...do more than exist, live...live, love, and enjoy life

Thursday, 13 April 2017

Broken, but grateful.

I am broken, but grateful.

Broken,
The bread of life,
He broke the bread and gave thanks.
See how the heavy heart gives thanks!

Grateful,
because He believed it would be alright.
Grateful,
expressing trust in His Father.
The trusting son broke bread gratefully.

See how the trusting son chose to stay slay.
Yes, slay!
He knew what was coming,
but He chose to stay and be slayed.

It was Passover time,
and He was going to be the lamb.
He knew what was coming,
but the trusting son chose to stay.
He knew the nature, scope and weight,
Of that wrath...
His Father's wrath,
poured out to burn,
the sin,
the son,
was done,
would He turn?
For none...
None can,
None could...
None could stand in His place as the Passover lamb.
So the trusting son chose to stay,
broken but grateful.

The trusting son took the bread, 
He gave thanks and broke it,
and gave it to His disciples.
"Eat!" He said.
"It is my body, that will be broken for you."
His body,
He broke it!
See how the heavy heart gives thanks.

The trusting son,
Learn...from the trusting son,
Yearn...to express trust in God,
Can...broken be grateful?
Man...giving thanks in brokenness?

Despised and rejected,
By those in heaven, earth and those
under the earth.
But still, He the trusting son chose to stay...
to stay slay.
Way...
He chose the broken and given way.

Learn...from the trusting son,
Yearn...to express trust in God,
Can...broken be grateful?
Man...giving thanks in brokenness?

I give thanks, to express trust in God.
I give thanks, because I believe it will be alright.
I am broken but grateful. 


***"Is it possible to give thanks in brokenness?" I wondered about that today. 
The greatest and most legit response to life I'd think though, is gratitude. Gratitude in chaos is a way of expressing trust in the Orchestrator of your life.
Oh how beautiful life is, when it's looked at through the glasses of gratitude!

This poem is my little way, of wishing you a happy Easter.
25th November, 2016...the day on which I wrote this poem, and I have been waiting eagerly ever since, to share it with you!
Yasss! You! Reading this right now, thank you so much for taking the time.

The most authentic, and deepest love ran red at a time like this, 2000 years ago. 
"Here's your worth," He says,
"This is what you're worth." He said as He poured out His love on you.
"You're worth fighting for...you're worth dying for...you're worth loving to the death. That's what you're worth."

Side note? The world's greatest Momma turned an year older today: my momma!
She told everyone that she's turning 25 today...the numbers just might have been reversed...maybe? I honour, celebrate, and appreciate my momma today and always! Happy birthday to her...I know she'll read this at some point ^_^ Happy birthday Ma!

And for the rest of you lovely, incredible people? Happy, happy Easter. Enjoy...you're loved...always!***

Saturday, 1 April 2017

Something happened that night...

Humans deserve dignity, photo by @khasohasamita

The night was dark, and all lights were off...
The streets were deserted, and the silence was silent.
Shadows lurked around, and the moon was lit...displaying it's glory, for anyone who cared to stare.
Tuesday night...
28th March, 2017...something happened that night.

This is a story of shackles..
It's a story of action...
Mine is a story of love, and of great courage.
Something happened that night.

All of a sudden there were screams, and there was chaos..
A quiet night grossly disturbed.
Fathers were snatched from their homes that night, mothers were begging for life, for release, for an explanation.
Begging? Begging for life? Begging to live...
There were handcuffs, as people were forceably put into planes...
Men in masks...pulled, dragged...tagged. There was violence...And drug injections, for those who would not go peaceably.
No witnesses...No justice...History was the only witness to this madness.
Some regained consciousness...in time to find themselves in shackles...sandwiched between two guards.
The scum of this earth...People whose lives were worth nothing...
Lives that are worth nothing? Can any life be worth nothing? Tell me...someone, please sit me down and explain this to me: how did we get to this point, of thinking that another's life can be worth nothing?
 
Tuesday night 28th March, 2017...
Something happened that night.

This is a story of shackles..
it's a story of action...
Mine is a story of love, and of great courage.
Something happened that night.

They locked themselves on the wheels of the plane.
They threw their bodies on the cold, naked tarmac in chains.
Chained to a plane...because they deeply believed that the persons in that plane were worth something. Their aim was to prevent a government flight of approximately 50 valuable people, chained to their sits, and sandwiched between 100 guards, from being deported to Ghana.
And this was the consequence of their action: they were all arrested, but they bought at least 24 critical hours, for the persons in chains to seek legal representation.

Sit here with me...
And I shall narrate to you this horrific story.
Of people who are destitute...of people living in fear...
Of people ripped of their dignity...
Of people who the state wanted to get rid of, because it deemed them unworthy of residence.
Irregular migrants...
Failed asylum seekers...
Some were kept in detention centers...
kept in cells...
Were they criminals? Had they committed any crime?

When there's turmoil and war? Families suffer...
Families are broken...
Think Afghanistan and Sudan...
Think Pakistan and Somalia...
Think of the Boko Haram of Nigeria...
Those who are not fighting suffer deeply.
They are not fighting but are still killed, they are not fighting, but they are still refused access to safe countries because they are labelled terrorists...people from a country of terrorists...of Muslims...of Africans...
Asylum: protection that ought to be granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.

This is our world today though: cruelty towards people on the move is now UK and US government policy. 
Their leaders  want to be seen  to be tough on immigration, but their policies have devastating human consequences.
President Trump gave this government directive: a Muslim travel ban. The first immigration directive was made on 27th January, 2017, but it was blocked by Federal appeals court, and then there was a second one. 
Prime minister Theresa May of the UK, organized a mass deportation to Ghana. It was secretive, and devoid of scrutiny. Departing from undisclosed locations in the middle of the night. People were served with removal directions, without a chance to properly lodge Judicial Reviews.
Deportees were escorted and shackled in seats, each between two guards. 9 hours in shackles...deported to Ghana regardless of whether you are Ghanian or not. If you were not? You could take a bus to whichever country you came from. In their hands most carried small plastic bags...how would they survive on that? Do we care!

People who feared for their lives? And had claimed asylum, were put in planes...shackled like animals, and taken back to war...to die.

We are human before we are African or Asian,
We are human before we are Muslim or Christian,
We are human...and humans deserve dignity.

I asked myself today, what is my role to play...what is yours?
28th March, 2017...something happened that night.

***"I want the Church to not close their eyes to us. Justice is from the Bible. I am sending a message to the entire church- they cannot let injustice go on like this. The word of God is about justice and righteousness. The church cannot keep its eyes closed in the face of injustice. Closing your eyes to injustice is being part of injustice and unrighteousness. The church needs to stand up like the protestors- they need to tell the world what is going on." The voice of a detained person.

This is the saddest story that I have heard this week...and I had to blog about it...to be a voice for persons who are currently voiceless.
Home office (UK) since 2002 has been organizing mass deportation largely to former British colonies every few months. Deportation of people who have lived for years, who have spouses, and children, but insecure immigration status. But isn't human life more important than  immigration status? It ought to be.
Tuesday night, March 2017, is the day on which 17 activists in Essex outside London, evaded airport security and ran onto a runway at Stansted Airport, threw themselves on the tarmac and chained themselves to a plane to prevent a government flight from deporting Africans.
Germany sent asylum- seekers early this year back to Afghanistan, a country that is deeply war-torn,  and Austria wants to stop food and water to people whose asylum claims have been rejected. There is as well debating, requiring unemployed refugees to work unpaid in jobs the government deems of public utility...which is a gentle way of saying: slave labour.
And as I think about all these things, my heart breaks...this is the world that we live in today. How did we get to this place...where lives stopped mattering to us?
Meanwhile, Kenya has been hosting Refugees from Somalia and Sudan...we thank God for the leadership that He has put in place...
and German churches have been protecting failed asylum- seekers with sanctuary. The consequences being, their state has so far declined to physically remove people in the church care! In January 2017, German  churches were providing protection for 547 people.
Tuesday's UK protest tells us that there are people who are willing to risk arrest to fight policies that tear families apart and endanger lives.
It's good to be tough on immigration, how about taking a moment though...
Taking a moment to look at the whole situation from an asylum- seeker's perspective?**



Sunday, 29 January 2017

The Counsel of Lovely Little Fellows




I was sitting in their counsel again...

In the counsel of this lovely little fellows of mine. 


Their perfectly delighted faces paid half of my life...the way they lit up!

The little twinkles in their eyes...any time they had something important to say...

The little chuckles and giggles that escaped from their small lips, when they found a certain concept rather intriguing...

They expressed themselves very passionately and sincerely, laughing with deep warmth and inviting candidness...


We talked about beauty today...it was just a topic in passing.

I had been telling them the classic story of this lady, in a contest toward becoming queen, who had access to the best beauty products and therapies that this world could offer, but she asked for nothing more than what was offered to her…

And all of a sudden my curiosity was tickled; I wanted to hear their opinions on that.

The purity and innocence in their opinions? I am yet to marvel as much as I did today!

12, 11, 10, 9...or thereabout. Most of them fell in that age bracket. But what does a 10 year old know about beauty? You ask...

"The boys won't talk to you without your make-up, they say you're ugly, but once you put on your make-up? Every one of them wants to talk to you." One 10 year old told me when I asked why she uses make-up. She was the only child in that class that did, and so, naturally I was curious.

My heart broke into two distinct halves...that a child would not be let to be just that: a child. Where did she get such opinions? When was her lovely little mind burdened with such cares?

But their opinions deeply mattered to me; I wanted to know what was on their minds, and so I probed further, and listened with keen enthusiasm;

"I don't like it when the girls look like the flag on their faces; green lips and red eye lids, white cheeks and black eyebrows." he then laughed deeply as he made funny faces, and I laughed along, but took mental notes.

The little man stated further, “Make-up destroys your face…it burns, and distorts your face!”

Another little man next to him nodded in agreement.

“But how would they know, they are just boys! They obviously never use make-up” one little lady protested in response. 


Difficult questions were asked;
"Do you think there are ugly people?"
To my relief all except one said, "no!" It was one, loud chorus of an answer...

Ultimately? The bench came up with its verdict:

"Girls? You are very, very beautiful the way you were made...fearfully and wonderfully made. Make-up does not make you beautiful, because you already are...stunning, fierce, pretty! Very pretty." they smiled the smile of belief, as I smiled the smile of deep heart satisfaction.

"Make-up is ok though, as an art form, or way of expression, or as a form of style...not as a means to beauty." my own heartfelt and sincere words...

In my head though I wondered, how I'd find different words to express this truth to them ever so often...to teach them how to speak the truth to themselves which is: that they are always enough, just the way they are.

...which nails would I use, to nail this into their hearts and minds,

...how would I code this truth and encrypt it into their lovely, little hearts?

“You know if you were in that contest? The king would have picked you!” One little girl said to me…and my heart melted! My face became one blob of redness…I managed though to recover just in time, and whisper, “thank you!” with a smile, hehaa!

pre-teenagers…

preparing to face a world of serious decisions...

Today there was laughter and giggles...

Candid opinions and answers...

So many things were said between us today...

And I couldn’t help but think to self, “the footprints that we make in the sand of time? Are followed closely by smaller, little footprints. Are my footprints headed toward the right direction? Are they worth following?” 

Are yours worth following?

Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Beauty is an untamed Heart

This is a quote from the book, "My Ideal Lady."

A cause that you believe in is always a cause worth fighting for.
Love...
It's meant to be an impossible force to reckon with...
It's meant to be as perennial as the grass...
What do you do then when it flickers and then goes off all together? When it waivers unsteadily then comes tumbling down in useless resignation?

I stand by the window today. My mind heavy with thoughts. People are running helter skelter under the rain...but I'm warm, I'm safe.The tears flowing down the window though, feel real on my face. The brokenness of my heart is real.
A couple of days ago I stood right here...I stood here staring at him, and he at me and the silence between us...
...was empty.
Empty...
devoid of meaning, devoid of feeling...empty.
The thought of him gives me vertigo. He's a memory I desperately wish to erase.
But how did we get to this place, a place of so much hatred? How?

A person who loved so deeply, how would he use the same body to hate with an equal depth...if not more deeply?
How would a mouth that spoke so profoundly, a mouth that spoke very beautiful words, a mouth that spoke so lovingly, how would it open up to release such atrocities? 
How would a dignified human being do such undignified things...say such undignified words? *sigh*deep sigh*

Let me start from the beginning:

This is a story of a man that I love deeply. Sit here with me, let me share this with you. lend me your ears, lend me your time.
My father was my acme of perfection. In my eyes he could do no wrong. What he believed I believed, what he said was the gospel truth. My father...my dear beloved father...
...I choke at the memories, of everything perfect that he was...a good husband to my mother, a perfect father, a lovely man. A man of means, but a man of character as well. His mouth opened only to speak wisdom, to speak life, to speak warmth...

See, I grew up in a lovely home, an only child...
Growing up was bliss: the world lay at my feet. I could dream and become...nothing stood in my way.

"Dream my child. You can be anything you want to be."

But one day, my little paradise broke into a million little pieces...the pieces scattered all over, never to be fixed back together.
A world that once lay at my feet? now lay squarely on my shoulders; one overwhelming burden to carry.

My father, a man who deeply believed in the concept of family, woke up one day and decided that he did not need us any more...
He did not need my mother any more. He packed his things? No, we packed our things and were instantly replaced by another "loving family."

Loving family? Love and family...
...the two things that for a while...a very long while, had been promising me the certainty of their presence.

My father looked at me, he looked at my mother and his expression said that he loathed us deeply. We were to him two repulsive creatures...the scum of this earth! 
A person who loved us so deeply, now hated us with an equal depth. How? How would a once so deep love, be replaced with a hatred equally deep?
Love, is a cause that I believed in, this cause that I would die for...
...and family, that one place in which you are always reminded that you are accepted, just as you are.

What happens then when such beauties waiver and flicker, when they fade away then disappear all together?
My father looked into my eyes, and mattered all kinds of atrocities...and I stood across and stared...
I stared in disbelief, 
I stared in horror,
I stared at the reality of unrecoverable loss, of something that had once been too beautiful.

Two consenting adults who once loved each other, who made a home together, and had a child together.

Many people had always said, that I had the eyes of my mother and the smile of my father. So on my face? They are still together...
...and as long as I live they remain together. 
But reality screams out disagreement....
Two consenting adults, they make their choices, and I am the unwilling recipient...trying even with my facial construction, to remind them that they always belong to each other...but my efforts prove useless.
*sigh*deep sigh*

He said,
She said,
They said...
But what do I say?
Because my heart will believe only what I say to myself. Do I speak the truth to myself?
Do I teach my ears to listen only to what is the truth?

Father said that I am...
But what do I say to myself? 
For my heart will believe only what I say to myself. Do I speak the truth to myself?
Do I teach my ears to listen only to what is the truth?

This is life: change is inevitable, but progress is the choice...do I choose to live  as a victim? Do I choose to live broken? Do I choose to hate the entire male species, because of the choice of one unconscionable man?

I wish to hate him back with equal depth,
...and loathe him back with equal intensity.
I wish to say to him frightening words too.
But my heart loves. My heart loves my father deeply, and my heart has chosen to forgive.
He is yet to ask for forgiveness, but I forgave for my own sake.
Forgave so I can move on already. Forgave because when all is said and done? He is still my father.

So love for me is a cause that I still believe in. 


***This is a true story. I remember thinking that day as I listened and stared intently at her, "Beauty is an untamed heart." How could a person's soul and heart be this beautiful? Choosing love and forgiveness against all odds?
I told her that hers was a lovely story...a story that I would want to write about.To me it was a shocking story, but to her it was her reality...what she had gone through, what she had overcome! I wanted to write about it...to her story I added my imagination, and used my words...I tried to place myself in her shoes, to see what words I'd come up with.
I have been for a while actively and intentionally choosing to pursue and find beauty in people, things, and situations. It makes me a happier mess...try it, and you'll see that it works!
Let your heart be wild...untamed...unfettered. Bitterness is often justified, but it's a burden that you do not have the strength to carry. Choose forgiveness always...giving yourself time when forgiveness doesn't come swiftly...forgive for the sake of your own progress and freedom.
Learn to hear, and tell yourself the truth...only what is true. People will always have opinions about you, and lies will often fly around, but you can choose to be impeccable with your words. For it's true that the final words that your heart will believe, is what you say to yourself. Don't use your words against self! 

Thanks for stopping by to read. Much appreciated...really!***



Tuesday, 8 November 2016

Beauty is Knowing that You're Enough


Why do we constantly feel a need to apologize for things that we are naturally disposed toward?
My mind wondered about that today.

It was in her story...

An innocent girl walking home from school, minding her own business.

Tired, overwhelmed maybe? Thoughtful...

Across the road, they walked along...a bunch of adorable monsters, that looked a lot like children.

They were taunting, they were laughing, they were mocking, and scoffing...all this was directed to her.

They opened their mouths to release profanities.

Such lovely, little fellows. How?

How would such profanities be an aftermath of the speech of such lovely, little fellows?

They were calling her names, simply because she was different; she was big.

She walked on though, minding her own business, and my soul broke into tiny, little pieces.

Was she meant to apologize? For being big?


It was also in her story...

This lady that I love so much, a dear friend of mine.

She juggles too much, with resources too scarce...resources too meager.

The weight of bills on her shoulders. She's a single Momma, a lovely mother, to a lovely little princess.

She juggles too much though, carrying the weight of the whole world on her shoulders.

And one day...

one fateful day? She just can't take it anymore!

See, she's stretched too thin? bent too far back...feeling like she could snap, from all that pressure.

Her mind is all over the place, the figures are too overwhelming, and her heart is breaking...

literally? Her heart breaks! She has a stroke!

A stroke?

Yeah...a stroke!

It hits the upper part of her body, maiming and disfiguring her.

She leans into the mirror, many days later post physiotherapy, and she doesn't like what she sees...

She breaks, at the sight of her once pretty face.

As she shares her deepest thoughts and fears with me, I think to myself, and then say to her, "There's no shame in things that are beyond our control."

But my heart still breaks, because I know that we know these things...


We know that disease is beyond our control, we know that how our bodies look like is often beyond our control....

We know...

But still? we constantly feel a need to apologize for things that we are naturally disposed toward.


Beauty is knowing that you are enough...

The fears will keep calling, the self-doubt as well.

Reality will keep taunting...it never stops! It goes on and on...

But you still have a choice; a choice to believe...

...a choice to believe the truth.

Which is: you are enough!

Yes! You...are enough!!!

Beauty is knowing that you are enough...


And you are beautiful, you truly, certainly are!

Choose belief!




Sunday, 9 October 2016

A Message for My Dear.

I am enjoying making my own graphics 

I see you today, you stand amidst the crowd, surrounded by all these noises, and each of them is trying to feed you with their poison words. You stand leaning into that rack, where beauty magazines tumble off a bit too fast. You're perusing the pages, and they are speaking to you, you're assessing the feeds of your social sites and they are getting to you...

I want to say that looks don't matter, and yes I know, that it then sounds like I'm spouting encouraging cliches.
It's a messed up world you see, where the things that really matter are approached half-heartedly, yet people spend so much time fussing over things that actually don't matter.

Hear me here dear, forget the stereotypes, and consider the offer for emancipation.

You are a sprouting budding flower...but you have long stopped believing in that.

I see you daily standing en face of the mirror; and kilos seems to bother you, the wrinkles too, the bulging mid-section as well, and the fading light in your eyes, the frame of your body too, it just doesn’t sit right…

You are not a trophy dear, you are a soul.

Hear me here dear, choose the indie way, consider the gift of emancipation.

Beauty is not the frame of your face or the swing of your hips, it’s not the perfection of your skin or the worth of your wear, it’s not the number of the stares, accolades, beholders that you snare, it’s the openness of your heart that makes you beautiful.

Hear me here dear, you are not missing out by choosing emancipation.

There is so much advice out here on how to cream away imperfection, and tuck that skin until it is firm. How to shake what momma gave you, and make it appealing. There are so many women out here who know how to make their hair, and dress their bodies, but very few who know how to do hard and holy things...
...very few who care about using their hands to help humanity, who want to stretch their arms to lift a sister up, who will choose the difficult, broken and given way, the indie way that requires learning how to be a shade over someone else’s storm... a life of giving even of one's self.

Beauty is about the openness of your heart dear, you can beat the conventional ideas of beauty and acceptance. There is freedom in authenticity, in being your true self, in relishing this moment of glory, the glory of a beautiful soul.

In whom, or in what have you placed your identity? For the truth dear, is that there is a message to be said to you, and through you.

You were already approved. A very long time ago?

You were approved…

So there’s nothing more to prove.

This world needs to be done with seeing people as skin, instead of souls, but while it still learns to do that, I want you to know that God alone has the authority to determine your worth, your price, your dignity…acceptability. Please don’t give that authority to anyone else? Don’t let anyone else give you your identity.

When the music fades…when it stops all together…and all the flashlights flicker, when they go off. This can be said of you, “she let me write my story through her.” Stay in God’s story dear, stay in His story.

I know you struggle a lot with the insecurities, and the lies…I know because I too have been the one leaning into the mirror with all these questions.

But I see you today, and I know in my heart, without a shadow of a doubt, that you belong here…see how you belong. There’s a place just for you.

Hear me here today dear, forget the stereotypes, you are a soul, not a trophy to be won.

A time is coming dear, when the stars, how bright they shine, the canary and the swan, how gracefully they walk, the tulips and the yellow daffodils, how pretty they are? A time is coming when all these shall be darkened; the beauty of these things shall be lost to your eye by impaired vision.

A time is coming dear when your strong feet and knees shall give in and bow themselves in graceful surrender, and your grinders, your molar teeth, shall cease to grind because just a few will remain strong and standing.

That time, is coming dear.

But despite all the cycles of womanhood that you shall go through? In your skin can be a comfortable place to live in...it is the only place, the only home you know, and you have lived in.

The conventional ideas of beauty and acceptance are a folly. So yes, looks don't matter it's about the openness of your heart. 

***This topic has been on my mind  for a while. I wondered if I'd get the right words to express what was in my heart. I have felt for a while that it's a message that needs (really, really needs) to be passed across.
Still thinking deeply about Ragini Zutshi Anand's poem (thank you so much for such beautiful words Ragini! ). Please find time to follow the link and read it...it's very, short, I promise...but truly profound!
Our world today is messed up, but I hope that every single day you will wake up and remember who and whose you are.
Thanks for taking the time to stop by and read. Much appreciated.***

Tuesday, 4 October 2016

The Dying Woman; Thoughts of a Beautiful Soul.

Still for the love of paintings Image via Etsy

I open my eyes and they are all standing over me, they are all staring down at me.

Their faces are tired and worried, hopeful but scared.

I want to get out of this body, even if it's just for one second, so I'd see what they see, and feel what they feel; these persons that I have loved so deeply, for way too long.

My soul is in chaos and my mind is all over the place.

My body chooses to be uncooperative...I know I am dying.

Death? Conversing, dancing and dining with death for a while. That has been my experience, and the feeling honestly...

...the feeling has been undesirable.

I am like a child: dependent...vulnerable...supported. Supported to live!

But how did I get to this place?

My soul is tired, my hands are tired, and my body is failing. I know I'm dying.

The life of a child? It's completely devoid of self-sufficiency.

Dependency you see, puts you in a position of vulnerability; but this is my life right now. I am like a child: unable to feed myself, to clean myself, to walk, or talk, or sit up by myself...

I am like a child: dependent...vulnerable.

Such thoughts often bring tears to my eyes, and as the tears flow, I have no control on that. I can't make them stop. They flow freely: I am no longer my own. My body you see, no longer obeys me...

Where is the strength therefore in resilience?

Where is the beauty in a need for life?

Is there strength, in living this life, aware of the maddening reality of my proximity to the finish line?

Where is the strength in that knowledge?

Please...someone? anyone? Help me see the strength in that knowledge.

A need for life, a need to be alive, a need to feel, to see...to heal.

A need to heal? There I said it! As I lay on this bed today, in me there's a need to heal.

All my life I have always been showered with accolades. People took so much pride in celebrating, embracing, and honouring births: professional births, intellectual births, material births...

Glasses clung, people cheered, new life celebrated. Cheers to progress!

I wondered today though, as I lay on my bed, why do we approach half-heartedly, the idea of mourning, pondering over, and speaking out against deaths and abortions?

Death of lives that would have been lived to maturity, abortion of dreams and hopes that have been nursed for quite a while, death of joy and peace of mind...death of sanity and the beauty of health?

Why do we shy away from speaking about the pain of loss? Shy away from giving room to break, to vent, to cry, over what has been lost? Yet loss is inevitably painful?

I mourn today, over what I could have...I should have been, but would never be.

With every passing day, I am just a shadow of what I used to be.

If beauty was my smile, or my eyes...

If beauty was my shape, or my high cheek-bones...

If beauty was my hair, or in my stride...

If beauty was my thriving skin, or my complexion...

I reckon today that I just joined a different category.

But beauty must be something deeper...I think to myself as I look into the faces staring down at me.

What is going on in their minds? I wonder.

What is going on in my mind...I know they are wondering too.

Love is showered on me.

My dying hands are held,

My swollen feet are soothed,

My flowing tears are wiped,

My aching joints caressed,

My cracking lips are oiled,

My ailing body is fed,

My lonely fears are filled, pushed away by a relentless presence of love.
I am a dying woman. A dying woman who is loved deeply.
 
I have wondered too often about the epitaph...what would be engraved on it.

In the company of the dead, there would be no thoughts to think, no crowd to please, no life to live, but I am ready to lay down my life.

Has it been a life well lived?

I often say my prayers, I know that I am always heard.

At this point prayer is a work of humility: acknowledging that every painful breath is a gift, entrusting the hearts of those I love to Him who is able to heal and keep them steady when I 'm gone, entrusting my soul to He who first gave me life...

I am at peace with knowing that there exists a place that's free from pain, sickness, weakness, and brokenness.

I am a dying woman. A dying woman who is loved deeply.



***October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, an international, annual campaign to increase awareness of the disease. 
I wrote today this story of fiction, to honour, celebrate, and remember a soul of a person that was loved deeply. A person who lost her life to breast cancer...I honour her life that was well lived, and her resilience through her sickness, and the good legacy that she left behind. 
I mourn as well over  other lives that have been lost to cancer, as I celebrate the survivors, and celebrate every effort that is put this month, and every other month toward creating awareness about cancer. 
Thanks for stopping by to read...if you haven't already, see this, and this related posts.***