THE RACE II

 
…get set…go!

Clarence wobbled a bit as his weak limbs hit the dusty road. He was tired. He was hungry. He wasn’t even sure why he was running anymore. They were about fifty kilometers out on the trail but he felt like his lungs were going to burst open, spilling his innards on the dusty road.

He winced a little at the thought.

He should stop to eat something. Some of the other runners did. Every few hours they stopped to eat some of the food Papi – for that was what they called the organizer of the race – kept on the track. But, he couldn’t do that. He was too busy.

He had to win this race.

The Papi also helped the runners a lot. Sometimes, he’d just jump in and take some of the weary ones on his shoulder while he ran. Or offer them glucose. Or help them read the map. Or bellow advice from a chopper hovering above them constantly. But Clarence had graciously rejected his offer several times.

All his friends were in the race. He had a lot to prove. He did his exercises well and was a natural at this. He didn’t need the food. But, he felt really doozy. His initial energy and fervor that was present when he began the race was gone. His breaths came in wispy, shallow puffs now. But he kept going.

He would make it.

He didn’t need food.

Or anyone’s help.

                                                  *    *    *    *

The bag was weighing her down. Tina had wondered at a time what it would feel like to carry a thousand ton rock on ones back. Now, she knew. She couldn’t remember where the strange thought had come from at that time. Maybe something she had read somewhere about placing a millstone around someone’s neck and dropping them in the ocean.

She felt so strangled. All her energy and concentration focused fully on carrying the weight hanging on her stooping back. Her steps were slow and labored. But this was hers. She would carry it. So she hopped on with the bag flopping heavily on her back as she did so, her breath shallow and labored.

Several times Papi had hovered in a chopper above her like he usually did, bellowing on a megaphone for her to drop the load. But all the time she would shake her head and ignore him. There was no way she was dropping it.

She had left home with it. It contained all her personal stuff. Things she loved and was comfortable with. Things she wasn’t ready to let go of for any reason.
For any one.

Besides, she was sure she was doing great in the race…for someone with all that load. Never mind most of the energy from her food always went to carrying the bag rather than running the race. But she wasn’t complaining.

She would be fine.

She stopped a bit to catch her breath and watch the other runners and tried not to envy some of them. They were so agile and fast. If only she could be that way. Some who breezed past however, were so pathetic she wanted to laugh. But then she remembered the weight chocking her and changed her mind about expressing her scorn. Their steps were so feeble and Papi had to carry them most of the time or offer them some kind of help.

They were so helpless.

At least she was better than them. Now, if only she could find a way to carry this load without it chocking or hindering her steps too much, she would be fine.
She would be just fine.

                                                  *    *    *    *

Ladi had always loved beautiful things. She remembered as a child, she had had such a keen eye for art that her parents had thought she would end up as an artist. She would usually point excitedly at a daisy or a rose and hop excitedly screeching, “Look! So, so pretty!” Her friends thought she was weird, in a kind of way that was somehow acceptable for only artists.

But she hadn’t grown to be an artist. She was a photographer.

Now, as she ran on the trail, she couldn’t help but notice how the surrounding hills towered and tilted towards each other like they were having a private conversation. She sighed.

It was really beautiful.

Then there were the luscious berries that hung alluringly and beckoned silently by the side of the road. Her mouth watered, never mind the food Papi provided for them. They were not like these ones. These ones were different. She could just take…

She shook her head vigorously and blinked. “Focus, Ladi. Focus!” she chided herself and picked up her slowing steps.

She must have run for about a kilometer when she saw it. It wasn’t different from the others she had been seeing along the way but somehow this one caught her fancy. She halted in her tracks for a bit and watched.

There was a party at some distance to the west. The people were dancing and laughing like they had no care in the world. They looked like they were really having fun. She found herself smiling longingly.

She wanted to go.

All she had to do was stay awhile. Maybe take a few of those berries she had seen on the trees along the way. They had them there, in platters. Ladi squinted and tried to make out the other things lying on the table. She couldn’t really see them from where she was but they seemed really delicious. She would not stay long, she told herself. She would be able to get back on track later, after all she was a fast runner. Very lithe.

She should go.

What harm could there be?

                                                      *    *    *    *

“Do you not know that in a race all runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize.” 1 Corinthians 9:24 _ NIV

                                                       The End?


Side Note: 
No, my question mark is not out of place. I’m not sure that story ever really ends. It’s our story. All of us.

What is the lesson in it, you ask? Well, it should be there somewhere. But here’s a tip: They are all Christians. On a race.

Go figure…

THE RACE

On your marks…

Jade breathed deeply, sucked in her stomach and slowly let out air from her open mouth. Annie had insisted this was wrong aerobics, “Breathe in air to your lungs,” her know-it-all friend had said but Jade was too occupied at the moment to worry about the technicalities of breathing.

She squinted, scanning around briefly for any sign of them. But even after roving the curved sidelines as far as her eyes could see, she still couldn’t spot them. Though the sidelines were brimming with humans, she didn’t bother filtering the bodies around critically. She knew.

They were not here.

And all of a sudden, all her cool confidence was shattered. She could feel her heart sink like an anchor thrown into the sea and this made her feel weak. Weak from the exhaustion of the pain and disappointment. Weak from the strain of making excuses for her family and friends. They just did not care.

“Live with it,” she mumbled to herself and spat ungracefully. She did the breathing again to steady her heart. She didn’t need this now. If there was ever a time she needed all her mind in one place, it was now.

Jade had entered for the “Run for life” marathon a month ago. A friend, Ben, had introduced it to her and she had gotten the ticket; which was weird. The ticket, that is.

They had told them the ticket was free and the only thing they had to do was show an interest. They said the prize was N50 million and a mansion. Seriously, who gives you a chance to enter for a contest with such a huge prize attached to it without expecting anything? Jade thought. And it wasn’t even a company event. It was a one-man organized thing.

Another strange thing. No one saw a picture of the mansion. In all the fliers and banners, they had never shown anyone the prize they were running for nor the man – the organizer. But she gave up understanding it. Her friends had laughed at her. They thought it was a sham and teased her mercilessly when she got up early every morning to train. But all that didn’t matter.

She was running.

Of course her family had disapproved. It was foolishness, they said. But she had hoped that somehow they and her friends would still come to cheer her on.

Apparently not.

She got on her mark. The race was about to begin.

                                                                *    *    *    *

Dave couldn’t get what the man was hollering about. He stood at the sidelines and yelled at him to get himself fixed up. What did that mean anyways? He had entered for the race about a week ago after getting the handbill from some guy on his way to the office and it had said nothing about getting himself “fixed up”. It just sounded like a great deal to him.

Okay, fine it was indeed a race and like his friend had told him, he needed to train hard. But seriously, he didn’t think it was that big a deal. He was very athletic and after doing a sweeping survey of his fellow runners, he decided he was probably the most fit. With or without exercises.

And running shoes.

Agreed, dress shoes were not exactly “track-friendly”. That and his beige slacks together with a clean white shirt and tie. But that was beside the point. Heck, there was no way he was wearing any of those ugly running boots he saw the others sporting. He huffed. 

Some people had style.

All that did not matter. The point was at least he had come. Dave could almost see the dazzling mansion in his mind’s eye. He didn’t know what it looked like but he enjoyed imagining it. He had even told some of his friends to come along. Some had agreed and others laughed at him out rightly. They thought he had lost his mind, running for something he knew almost nothing about.

He would show them.

The sun was coming on them really hard and he thanked God for the strong antiperspirant his wife had made him buy before coming. Although she hadn’t entered for the race yet, she had agreed to join them later. That was possible. The flier had said so. So long as the race was still on, others could join them.

Weird rule, he thought.

He waved off the man – hollering man on the sidetrack – and gently rocked on his feet while placing his hands in his pockets. The old trooper just shook his head and walked off.

Dave briefly surveyed the sidelines again but couldn’t see any familiar face, which was great. He didn’t care one way or the other. He was a one-man team and didn’t need any cheerleader mussing up his focus. 

He rolled up his sleeves and picked the rumpled sheet from his back pocket. It was a map they had been given when they signed up for the race. He stared blankly at the curves and lines that ran over the sheet. He had no idea how to read it.

But once again, it didn’t matter. He didn’t even need the thing. It was a terrain he knew so well. He stuffed it back in his pocket and whistled.

He was waiting for the shot. The race was about to begin.

                                                                                                   ...to be continued

Side note:

What next? Honestly, I'm not sure I know but stay with me on this okay? This might take a while though, but then something to look forward to, right?

And of my absence...that's another piece, trust me. A serious marathon, guaranteed to bore you to tears. Get your shoes and we'll talk. But no, I haven't backslidden.

Thanks for asking ;)

JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL...OH REALLY?

“…In the same way, those of you who do not give up everything you have cannot be my disciples.”

You remember "Jesus take the wheel" by Carrie Underwood? Yeah. It's a really pretty song. But then I started to wonder if I could rewrite it. If I did, it would go along the lines of

"Jesus take the wheeeel!
Take it from my hands
While I give you instructions
I'm not really letting go
Give me hundred more chances
Save me from this road I'm on...
Jesus take the wheel... "

Okay so I admit it will not be a very pretty song. But it'll be pretty accurate. At least for me. I would sing it at the top of my lungs, unmindful of musical murder. Why? Because that is my confession.

Alright, so you were finally able to convince your Mum, after several months of shameless persistence to allow you drive. She gives that exasperated sigh of one who is left with no more choice while she haltingly hands you the keys. So, off you go, taking possession of the wheels with your Mum sitting beside you while she allows you drive.

Yayy!

But you've barely gone several meters before she's twisting in her seat, barking instructions at you:

"Watch that pothole!”
“Swerve to the right"
"Not so fast!"

And naturally you want to remind her you’re not blind. Because, you see, you are at the wheels, but you’re not really driving. She is.

Reminds me of me.

I have been at the wheel of my life for so long that I almost forgot how to relinquish control, but it doesn’t take me too long to realize that I suck as a driver and here is Jesus, offering to take control of the wheels. After a lot of hesitation, I decided that maybe surrender isn’t so bad. It’s even a command. So, I hand him the keys and scoot to the passenger seat.

He is at the wheels and I would like to say I have fully surrendered all. Maybe I have.

Or not.

"Lord, do you think you could umm...hit the gas? You are going a little too slow"
"Lord, this is not the road. It's too rough. We should've followed the highway. "
"Lord, watch that pothole.”
“Lord, I’m not sure I could do that.”

We say we have surrendered. Yet there are still parts of our lives we would like to protect and explain away on grounds of temperament, background and so on. Parts of our lives we would like to own. Control is a human thing. It’s something we never want to lose. We all want to feel some level of control in our lives. We hate being helpless. Yet, God demands this of us. He demands full consecration. He demands full surrender.

He demands ALL of you.

“Simply put, if you’re not willing to take what is dearest to you, whether plans or people, and kiss it good-bye, you can’t be my disciple.” (Jesus, Luke 14:33_The Message).

God doesn’t demand much of us but that we give Him our all. He deserves it because he gave us his all. He desires that we rest back in our seats and allow him drive. Simply put, follow him.

But how can you surrender to someone you do not trust? How can you fully surrender when your surrender stops short of the “I suck as a driver” realization? How can total surrender come when our motives are not fully aimed at God alone? How can we surrender to a God we feel will whip us the minute our hands are up?

How can we surrender when we are not aching to see His glory but ours?

The truth is, we cannot. Total surrender is born, not of a mere realization that God can do it better. But is born of wanting all of God as much as he wants all of us. Trusting. Letting go. Aching for him so much that we let the reins slip easily off our fingers because we realize we cannot hold all of Him – his might, love, power – and still hold on to our control.

It just doesn’t work.

It is harder than it sounds. But why not start where you are? Begin by not giving him instructions then work your way, with every step of grace, to that place of full surrender.

So, I would again have to rewrite the song…then I’ll have something like this;

"Jesus take the wheeeel!
Take it from my hands
And put a tape duct on my mouth
I'm now letting
I’ll give you full control
Save me from this road I'm on...
Jesus take the wheel... "

Sigh. Okay, yes. It will still suck as a song. But it’ll be pretty accurate.

And it will be my confession.

Side note:
I'm recruiting back up singers for my own version of "Jesus take the wheel" (The latter one now).
So, what do you say? You in?

Photo credit: via Lightstock

...WHEN GOD DIED

 "...Nature trembled at this great alteration..."

 
He is the word made flesh
The Son of God of virgin birth
Like a lamb to a slaughter he was led
Not a protest, not a word said
A guiltless man persecuted and trialed
For your wrong and crime that was mine
On him our punishment was laid
Paying a debt we were too desolate to pay
Dragged to Pilate on that fateful day
He was handed over by the ones he came to save
Crucify him! Crucify him! The people roared
Rejected by his own, they had him flogged
Entering the hearts of men who gave him room
Lucifer unwittingly plotted his doom
They stripped and adorned him a scarlet garment
Setting on his head a crown of thorns they taunted
They spat on the king, struck him and hurled insults
While some gathered his clothes and cast lots
They scribbled an ode on his cross for fun
The written charge a veritable one
“This is Jesus, King of the Jews”
They said to scorn but it rang true
Because of my sins he was ill-fated
For cursed is he hung upon a tree
The soldier pierced him with no sensitivities
His pain stretching tautly to the extremities
And when on the Son laid our sins
The Father had to turn away from him
Seeing all had been accomplished
He breathed his last words, “It is finished”
The sun retreated then into its tent
Refusing to show the abomination of men
Nature trembled at this great alteration
A sinless blood, the atrocities of nations
The earth shook and trembled in fear
Throwing up bodies of men long dead
The curtain of the temple ripped apart
A sign of what should have been from the start
Now all who believe can walk in
Through the advocate, our High Priest
Ushering in an epoch of grace
One which welcomed all people, all race
To those captured by death he was the ransom
He paid the price in ways one cannot fathom
With foolishness, He confounded the wise
It was the unthinkable when God died.

Courtesy: lightstock

Side Note
You remember "Passion of the Christ?" Yeah. This is my own tired version. But, I'm telling you, this story is by no means finished. He died and guess what? He rose again. The only "Valentine" who lives to tell the story.

HE IS RISEN

CONFESSIONS OF A SHEEP

I am a sheep. My slightly drooped eyes and lazy trot tell the story. I am wandering, vulnerable. Dumb. Completely stupid and undiscerning. Even as I type these words, my mind screams, “NO”. I’m not any of those. I’m smart. Strong. Independent.

He laughs.

Not that raucous sneer a villain throws out when he has pinned down a victim. No. It’s the mildly amused, long suffering soft laugh a Father would give a child who thinks he can drive at age three. That kind.

I am undependable. Fickle. A prey to wolves. If I were left on my own, I would make fast acquaintance with one of them. He says I shouldn’t play with them but I stubbornly jut out my chin, stamp my foot and insist I know better.

Yet I laugh at Adam and Eve.

I am a sheep. Yes. And you know what more?

The Lord IS MY Shepherd.

I mean really. He is. Not me, no matter how foolishly I insist I know. He constantly is. No one else but Him. Mine. My very own Shepherd. And I'm not even paying.

Yes, I'm a Sheep.

I have all I ever need.

He relentlessly gives me fodder so I lack nothing. Not even a hair on my fur is amiss. Not even a parched throat or dehydration hits me. He gives me. All the time.

He MAKES me lie in lush pastures.

I pretend I know everything but I can’t even string two steps together enough to lay myself down. He has to do that for me. If I were left alone, I would struggle, bleat and grunt until I’m finally able to lie in soggy, stinking puddle. But HE MAKES me lie in GREEN PASTURES. He lays me down. Gently. Lovingly. In green, fresh, lush pasture. In abundance.

Sigh.

He leads me beside serene waters.

Not the turbulent, wild storms. But peaceful, restful waters. The ones I can even walk on.

He renovates my soul.

I fall. I stumble. I’m weak. He stocks me up. Refreshes me. Restores me. Strengthens me. No wonder he laughs when I think or dare say I am strong. HE is the strong one. Stupid sheep.

He leads me in righteous paths. For Him.

I am a very good person.Seriously. I promise. I don’t steal or cheat. I don’t even kill people. But then, I realized all that was raggedy. I DO NOT have to try SO HARD. He LEADS me in blameless paths. For His namesake. He will do it because, I’m telling you, His name is at stake here! If only I’ll let Him lead me.

Yes, even if I walk through the deep, sunless, shadow of death valley, I’m not scared because you are present with me.

Sometimes I will wander from your side and find myself in that deep, dreaded dark valley of death. Where all that surrounds me is empty, thick darkness and the sound of my own strained breath. But still you are there with me. Shame on fear. I’m not scared.

Yay!

You have a walking stick, with which you guide and help me. They bring me comfort.

I can hear your steady taps as I follow the sounds in the dark. I find you right here. In the pages of my worn out hard-back, labelled “Bible”. I find comfort here. Even in the dark.

You prepare a delicacy for me in front of my haters.

They are wolves. But there’s a meal for me. Before them. They salivate. Want to gobble my food and me up in one bite but God, you shame them.

You pour sweet scenting oil on my head until I have an overflow.

You have filled me thoroughly and truly with your oil. Your Spirit. You’ve dabbed me with all that you are. In excess. Which is why I wonder how I would decide to throw all that away in my moments of stupidity. Dumb, undeserving sheep. No wonder the devil hates me.

Most assuredly, goodness, mercy and unfailing love shall FOLLOW me, ALL my life and I’ll forever bask in Your presence.

All your goodness, all your love and grace will follow me. Not on twitter. But ALL the pages that you stuff into this wonderfully beautiful book that is my life.

Because I am a sheep. And He is my Shepherd.


Adapted from David’s Psalm – Psalm 23.

Side Note 
I’ve been musing on this Psalm lately and just couldn’t help it. I had to write it. It amazed me how many times I have recited this Psalm without even thinking about it.

Are you a Sheep?

VAIN BABBLINGS

I want to rant. And why not? It’s the fastest, easiest and most effective way to get your message across especially when people just would not pay attention. Then, place it on some obscure blog in the tangled mess that is the web for better effect. Works wonders. Right?

Okay, so that’s probably very inaccurate but what can a girl do?

There’s a certain disturbing practice that goes on in Christianity today, it’s so disturbing and so predictable that Jesus had to send us the red light beforehand, like, “I know you’re going to do this but before you do, here’s a tip…” I'm by all means guilty of this also.

I remember growing up in church, we were always asked to pray and boyy did I dread those Sunday schools. This isn’t the disturbing part. Wait for it.

See, we’d be asked to pray for a long time and well, since there are only so many words in an average nine-year old’s vocabulary, we quickly run out of what to say to God. What do we do? We recycle. Repeat some words and phrases – e.g. “Amen”, “Jesus”, “Help us”, “Please”, “Do this oh, Lord”, “Bless us, Lord”... the list goes on – as many times as humanly possible so we can improve our “time with God”.

Courtesy: flickr.com

Now, this isn’t even the major disturbance. Nope. It gets worse when adults – grown-up adults (forgive the tautology, but this is still a rant) – repeat the words in prayers for effect. I mean, really now. How short of words can we get?

Then, there’s the Church. When prayers get intense, we kick, yell, stamp around and repeat words in rapid successions (here’s a classic; “Shout Jesus seven times” or “Shout Amen three times”). I did these a lot. Church taught me but then I came across this scripture;

“But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathen do: for they think that they shall be heard for their much speaking. Be not ye therefore like unto them: for your Father knoweth what things ye have need of, before ye ask him.” (Jesus, in Matthew 6:7-8).

For starters, God is not deaf! Neither is he like that old man across our street whom we have to yell a sentence more than a few times before his ears can pick the signal. I mean, even if we thought He was, why not use sign language or something? Really, who do we think we are yelling at?

Secondly, God is not forgetful. We don’t have to repeat instructions (yes, that’s what we do half the time – give instructions) to Him because we’re scared He’ll forget. If we do that to humans, not to God.

Third, how many of us, when talking to our very-undeaf, very-attentive friend repeat a sentence or phrase over and again or in between sentences have to keep yelling his/her name while s/he has their eyes and ears glued to us? Really? You do? You need to change your friends.

If not then why do this to God, especially after we agreed that prayer is communication, people?

Lastly, and most importantly, how annoying do you think it is when a person keeps telling you something you already know? God knows us, my friend. He knows our needs. We don’t have to repeat them to Him before He gets it. Because really, he gets it!

And while we’re on that, I didn’t say we should not tell God what we want…noo!! In fact, He instructed we ask! Yet, I don’t think it’s nice when we do things to God we cannot accept or do even to ordinary men. It just goes to show how we view God. Yes, that’s all it boils down to. Our view of God. A God inattentive, unknowing, unreachable.

Maybe it's high time we took a serious look at the Gospels. We shouldn’t repeat our words to God. But then again, don’t go looking around your Webster’s when you want to pray! -__-

Think conversation! Think fellowship, my friend!

“And when you pray, do not heap up phrases (multiply words, repeating the same ones over and over) as the Gentiles do, for they think they will be heard for their much speaking. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.” (Matthew 6:7-11 – Amplified Bible). 

Need I say more?

Side note:
I told you this was a rant.
Do things like these occur in your church? Tell me about them. Come on, humour me…

Just for the fun of it ;) - campusdiaries.com