I sat in a Matatu on my way home one evening, bobbing my head to great hip hop music and enjoying my life.

I had a new house I liked to go home to, I was travelling a whole lot for fun and life was good! I had dropped all simple carbs and was running 10 Kilometres on Namanga road 5 times a week. My skin was glowing, my energy levels were through the roof and I was excited about my future.

I knew I was either getting over the break up super fast or I was a magnificent escapist. Either was fine with me. I was on a great emotional high for a few months and I relished it!

A text came in from a friend… “Hey, how’s your husband?”


I responded without missing a beat. I’d had a lot of practice with that line of questioning and was bracing myself for swift civil answers to a myriad of follow up questions. Plus I was in a great place, I thought.

“Ok, and how’s your relationship with God?”  He asked, suddenly shattering me completely. Every inch of me ran weak. Right there in the Matatu, I broke down with uncontrollable heaving. I had carefully built a pretty wall around myself but cute was all it was. This one question I didn’t see coming and was completely unprepared for.

In my core, I knew I was desperate. I wasn’t speaking to God and was doing all I could to not think about him. But I was desperate. Everything in me was screaming for God. I knew there was nowhere to go. He carries my words of life. I felt trapped under my dire need for God. I was hurting so badly and didn’t know who I could trust.

The hardest part of what I was going through wasn’t really the breaking down of my support system, or not being able to talk to my best friend anymore. It wasn’t the deafening silence in my house with no TV, Radio or gadget to distract me from the nonstop inner conversations around failure, abandonment, rejection, or uselessness. It wasn’t the fact that I was now scared of public spaces. It wasn’t the sleeplessness or the anxiety attacks, bad as all these were.

What was completely horrendous was the fact that I was deathly afraid that God was taking pleasure in my pain, somehow glorified in my misery and would allow it to go on. This, I couldn’t deal with.

God was all I ever had, all that I had to have. I was lost.

That day I cried the whole way home, my tears only stopping when the sedative kicked in.

Then He spoke, for only the second time since my ordeal began.

The first time, a few weeks before, He had said, “Let me show you that I love you.” I took off and hid behind my cute wall.

This time He said, “I’d like you to bring women together to pray”. I laughed. And the instruction turned from a spark into a raging fire.

Remember, I wasn’t praying.

Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.         John 6:68

 

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