faded rapidly as we climbed back into the dense darkness.
The intercom chimed, and the pilot’s voice cut through the uneasy silence:
“Due to heavy winds near the surface, we were unable to land. We will circle and attempt another approach.”
Attempt two: The turbulence was worse. I watched the wing shake as the cityscape came into view, again. And again—another sudden ascent.
Attempt three: Even more violent. Passengers were now visibly ill; flight attendants hurriedly distributed motion sickness bags when we leveled off.
Attempt four: The same gut-wrenching pattern. The aircraft shook violently. My eyes were fixed on the wing. It was flapping as if it might snap.
The fourth attempt felt closest. We approached over water, the familiar low urban approach into LaGuardia. I prayed intensely as water gave way to land. I thought, this is it—we’re landing. But then—another abrupt climb.
A collective gasp of terror and despair filled the cabin. Followed by a deafening silence.
No passengers spoke.
Even the pilots remained silent, undoubtedly giving this relentless battle against the wind their undivided attention.
In the absence of information, I turned to the flight map. It now displayed an estimated arrival time back to Toronto. My heart sank. If conditions here were this treacherous, what awaited us at Pearson?
The intercom chimed again, the pilot’s voice calm but firm:
“We will not attempt a fifth landing due to fuel constraints. We are heading back.”
A wave of confusion spread through the cabin. Passengers exchanged panicked glances. Then, the collective question, I also joined in:
“Heading back, where?”
The intercom beeped once more.
“Back to Toronto.”
The flight map was indeed correct. We are heading back to Toronto!
Minutes passed. Then another chime.
“We are diverting to Hamilton—we do not have enough fuel to reach Toronto.”
Every plane crash story and movie I had ever watched flashed through my mind. This was the moment for faith and self-talk. I whispered reassurances to myself, willing my body to remain calm as I prayed.
We landed in Hamilton with a jarring thud. Passengers, desperate for solid ground, rose from their seats before we even stopped moving. The pilot’s voice returned:
“We will refuel and return to Toronto. Please remain seated.”
Tensions rose. The flight attendants did their best to soothe frayed nerves. The line for the bathrooms stretched the length of the small plane.
My legs up against the seat in this small plane. I can endure this for 1.5 hours, 14 hours was hellish
Our only sustenance? Pretzels and water.
Four hours later, after refueling and de-icing, we were airborne again. By this point, exhaustion had dulled my fear.
At almost 4 a.m., nearly 12 hours after our journey began, we arrived back at Pearson—right where we started. The baggage claim area was packed with hundreds of stranded passengers. My suitcase, like so many others, was nowhere to be found.
Descending the escalator from immigration into the baggage claim area at 3:53 AMlooking in one direction
By the time the ordeal ended—including the scramble to secure another flight—it was nearly 4 p.m. I had been in travel mode for 24 hours for a trip that should have taken 1.5.
Trying to find a ticket online for the day after 😵💫🫣🤯🙄😲The phone number we were given rang with no answer so we stood in a long line to rebook tickets at the airport
No sooner had I settled at home than the news broke:
A Delta Air Lines regional jet had crash-landed at Pearson. The plane flipped upon landing due to strong crosswinds and heavy snow. Miraculously, all passengers survived, though some were injured.
I stared at the TV screen, my body still buzzing from adrenaline.
My straddling that thin line between routine travel and catastrophe had never been closer.
And in that moment I’m reminded of how the convergence of severe weather and aviation underscores that delicate balance between safety and the unpredictability of nature.
Reflecting on my own harrowing experience, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
I still have a flight ahead of me to get back to my second home. Praying for safe travel has never had such profound meaning.
The Sabbath rises with the setting sun Whispering rest into the restless Calling the hurried world to stillness Never a burden, but a breath— A pause written into creation’s rhythm A covenant carved in time A gift wrapped in intention, divine
Before nations had borders Before laws were chiseled in stone Before toil bent the backs of laborers— Sabbath was God blessed the seventh day Not for one people Not for one tribe But for all who bear His image For all all who crave intimacy with the Divine
It is the hush after the storm It is the table set with bread and wine It is the gathering of hearts around sacred space It is a call to cease, a call to worship, a call to remember— We are not the sum of our labor not the weight of our worries not bound to endless striving
The Sabbath is mercy unfolding Healing hands extending— the hungry fed, the weary restored, the broken made whole It was never meant for idleness— but for goodness, for justice, for love
God, the Author of time wove rest into its fabric A holy refrain between the days A reminder that He is the source, that we are His, that the world turns not by our hands, but by His will
So, let the thirsty drink deeply of its blessings The weary find rest in its embrace The seeking surrender to its sacred peace Come O Sabbath day of rest Be a healing balm for every soul
Shabbat Shalom.
I pray you find the divine gift, the covenant of peace, and the sacred rhythm of Sabbath calling you to restoration, justice, and peace.
In shades of blackness, three black women stood By the ocean’s lapping waves, because they could Their skin adorned in shades of black A tapestry of edenic beauty, flashback
In shades of blackness, colors bright They wear a tapestry of strength and light Their hearts yearning thoughts soaring free To Africa, their homeland, across the sea
The water’s shimmer a bittersweet sight A reminder of forlorn journeys in the night When shackles and chains bore heavy weight Yet like their spirit, resilient colors celebrate
In shades of blackness, a tapestry unfolds Stories of strength and courage retold Thinking of Africa their hearts united A land torn from them yet home ignited
In shades of blackness, they stand so tall A triumphant spirit proudly enthrall Their roots deep-seated a heritage divine In their souls, the echoes of ancient rhyme
With every sunset and every dawn They honor the heritage that’s drawn From a distant land, a sacred place Woven in a collective memory space
In shades of blackness they’ve faced stormy days Challenged bias in countless ways Their voices rose above the strife Championing one for all, a better life
In the shades of blackness they’ve come to find The strength and love of humankind Three black women united—a living art In love for community to heal each heart
Today, millions will watch as two teams battle for supremacy on US football’s biggest stage—the Super Bowl. It’s a contest of strategy, resilience, and sheer willpower, where overcoming the opponent is the ultimate goal. But beyond the field, another battle rages—the fight to overcome the noise, pollution, war, hypocrisy, and fear that permeate our world.
Love cannot simply exist passively in the atmosphere
I was struck by fellow blogger Yassy’s poem that challenged the well known adage “love is in the air” by, in essence asking: or is it?! She does so by painting a stark, unfiltered picture of current reality. A reality where the air seems to be permeating with everything but love. It’s a poignant reminder that love cannot simply exist passively in the atmosphere; it must be cultivated, lived, and made tangible.
I was also struck by a verse from the Bible which happened to be something I read today as well. In a world so aptly described in Yassy’s poem, the Bible offers this antidote: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21). And other religious texts contain similar message about overcoming evil with good.
Love must rise louder than the chaos
Just as teams fight to outplay their opponents, we are called to outlive, outshine, and outlove the darkness around us. Love must rise louder than the chaos, transforming not just hearts but the very air we breathe.
If love is in the heart, then it must also be in our voices, actions, and presence—overcoming hate, fear, and injustice. Love is not silent. It does not retreat. It sings, shouts, and clears the air.
This reflection inspired my poem, using the #Dectina Refrain form:
Love Lives Loud
Heart Beating Love resounds Drowning out hate Piercing the darkness Cutting through hopelessness Rising beyond warplanes and lies Spreading joy, light, displacing fear Truth cleansing air, shifting atmosphere Heart beating, love resounds, drowning out hate
Heart beating, love resounds, drowning out hate Truth cleansing air, shifting atmosphere Spreading joy, light, displacing fear Rising beyond warplanes and lies Cutting through hopelessness Piercing the darkness Drowning out hate Love resounds Beating Heart
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A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
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