'Butterfly' Moment

My childhood was a beautiful one. I remember afternoons spent in the balcony watching the sky wet the earth, fascinated by the bright flash of lightning. I remember feeling like a little detective after each delicious read of a Mary Higgins book and the games, which seem silly now in retrospect, played with my baby sister and imaginary friends. I remember the poses I struck along with my sisters in front of the “amazing” webcam and the melodious sound of the piano being played by my now late father floating into my room. I remember the one and only time my wonderful father caned me (I had wanted to cross the street alone and I was less than ten years old) and I hid under the dining table and cried my eyes out. I think I cried because I had never seen him turn against me before and not so much from the measly three strokes. I remember the day the DSTV dish was installed, excitement filled the house!! You see, I grew up watching cartoons and cable. I grew up with a philosophical father who had completed his Masters degree in Psychology in Harvard Uni. Little wonder I talked with an accent even though I had never gone beyond the shores of Nigeria, even Abeokuta for that matter. I remember evenings solving crossword puzzles with my father. He had faith in my knowledge and would tell me I could always answer them all. Strangely and rightly enough, I would after his encouragement. I cannot recall reading my notes or textbooks yet I would come out tops in class. I, however, still recall classes I had sat in, and sometimes words from the teachers’ mouth still come into my mind. I remember running into our ‘doll-room’ after a fun-filled yet supposedly “hectic” day in primary school. My sisters and I came up with diverse inventions. We made ‘ToysVille’, a city (our children parlour) made entirely of A4 paper and cardboard with playhouses and dolls. Five Alive boxes were made into cars and buses. Paper was made into money (art imitated life). Food and electronics for these dolls were, without my father’s knowledge of course, printed courtesy of Print Artist using his PC. I recall vividly coming home some days and Momma would have had the maid clean the room spotless. Didn’t deter us though, just made for a fresh start for ToysVille. I remember winning a raffle draw for an all-expense paid trip to Dubai. I can also recall Momma plaiting my hair every Sunday night in preparation for school the next day.

Yet the most special moment (yes, all the others are very special) is the one when I handed my life over to my Lord. I call it my 'butterfly' moment. A time of definition, an unveiling. While I cannot remember the exact moment (I later found it somewhere that I had written the date, October 2003), I know for sure my life must have spun around. I have rededicated my life over and over again. Now I recall moments spent in praise. I woke up after a thoroughly satisfying afternoon nap one day and the beaming sun streamed into the room as the day readied to turn into night. I don’t know what came over me but I started praising and I couldn’t stop. This set the pace in my realization of how vital praise is. I remember being depressed one night, believed to be puberty ‘mood swings’, and I began to praise. And at first, toothy grins plastered over my young face and before I knew it, I was laughing somewhat like a maniac, filled with unexplainable joy and peace.

And so lesson one was borne for me: Beyond prayers, sometimes praise is all you need. Praise is simply appreciation. If all God has done is to save your soul and preserve your life till this day, it is enough to praise Him for all eternity. Don’t believe me? You should check the package you woulda gotten had He not.

Praise also takes you to a higher realm. You have a paramount view of the situation. Some situations don’t need prayer, all they need is praise. Bishop Oke taught me something – praising God on credit (in advance). The truth is that God will owe no man. I won't fully go into the topic praise today though.

Many other lessons have also followed which hopefully I’ll be able to get to as many as possible later. It will be a sort of bible study series and please, feel free to comment. We’re all learning. This was sort of a preamble.

The Yorubas have a saying which translates “only the living will praise God; the dead cannot”. Listen to what David, the Psalmist, said in Psalm 145:21. “I will praise the LORD, and may everyone on earth bless His holy name forever and ever.” Couldn’t have said it better myself, David.

Victoria's Secret

It all started one afternoon. The previous day had brought showers, more than showers anyway. It had been the worst flood Tillson Community had seen in over a century. According to the weather channel, they could probably expect more of that. The strappy, young, Italy-born gardener of the Johnsons inspected the damage. The lovely hibiscuses he had been grooming were ruined. He cussed in his Italian language and got to work. Just as he turned to leave, his eye caught a glimmer of something. Like a piece of silver. He bent to inspect the land and dug with his gloved hands. His hands caught something. He pulled a little and dug even faster.
"Oh my goodness!" he exclaimed. And then he ran in to alert the Johnsons.
Five whole hours had passed since the gardener had found what he found and now he was seated in the living room, with the Johnsons. Their only daughter, fifteen-year old Victoria, was there too. She stood with hands folded.
"So you mean to tell me you found Freddie? He's been dead for over two months now!" Mr. Johnson exclaimed.
"Yes , sir. I found the dead dog buried in your front lawn," the gardener repeated for the umpteenth time that hour.
"We need to call the police. That means Freddie was murdered," Mrs. Johnson said worriedly.
"I doubt if the police will come running down here over the case of a dead dog, sir," the gardener said.
"True, true. I'll inform Detective Stone." Mr. Johnson left the room.
"Let me get you some snacks, dear," Mrs. Johnson said and she also left the room.
Victoria stared intensely at the gardener. His eyes looked weary and his nose looked like it had been broken a couple of times.
"I know who did it," Victoria said.
"What? What are you talking about, young girl?"
"I have a secret. I know who killed the dog. They're right. Freddie was murdered. But who could have hated the dog so much? Who would want it dead?"
The gardener shrugged.
"Well, it was me."
The gardener almost choked. "What?!"

The Emancipation of Lisa

Lisa was broken. Physically, she was exhausted. Spiritually, she felt drained. Financially, she had nothing. She was battered, bruised, worn out. The burden was too heavy for the sixteen-year old. Her body racked with pain. Her brown eyes seemed to have run out of tears. She had been through enough! She was told her biological parents had passed on in a gruesome car accident when she was two. And as such, she had never known a true sanctuary. From one foster home to the other she had gone, searching for a meaning in life. But none of them had really wanted her. She had been treated like a nonentity, unseen and ignored. And so, she had packed up her two duffel bags full of worn-out clothes and run away again. Just like she had from all the others. This was different from the rest as the rain poured heavily, almost as if weeping for her, as she whisked off into the night. Perhaps the Hecklers wouldn't even notice her disappearance until evening, the next day, when she'd be required to make dinner. Mr. Heckler would probably come home drunk as usual and beat his wife up to a pulp. And then he'd search for Lisa...

She wondered how they even ever got the adoption agency to give her up. No surprise there though. She recollected how she had heard the stubby, bald-headed owner complain of too many orphaned babies showing up at their doorstep. He didn't forget to divulge to the Hecklers his need to pay his house rent urgently. "Take her!" he had said eagerly. This wicked man had turned them to some sort of business. The others kids didn't see it, infact they were very grateful to him, but ever meticulous Lisa did. As she had rightly seen from Mr. Heckler's yellowish, mean-looking eyes that he was no decent man. And his fragile, brunette wife just looked timid and, if you'd stare deeply into those blue eyes, somewhat frightened.

She seemed to snap out of her nightmare of being taken away by the Hecklers as she felt a tap on her arm. The dingy, half-completed building she has rested her head for the night was now full of construction workers. It was one of them who had woken her up.
"What are you doing here?!" the lanky but husky-toned man said.
Lisa jumped to her feet, her brown skirt even browner with dirt, and started to fidget.
The man sized her up with his beady eyes and Lisa could feel her heart racing faster than ever.
"Yo, Drew! We got work to do! Watchu doing over there?" someone called out.
As soon as Drew turned around to see who had spoken, Lisa fled, leaving one duffel behind.

She didn't stop running, even after she had checked the umpteenth time to make sure she wasn't being followed. Stopping briefly to gasp for air, she looked up and saw a huge cross from afar off. In awe and curiosity, she walked closer to it only to realise it was an edifice. Slowly and frightfully, she went in. The door was open ajar, seeming welcoming..

The floor seemed to creak as she walked on and the sound of it echoed through the large space. Rows and rows of mahogany pews she saw. The bright sun streamed in through the glass windows which were high up, illuminating the building, and small Lisa felt even smaller. At the far end, there appeared to be a shadow, kneeling before something. Lisa could count her steps as she walked tentatively, closer and closer to the figure.

She came to the altar and the figure gazed upon her with squinted eyes. It was a feeble, old man. The wrinkles seemed to adorn his pale face somehow.

"Young girl, what do you seek?" His voice sounded so pure and irenic.

"A home," she replied simply.

He nodded and gave her a knowing smile. "Ah, the eternal quest. Many have searched far and wide for it yet the answer is quite simple. The creation can only have a true refuge with its Creator. Only when they are in sync will one truly find rest for his soul," the sage said.

"What does that mean?" Lisa inquired.

"Why not take it to the Lord, m'dear?" And with that he stood up and plodded away.

Lisa was left, dazed. She remembered going to church when she was much younger, at the first house she stayed after she lost her parents. The Smithsons were probably the nicest. But after his wife had passed on after battling with cancer, Mr. Smithson decided to give Lisa up. She was a reminder of what once was. Last she heard, Mr. Smithson committed suicide.

Lisa inhaled. And exhaled. Then she shut her eyes and mumbled some words to the Lord. Minutes rolled into hours and at the end, her face was moistened with tears. She had told it all before her Lord. And strangely, she felt refreshed. She hadn't realised she was on her knees.

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and she winced from the effect of the light. The whole room seemed to light up. Brighter than ever.

Here, kneeling in front of the altar, Lisa knew old things had passed away. She knew her Lord had taken all her burdens and cares. And for the first time in her life, she felt such emancipation. She could breathe in the fresh air and actually enjoy it. She wasn't filled with despair and hopelessness again. And then, she knew for certain that she was finally home because God had chosen her.

What If...?

What if things didn't have to be this way?
But what if we've run out of things to say?

What if time we seem to have lost?
What if we didn't carefully consider the cost?

What if time is the only thing that will tell?
But what if we already know the end too well?

What if your name still makes my heart beat faster?
What if moving on is a skill we both have to master?

What is past is past...
But I can't help but wonder what if we had made it last...