Turning Over

       I was more than a little surprised when a prayer for direction for the new year of 2025 yielded the word detoxification.

       My immediate thought was that God wanted me to detoxify my body – it certainly made sense after all the Christmas feasting. Still, I was a little deflated. Life hadn’t been easy, but 2024’s many curves were softer than what I knew was waiting for me in 2025. Despite a number of signposts of hope for the future that took me from one day to the next, from one month to the next in the old year, things were moving a bit too slowly for me. To be honest, I was more than ready for something more dramatic; at the very least, a word that would light a fire in me. Yes, although I know everything happens not according to our timing but God’s, it doesn’t stop my fallen nature from second-guessing God often enough. And as awful as it sounds, I sometimes catch myself wishing that life would spin just a bit faster towards the happy bits and the freedom I so long for.

       But by and by, I began to sense that there was more to that word of 2025. Sure enough, another certainty began to root and grow within me: to detoxify from work each day.

       Initially, I assumed it had to do with blanking out work and issues at the end of the day. But late one night, Someone taught me that the detox willed was the intentional turning over to God each situation or action of the day – to be purified, to be healed, to be resolved or to be blessed. And so, that very night, I began to do just that.

       On the morrow, on a 3-hour trip, I did the same, finding more situations and people to turn over to God. All day, a gentleness held sway inside me, and I met the hours with humour and calm.

       On our journey back, I continued this turning over, a little surprised by the number of things that were continuing to come before me – issues, disappointments, hurts – even things to be thankful about – as if from some, hitherto, hidden vault. As each appeared, I sent them heaven’s way.

       Deep into the journey, somewhere along the winding tree-lined roads, a soft rainbow suddenly appeared before us. It had been so, so long since I had seen a rainbow. This one was huge yet wan, a little like how I was feeling, tired yet with enough life to go forth and do what was willed for the hour. As the road turned and curved, the God’s glorious bow in the sky played peek-a-boo, sometimes appearing on the left, sometimes on my right. Each time, it disappeared from sight and popped up again, my spirit rose joyfully in a giddy twirl at being surprised.

       My spirit sweetened with hidden mirth and joy, this gentle rainbow finally took its leave, its work with me done.

       I knew then that every turning over to heaven had been received. My heart had been emptied of its burdens for the day. This truly was what God had meant by the word He had sent me for the new year.

 

No Coincidence

     

       Like so many others, I finally turned to an online saint generator to see which saint might be matched to me for this year. Truth be told, I wasn’t entertaining great expectations as I have drawn saints before but I’m not too sure what I’ve learned from them.

So, imagine my utter surprise when I drew Jesus, Mary and Joseph – the Holy Family – for the year of 2025!

       The moment I did, I knew this was no coincidence. Just days before, I had selected a New Year’s greeting to send to a cousin. It was of an art graphic of a few species of birds on a branch against a backdrop of a huge full moon. I just loved it the moment I saw it. Different birds all huddled together on bare tree branches, seemingly chattering to one another, watched over by a gentle and generous moon on a winter’s day.

       Then, something drew me to inspect it closer. There were 9 birds on the branch. And 9 was the number of members of our little family, those here and those with us unseen. Three days later, on a day of some typical disagreements with a difficult teenager, I had to key in a number first in order to draw my saint. I chose 9. And with 9, I drew the Holy Family of Nazareth.

       While I don’t exactly know where this draw will lead to, there’s a journey ahead, for sure. Random events are often connected by an invisible thread, bringing together disparate happenings to form important lessons. Yesterday, I had just begun reading Val’s latest post – Looking Rushed – on her blog, Different Perspective, when my husband, watching a documentary on human migration, wondered aloud about what would have made the first people leave the comfortable or the familiar to go to foreign places. He thought it might be disagreements within the community. I took Val’s side and quoted from her post – the need to explore, to travel, to discover was present. 

       Today, having drawn the Holy Family, I’d add another reason: we also leave where we are to go to new places in order to preserve family life. Mary and Joseph fled Bethlehem for the pagan and very foreign frontiers of Egypt for this reason. Guided by an angel, they returned to their land and began a new life in Nazareth, for this reason as well.

       Thus, I wonder about this journey I am to embark on as a Pilgrim of Hope in this special Jubilee year of 2025 commemorating 2 025 years of Jesus’ Incarnation. We travelled a lot last year for the sake of family, making so many tiring yet such joyful trips to our older children’s college campus to visit or to bring them home for breaks since they are pretty far away from bus/train routes. While I expect more of the same this year, will this year’s spiritual journey also involve other forms of significant travel for the sake of family? I’m hoping that, if it is God’s will, that this year brings some glimmer of possibility for a new home closer to the kids and to our extended family. I’m also hoping that this is the year I can finally wind down or even complete my studies, and thus, be freed to fully return to where I am most happy: family.

       As always, the year ahead is mostly shrouded in thick clouds, our journeys and destinations veiled from sight. Yet, just like the Holy Family did, we have to try to make our way forwards with every morsel of faith and trust. When our garments of faith and trust are threadbare and lacking, as they almost always are, I have to remember that God will fill our baskets with all we need.

       Outside, the first rains of the year begin to fall, and a quiet peace winds its way to my heart.

The Last Sky

       This morning, putting my bags into the car just before leaving home for work, I stole the barest of minutes to gaze at the sky on this final day of the year. Cloud-covered, hinting at the possibility of rains, yet offering swathes of lightening blues as well, the last sky of the year told the story of the year that has been. Joyful, difficult, a deeply challenging year, but also with spots of peace, and with many miracles, in fact.

       When God told me on Christmas Day of ’23 that 2024 was to be a Christmas year, of course, I immediately envisioned a year of endless celebrations. Yet, I also knew that more than anything, Christmas is a journey. Of seeking, of discovery. Of disappointment and of hope. Of struggle and of unexpected miracles too.

Well, this old and worn year has been all of that.

       Still, on this final day, as I take one last look at all that was, shadows shed away, and what shines through strongly is awe. Awe at the immense mercy of a God Who took me from ledge to ledge on so many cliff edges. Even when my grip slipped and my step faltered, it was God Who held on to me and never let go.

       Tears find my eyes as this awe sinks into me. I know not what the coming year holds for me and for us as a family; the sun has yet to come up on our path through the cliffs and meadows that certainly wait for us. I cannot as yet summon the exuberance others may have as they look forwards to new adventures and fresh horizons, for the little I can make out seems rather grey.

       But I know that the same God Who took us through this year is already in the next. His hands are held out to us, bidding us to take heart and to cross over to where He waits in love. Whatever lies ahead, He is already there.

       It is time to bid goodbye to the last sky of the year.

       Just beyond, another awaits.

Joy of Peace

May the joy of peace enter our hearts.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Hope is the Hidden Eucharist

       Today, suddenly remembering that I needed to withdraw from the world and prepare for Advent, I went in search of meditations on hope, the call of the first week of Advent. 

       In the past few days, I’ve been sensing a light yet insistent tug towards the late Pope Benedict XVI. Today, I discovered that what I had felt was not my imagination. To my delight, I chanced upon the encyclical letter of Spe Salvi (Saved in Hope) which detailed the meaning of Christian hope. 

       And then, I learned of St Josephine Bakhita. Kidnapped by slave traders at the tender age of nine, this Sudanese child endured daily brutality and cruelty in the form of beatings and floggings which resulted in 144 wounds on her poor body. 13 years later, sold to an Italian merchant, Josephine Bakhita found herself in Italy. There, she found Jesus, and learned that, like her, He too had been cruelly flogged.

       In time, Josephine learned something more precious: that this Jesus loved her beyond anything on this earth and that He was awaiting her. This knowledge lit a fire of hope within Josephine who had only ever known hate and cruelty. To discover that Someone loved her and waited for her each day, Who would never abuse her the way she had been abused but Who longed to be loved by her, changed the young girl forever:

On 8 December 1896, in Verona, she took her vows in the Congregation of the Canossian Sisters and from that time onwards, besides her work in the sacristy and in the porter’s lodge at the convent, she made several journeys round Italy in order to promote the missions: the liberation that she had received through her encounter with the God of Jesus Christ, she felt she had to extend, it had to be handed on to others, to the greatest possible number of people. The hope born in her which had “redeemed” her she could not keep to herself; this hope had to reach many, to reach everybody.

       The last two lines struck a chord within me. How many times, I have felt this way as well. To have been given light and wanting to rush out and share that light with the world. I had often wondered if this was just the impulsive side of me, but tonight, I understood something – each time some light or hope was gifted to me from above, it was heavenly bread, meant to be broken and shared, not kept for myself. And that was the reason for the joyous urgency to visit other hearts, bearing this gift.

       I saw that this past November, God had taught me about sharing His bread, through both pain as well as joy. It was a teaching for December and beyond, that no matter how tiny a scrap of bread received, that bread of hope given at any point in time, even as it nourished me, had to be shared with others as well.

To reach all those God had willed to be fed by it.

       For the hope that comes from God is the hidden Eucharist, meant for many, meant for everybody.

 

The Come of Light

Behold, I stand at the door and knock.
If anyone hears My voice and opens the door,
then I will enter his house and dine with him,
and he with Me.   ~  Revelations 3: 20

When He reached the place, Jesus looked up and said, 
“Zacchaeus, come down quickly,
for today I must stay at your house.” 
And he came down quickly and received Him with joy.   ~  Luke 19: 5 – 6

       Nothing at the start of this November even hinted at how this month would turn out. November’s early days had found me overwhelmed, struggling to find hope within me. Just as I was picking myself up and trying to do things right, the usual yearend flu took me out for a nasty couple of days, and I had to be home on sick leave. 

       On my last day of sick leave, I had the house to myself for a couple of hours. The end of year rains had begun in gentle earnestness. As under the weather as I felt, it was lovely to be home in such weather. Sick or not, I was determined to make the most of it.

       Taking a break from some light household chores, I sat in my favourite place in the living room and looked up at the Divine Mercy image we have hanging on wall. The Gospel reading of the day had been about Jesus informing Zacchaeus that He was coming to stay at Zacchaeus’ home that day; with that announcement, a huge light had fallen into Zacchaeus’ heart.

Zacchaeus was filled to bursting with joy.

He repented.

He made amends.

       Pondering this, I looked up at the Divine Mercy. As the rains fell softly and with a watchfulness, I opened my heart to Jesus.

Lord, if You came to my house, I bet I’d become like Zacchaeus too. I would become good. Not get easily offended. Able to love everyone. Not whine and grumble.

       As I spoke those thoughts, a wistfulness came over me: it had been years since my heart had felt truly alive. It had been so, so long ago that I had thrilled – unfettered – to the beauty of this earth, hearkened heart and soul to birdsong, to blooming flowers, to the call of the wind weaving its notes among leaves and boughs. Once upon a time, I had been Anne of Green Gables, always in ecstatic embrace of heaven’s gifts. But over the years, one onslaught after another had come, each blow marking the heart and spirit. Despite staggering to my feet after each fall and going forward determinedly, the relentless difficulties had inevitably taken its toll. There was no denying that something precious had dulled and dried up within me.

       Nonetheless, over the years, from time to time, a special light would flood my inner spaces, and I would feel pinpricks of joy, as something within was trying to fight back and reclaim life. But it was always like a window opening, only to shut all too soon. No matter how hard I fought to keep the light in, even when peace bound up the ragged edges of my heart, some shadows would quietly make their way back in and take up determined abode.

       Now, gazing at my Divine Mercy on the Tuesday of the 19th, I whispered in my heart,

Lord, will I ever come alive again?

       And then, without warning, something happened.

       I felt an inexplicable tug to get some cleaning done. From feeling worn out and a little dizzy, all of a sudden, a pulsing energy began to course through me softly, gently, yet restrained. Finally, despite the flu, I ended up giving the house a good cleaning. I cooked a good lunch. And I had energy left over!!

       Stunned, I paused to take stock of the sudden change. What on earth had happened? That was when I felt something else. A brightness humming from within me. A light falling and widening deep inside me, rushing out the shadows, brightening every crook and crease of my spirit!

       Scarcely daring to believe what had just happened, I stumbled back into my days. Nothing had changed on the outside. Work was as challenging as ever, the deadlines coming in with increasing urgency. My studies were moving into the final phases but the pressure was immense. Christmas preparations awaited impatiently but with so little time left over from work to get them done.

       And yet – on the inside, hidden from earthly eyes, a wilding joy was rising and rising, reaching for some invisible, unseen summit!!! From dreading work each day, I now went to its difficulties with a newfound quiet of heart and steadfastness of spirit. My heart sang and sang as I drove to work and as I drove back. I attended to my studies with my old determination yet with a new peace. Christmas preparations began but in a sweetly gentle cheer, not the usual gritted will.

Lord, will I ever come alive again?

I had cried from the depths of my heart,

so many times,

in so many ways,

for so many years.

       And now, when I least expected, the miracle of Zacchaeus has burst to life within me too. The miracle of the brightest, most gentle light, falling and tumbling in glee in my heart and spirit. 

       Days upon days pass, and the windows stay open, the joy remains. Every day, hour upon hour, I fall back into this secret, hidden, burgeoning bloom of rose and tangerine, the colours of hope and life.

Oh, sweet Light, I have finally been found!

       And strangely, in a way I find hard to find the words for, I can almost sense the joy of this hidden light at finding me! As if it too had searched for me for ever so long.

       It is a light that bursts with mirth, yet is soft and gentle and quiet. A light filled with peace. A light new, yet so familiar.

A light like a small child,

rosy and fresh,

yet, with an unearthly wisdom

aged beyond its own years.

Baby Steps

       The past few days haven’t been easy. Not for me in my own little corner with my issues. Certainly not for many of my American friends with a brutal election just over. Whichever side people voted for, the way it seems to me, the future remains uncertain. People may fulfil all their promises – and then, pull the rug out from under us. Or we may go from one dark day to other darker ones. Tomorrow has become harder to divine. That’s how uncertain our lives have become.

       In such times, the loss of hope, even momentarily, makes the ensuing string of days and weeks and months that much harder. For it is hope that buoys us on, to do the good we have been called to, to make this world a better place for everyone.

       For a time this week, for various reasons, I lost the hope that has kept me going for so long. Immediately, the cross I try to carry right bit so much harder into me. It made me realise just how much the right type of hope is needed and how much I take it for granted.

Hope is the mainstay of life itself.

Woe to the one who gives it to some but takes it away from others.

       In this life, it is impossible to please everyone. But as I ponder this, I realise that giving hope is hardly about appeasing every appetite. It is about sharing Christ’s Light through His Truths, and I believe there are a myriad ways to bring this light into dark and frozen spaces. Whether people allow this Light to pierce in is another matter, because His Truths are not always palatable to everyone, not always easily accepted, although they always bring peace in the end. Yet, no matter the reception, we must take the Light to all whom God has entrusted into our hands and to our very spirits.

Not just to the select few who we think we like enough.

Not just to those in our circle who will applaud us no matter what we do.

Not just to those who will paper over our faults and exalt us because in us they see someone who will do their bidding and give them a cosy life in return.

What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of them would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it?   ~ Luke 15: 4

       When this verse came to life for me this week, I suddenly saw that the lost one was also the many who have lost hope in life. Some are easy enough to spot, others much harder to detect. I’m pretty sure no one who encountered me this week could have known the inner wreck I was when I lost my sense of hope. At work, I ran around and got things done. Made time for others. Didn’t stop smiling. But once home, the walls broke and little seemed to matter. Everything seemed so futile. None of the sacrifices of the past years mattered any more.

I wondered if I had ever heard God right.

That’s when I learned what loss of hope does: it takes the worth of heaven out of everything.

       Thank God, my angel never left my side, and some small sliver of sense finally prevailed. Totally emptied of everything strong and sweet and good in me, before I completely fell, I gave my heart to Jesus for safekeeping.

Take my heart, Lord. It is all broken. I’m too worn out to care about anything anymore.

With this last bit of faith I have which is actually Your own sacred gift to me, I return my heart to You.

       A stillness followed. And then, I felt these words form upon my deadened spirit.

Baby steps

       In the curl of hours after, over and over, those words were written on the insides of my being.

Baby steps

Baby steps

Baby steps

Slowly, I felt someone pull me to my feet. Despite being so exhausted and hurt to the core of my heart, I managed to put together a simple dinner. Did the dishes. Some physical exercises. I talked to my family. I hugged them. Night Rosary. Small bits of what I normally do. Baby steps.

       I woke up the next day, the fire within burnt out to utter stillness. Yet hope did not sing its usual song within me, and little of life remained in the ashes.

       But some measure of strength had definitely returned. And with that I went forwards to my day. I’m not sure how great a job I did but I tried to keep going. In its time, light began to gently return.

What man among you … would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert

and go after the lost one until he finds it?

       I’m not sure if the man who would again be president of the greatest nation on this earth will find the courage to leave the comfort and security of his circle of 99s and go out to seek the lost – not for his own sake – but to bring the Light of Christ to them, even if it be through his own, less understood ways. I’m not sure how many in various positions of power now will yield to venture into uncertain pastures – at risk to themselves and to their comfort – to save the lost by giving them hope.

       But what if life is less about waiting for hope to come for us, and less about putting our hope in someone – than it is about giving that hope to the one who needs it most? If we, each one of us, can find it within us to leave our own circle of 99s and go out to seek the lost God has called us to, and offer it up for those who won’t, could not our combined efforts in the will of the Almighty affect a great mystical shifting? To the point of even moving towering, unmovable mountains? Would not our nations and our people be better served this way?

Baby steps

       One small shift at a time, acts quiet and simple, hidden and unseen.

       Perhaps minuscule and of little use to the worldly.

       Yet building up in momentum, drawing from God-given strength and power.

       Shift after shift after shift after shift…

       Until suddenly, we reach that proverbial upper ridge, the summit of impossibility.

       For the time that is coming, when the skies will part.

God’s Gentle

I prefer today rather than tomorrow. ~ Steven Herrick

       Since my last post, I’ve been learning to remain in the season. No matter how tough some hours of a day can be, just as soon as the groaning and moaning leaves the front door of my heart, I recall God’s call to me. And I try to whisper,

Jesus, I suffer for You.

Surprisingly, the hours pass better than expected. Items on lists get ticked off, work gets done. More importantly, life retains its luminous sheen despite the sometimes unpleasant vagaries of the days.

       All this is somewhat unchartered territory for me: to persevere in holding on to the hope of a life of fulfilment and freedom even as I colour the present hours as beautifully as I can. Yet, this is what God has willed for me in recent weeks each time He has sent His angels to whisper to me,

Go gently,

Go gently,

Go gently

       I can’t help but grin thinking of how God’s version of “living gently” differs from my own worldview. His is not to go soft on myself when duty and a firm heart is called for. His is not to do less even when that is exactly what I want to do. His is not to seek some other pasture when the work in the present is unfinished.

       Instead, God’s gentle is that I must allow myself to feel all the sadness and the disappointment, or even the anger, when the road ahead seems longer than before. God’s gentle is that I be honest with Him about my despairs, telling Him each time my barrel of wine falls empty. God’s gentle is that I give my entire heart and all its burdens to Him, holding nothing back.

And when that is done, to return as peaceably as I can to my season,

holding as well as I can to the hope that God is already in my tomorrows.

       As these words find their form, the air shifts to herald the coming of welcomed rains. Our aged windchimes tinkle their sweetnotes into the quiet yet friendly air. Leaning my heart against all this beauty, I long for the time of Sundays every day.

       But soon enough, my little household begins to stir, and Sunday sings its call. It’s time to leave my books for a bit and go to prepare a hearty lunch.

       The winds raise their hymn joyfully. God’s gentle is good indeed.

 

Till the Passing of a Time

       Last Sunday, we sent the older children back to college for their fall term, and the house fell silent in the absence of their mirth and incessant cheer. Their going was felt keenly by all of us, for each in a different way. In addition, work which I no longer enjoyed loomed taller than any possible joy on Monday, dimming the sun further. With that, my heart fell into a sadness, its arms going about me like a child unwilling to let go.

      Although I’ve been through far, far worse days, sorrow, worn and familiar, nevertheless settled upon me. Knowing well how unremitting this sadness can be, I firmed up to give thanks to God for the wonderful family time He had blessed us with, as thanksgiving is a powerful antidote to dejection, blunting the power of darkness to lead us into caverns we ought to keep away from.

Still, the grief of knowing this sweet interlude had passed, remained, unwilling to leave.

       Why was it different this time, I wondered. We have said goodbyes to our children many, many times in the past years, arm stretched out of the car window as far as possible, waving and waving, watching forlorn figures recede in the distance. We have driven the many miles home, hearts heavy, yet cheering up soon enough through praise and thanksgiving. But not this time. Over and over, I asked myself this same question, Why was it different? Why was it different? No answering comfort reached me, though, and for a time, no illumination either. Instead, the shroud seemingly gathered closer.

       It was only much later that it occurred to me that as downcast as I was, no chill had frosted over my entire heart and my spirit. I was at peace. I could still laugh a little. I could still care. I could still offer tremulous thanksgiving. It was so unusual, as if sadness had permission to pierce only a portion of my soul, leaving the rest protected.

There is an appointed time for everything,
and a time for everything under the heavens. ~ Ecclesiastes 3: 1

Could this sadness be willed by God for some reason, I wondered. Could He be asking that I remain in the season for its time?

       We sometimes hurry to the next stop of life before we are ready to move. We allow the currents to rush us on, believing we have no choice. Or because it’s so much easier than dealing with the grey within us. Or because we think that to mourn is to lack faith. But what is sometimes difficult to accept is that just like joy and jubilation, grief and sadness are also times our heavenly Father might will for us. That there are lessons within them which cannot be learned any other way. When we turn away, and instead climb onto the conveyor belt of life to get away from pain, we miss our chance to go to God through the ache in our hearts. We shut the door to where He waits for us, and instead, search for Him where He is not.

       Of course, all of that Sunday, none of this made itself known to me. I went from hour to hour so deeply in mourning over the ending of a time, and also bewildered by its bind over my heart. Yet, through it all, an inner insistence made itself felt, urging me to go gentle on myself, to not be hasty in tamping down the unusual descent of grey within.

       And so, each time, the pangs of sadness made their way to my heart, I did not turn away and pretend they did not exist. I did not scold myself to stiffen my spine and to cast the gaze of my heart elsewhere. Instead, I gathered to my heart each sadness and owned them, grieving this ending of our family reunion, this time of joy and introspection come and gone. No matter how many more reunions lie ahead, this particular one had ended. I had every right to grieve its going.

       Yet, with each wistfulness, I also offered them back to heaven, for every gift, every grace comes from above,

Jesus and Mother Mary, I give You my joy,

Jesus and Mother Mary, I give You my sadness. 

       Sunday folded into Monday. Back at work, surprisingly much got done, yet, I found myself working with a gentleness that was also unusual for me.

Jesus and Mary, thank you so much for everything.

But I am sad.

I am so very, very sad.

       Then, in a quiet that never announced itself, the tides began to turn. Softly, softly, like waves withdrawing from the shore, sadness began to take its leave. Watching it go, I sensed a quiet merriness tiptoe in to take its place.

       It was then that I knew I had learned what God had waited to teach in my hours of sadness. To never hurry time, to never use praise and thanksgiving to escape pain. What is willed must be endured for as long as that time is given us, for God awaits us there, not someplace else.

       The lesson its mark made, God scattered His sunbeams to light the shadows in me.

       The time had passed.

Never For Money

       There was a decision to be made in a few short weeks, whether to opt for the new salary scheme being touted for government employees like me – or to remain in the current scheme. The buzz in the air was of anticipation of more money in the bank, and the government certainly played up that part. 

       The last few weeks being busy ones, I hadn’t had the time to go full on into the details till late last night. But when I finally trawled through the 1000-odd pages of details in the actual circular, I saw what the official press releases had conveniently failed to mention: that apart from a small salary adjustment, there was little else for senior civil servants like me. Instead, there seemed to be more on offer for those who still had long, undulating roads of their professional lives ahead of them. The only benefit appeared to be that slight increase in salaries.

       As little as it was, it was money we needed.

       Nonetheless, as I switched off my laptop and turned in for the night, something hung over my heart. If there’s anything I learned in all my years of living, it is that the truth is always clear and simple, as opposed to be complicated and convoluted. When subterfuge covers what is offered to my husband and I, it’s always God’s sign to us to walk away. Even if others go on to accept whatever is offered and even if it turns out to be alright in the end for them, His word for us, for some reason, has always remained,

Not for you

       But what about this time? I wondered. A few years to retirement, children in college, children waiting to begin college, there was no denying the extra would come in handy.

       Rising in the morning, I stopped at our Crucifix. The previous day, for no particular reason, I had asked Jesus for the grace of hearing His voice. He had not made Himself heard. But I waited on, needing His assurance – but for what I didn’t know at that time. A few hours later, I knew why I had sought His voice, because here I was now, needing Jesus to shine His light on His will for me. Give me a clear sign, Lord, I breathed my prayer. Which way do I go?

       No sooner had the prayer left my heart when my angel smiled into the same heart, and I felt the words,

I have never made a career decision based on money.

About 16 years ago, an opening had come up, promising gold for my team and me. Everyone on my team took the promotion – except me. I had just lost something so precious in my life, no amount of money or lure of prestige could bring back the joy I once had. To be offered earthly gold when the wound was still so fresh, the tears ready to fall unbidden, I clearly perceived the wrongness of it for me. My then boss was flabbergasted. She had always been a climber, conniving her way to the top, and couldn’t understand who on earth would turn down a higher salary and professional peerage. Everyone in attendance at the emergency meeting had accepted that offer, but here I was, asking for permission to leave her meeting, instead, because I had made my decision. When she asked me for the reason for declining, I told her,

I have never made a career decision based on money. I will not do so now.

She sent others to persuade me to consider, but I stood my ground, never once wavering, not even in the years to come – not because of some aspiration of being noble, but because when loss and grief finds you, for a moment, the veil between this life and the next is lifted. And you see what matters and what doesn’t.

       Years later, my colleagues who took the offer have enjoyed most of the benefits offered. Not everything has worked out as promised but they draw higher salaries than I do, have a lighter workload and a better work environment. Yet, no rancour rises within me that God had cut me out of that pie. Even till today. For a certainty is anchored strong within me that I am where I am because that is where Jesus is. There is great peace to be found in that.

       Still, crossroads find me once again. Again, the bait is money. But in answer to my divine seeking, God does something He sometimes does: He returns my own words to me,

I have never made a career decision based on money

       And just like that, the decision is clear: the sweetened offer is not for me.

       Strangely, my spirit finds freedom in this decision. As I accept from my heart, the cloud over my spirit disappears. The strange inertia that had nailed my spirit in its place for some weeks now, gives way, and the sweetest light rains down upon me.

       We are all called to some form of poverty, to turn away from what we desire, and accept the deprivation God has willed in His wisdom. My poverty is admittedly small compared to what others have to refuse, yet, that doesn’t make it any easier, because we’re all given poverties fitted to who we have been fashioned to be by God. I am called to mine, as others are called to theirs.

       It’s a call we must all answer if we are to have peace. Even if no one joins us, thinking us fools for turning away gold, we must be that fool for Christ.

       For in doing so, our hearts are opened and God’s own joy finds us.