Saturday, 14 February 2026 — Valentine’s Day Evening Reflection

 

Today, I would call a day of rest.

After two full weeks of pouring myself into every order, every detail, every package prepared with love… my body is feeling it. The bending, the kneeling, the sore feet, the tired mind — it all reminds me that purpose requires effort.

And yet, even in the tiredness, my heart is full.

I look back over these past two weeks, and I am overwhelmed with gratitude.

Grateful for the strength God gave me when I felt like I couldn’t do more.

Grateful for the ability to create, to build, to serve through something I am so deeply passionate about.

Grateful that my hands were busy with purpose, and not empty with doubt.

Every order collected and delivered carried more than just a product —

it carried thoughtfulness, love, intention.

Seeing the excitement on people’s faces, hearing their kind words, receiving their feedback… it reminded me that what I do matters. Not just as a business, but as a gift.

And today, my reward was simple…

REST

But tonight, my gratitude is also extended to my husband.

I am truly grateful for his help, for his patience, and for the way he supported me through this busy season. There were moments when I was tired, stretched, and overwhelmed, yet he stood alongside me — encouraging me, motivating me, and showing up in ways that mattered.

And something that touched my heart so deeply…

he even shared our business, and through that, brought in an order.

How amazing is that?

It reminded me that support does not always have to be loud — sometimes it is seen in the quiet actions, in the willingness to stand beside you, and in believing in what you are building.

I do not take that for granted.

Because I know — it wasn’t by my strength alone.

It was God’s grace that carried me through the long hours.

It was His provision that brought the customers.

And sometimes, He uses the people closest to us as vessels of that provision.

And in this moment, I am reminded that growth is not always loud.

Sometimes, growth looks like tired hands and a full heart.

Sometimes, success looks like quiet gratitude after a long season of sowing.

I am learning to honour both the work and the rest.

To give my all when it is time to build…

and to step back when it is time to breathe.

Because even rest is part of the journey.

Tonight, I choose gratitude over exhaustion.

I choose contentment over striving.

And I choose to trust that this is only the beginning of what God has in store.

Grace carried me, and purpose sustained me.

“The Lord will give strength to His people; the Lord will bless His people with peace.” — Psalm 29:11

Saturday Reflection 14 Feb'25 — The Distance We Don’t Always Understand

There are moments in life where someone you once walked closely with…

suddenly begins to create distance.

Not abruptly.

Not harshly.

But quietly… subtly… intentionally.

And if you’re not careful, your heart will ask, “Did I do something wrong?”

But as I’ve grown, I’ve come to understand that not every distance is rejection.

Sometimes, it is something much deeper than that.

Sometimes, people withdraw not because of who you are…

but because of how they see themselves.

There are seasons where people are fighting silent battles.

Battles of health.

Battles of identity.

Battles of self-image.

Battles of feeling “less than” who they once were.

And in those moments, being seen can feel like exposure instead of connection.

So instead of allowing themselves to be known in their weakness…

they choose distance.

Not because they don’t value the relationship…

but because they don’t know how to show up in it anymore.

And if we are not careful, we will interpret their silence through our own lens.

We will call it rejection.

We will call it avoidance.

We will make it personal.

But sometimes, it is not personal at all.

Sometimes, it is someone trying to hold on to dignity…

while they are still learning how to stand again.

I’ve also come to realise something about us as people —

we often expect others to be open with us…

while we ourselves are still learning what vulnerability feels like.

Some people can talk easily.

Others cannot.

Not because they don’t trust you…

but because they have never learned how to carry their story out loud.

And so they retreat.

Not everyone processes pain in the same way.

Not everyone heals in the same way.

And not everyone feels safe enough to be seen while they are still in the middle of becoming.

And maybe…

just maybe…

what looks like distance is not rejection —

but protection.

Protection of their heart.

Protection of their image.

Protection of a version of themselves they are still trying to understand.

And this is where maturity comes in.

Because growth is not only about how we respond when people draw near…

but also about how we respond when they step away.

Do we chase for answers?

Do we assume the worst?

Do we allow offense to grow in our hearts?

Or do we choose something deeper?

Do we choose grace.

Grace that says:

“I may not understand your distance… but I will not misinterpret it.”

Grace that says:

“I will not take personally what may not be about me.”

Grace that says:

“I will give you space without withdrawing my heart.”

Because love does not always look like closeness.

Sometimes, love looks like allowing people to walk their journey…

without forcing them to explain it.

And I’ve learned something else…

We should be careful not to underestimate how safe we are to others.

Sometimes people pull away not because we would reject them…

but because they fear we might.

Sometimes they assume we are too strong, too put together, too grounded…

to understand their broken places.

And so they choose distance… instead of risking being misunderstood.

But the truth is this:

You don’t have to hide your struggles to be accepted.

You don’t have to withdraw to protect your worth.

And you don’t have to become “perfect” before you allow yourself to be seen.

The right people will not love you only in your strength…

they will also honour you in your healing.

Today, I choose not to be offended by what I don’t understand.

I choose not to assume what hasn’t been spoken.

And I choose to trust that God is working in every heart… even the ones I cannot reach.

Because sometimes, distance is not the end of a relationship…

it is simply a different season of it.

And in that season…

love becomes quieter,

grace becomes deeper,

and understanding becomes intentional.

Not every distance is rejection… sometimes it is someone learning how to face themselves.

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” — Ephesians 4:2

When Things End Abruptly

There was a time when certain endings broke me.

Relationships. Friendships. Connections that felt meaningful — and then suddenly, they were gone. No proper closure. No long explanation. Just an abrupt end.

And I remember how that felt.

The confusion.

The replaying of conversations.

The wondering, What did I do wrong?

The ache of something unfinished.

When something ends suddenly, it shakes you. Not only because of what was lost — but because of how it was lost. We grieve the memories. We grieve the future we imagined. We grieve the attachment.

But growth changes perspective.

Over time, I began to realize something deeper:

Just because it didn’t feel good to me does not mean it was not necessary for both of us.

Sometimes, when things end abruptly, we see it only through the lens of our pain. But what if that person was also entering a new season? What if God was requiring their focus in a way that our attachment could not allow?

We don’t always consider that the other person may have been called into growth too.

Maybe they had to move forward.

Maybe they had to shift.

Maybe God had something in store for them that required separation.

Maybe — without even realizing it — we were holding each other back.

That realization requires maturity.

It requires asking God, not “Why did this happen to me?” but “Lord, what were You doing in both of us?”

Healing deepens when you can acknowledge that seasons end not only for your protection, but sometimes for the progression of the other person as well.

And when you step back and look at it from a broader perspective, you may even see that they have grown. You may see external prosperity. You may see expansion. And instead of resentment, you feel understanding.

Because growth is not betrayal.

Movement is not rejection.

Separation is not always punishment.

Sometimes it is divine alignment.

Yes, you grieve.

Yes, you feel the loss.

But maturity allows you to release with grace.

I no longer grieve those endings the way I once did. I honor the memories. I bless what was. And I trust that if God allowed it to end, He was writing something greater — for both of us.

Healing is when you can say:

That season mattered.

That connection shaped me.

But it was not meant to stay.

And that is not loss.

That is growth.

Midnight Praise, Broken Chains

This morning my alarm went off at 03:25. I switched it off, lay still for a moment, and then felt led to worship. I searched for a song, and an album by Benjamin Dube started playing. As the music filled the room, I began to pray. One song after another carried me into the presence of God — but one moment stood out deeply: Paul and Silas in Acts 16.

They were thrown into prison after casting a spirit out of a woman. What struck me again today is this: she spoke truth, yet her spirit was not from God. Paul discerned that. It reminded me how important it is in life to test the spirits. Not everyone who says the right words carries the right spirit. Some come like wolves in sheep’s clothing — they soften you with words, but their intentions are not pure. Discernment is protection.

Paul and Silas were beaten and placed in the innermost cell — chained. Yet at midnight, instead of complaining, they praised. They worshipped. And while they worshipped, the ground shook. An earthquake hit the prison. Chains fell off. Doors opened. Freedom came.

That is what worship does.

I’ve been experiencing this in my own life. When I praise, I feel chains breaking. I feel freedom rising in my spirit. Whatever tries to bind my business, my home, my mind — it cannot stay when worship fills the room. God’s presence shifts atmospheres.

The scripture that speaks to my heart is Matthew 18:18:

“Whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.”

So today I choose to loose freedom. I choose to loose peace. I choose to loose breakthrough.

I also hold onto Jeremiah 29:11 — God’s plans for me and my family are good. Not to harm us, but to prosper us and give us hope and a future. That truth anchors me.

And forgiveness — forgiveness is freedom. If you do not forgive, you are not keeping someone else prisoner. You are keeping yourself chained. Worship and forgiveness go hand in hand in releasing what binds us.

So this morning I declare:

I bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name.

I command my day to align with God’s will.

I am a child of God.

I am free.

My chains are breaking.

When Judgment Hides Pain

There was a time when I wanted so badly to belong.

To be accepted.

To be part of certain circles.

And if I am honest, there were seasons where comparison and even envy tried to sit in my heart.

I did not hide my struggles well.

They showed.

And for a long time, I felt judged for them.

Not always through words.

Sometimes judgment has no voice.

It lives in body language.

In silence.

In the way someone’s presence grows cold.

Attitude speaks long before lips ever do.

But something has changed in me.

God has been doing a deep work in my heart. A work that started with correction, then healing, and now clarity. And with that clarity came something unexpected — compassion.

Recently, I saw something that shifted my perspective.

I realized that sometimes the loudest judgment comes from the deepest hidden struggle.

The very thing someone criticizes in you… may be the very thing they are fighting in secret.

And instead of feeling hurt, I felt sorrow.

The kind of sorrow Scripture describes when Jesus looked at the crowd and was moved in His spirit. Not anger. Not pride. Compassion.

Because pretending is exhausting.

Living behind an image is heavy.

And judging others can sometimes be a shield people use to hide from their own reflection.

This is not written to expose anyone.

It is written to remind all of us — including me — of the importance of self-examination.

Before we judge a life, a journey, a process… we must ask:

What am I hiding?

What am I avoiding dealing with in myself?

God has taught me that transparency brings freedom. I have laid my flaws before Him and before people. Not because it is comfortable, but because healing cannot happen in hiding.

Alignment with God sharpens discernment.

When you stay connected to the Vine, your spiritual eyes open.

Not to criticize — but to understand.

Not to condemn — but to pray.

So today, instead of defending myself against judgment, I choose compassion.

Because we are all in process.

And sometimes the one pointing the finger is the one hurting the most.

May we learn to look inward before looking outward.

May we trade judgment for mercy.

And may God heal the hidden battles we are too afraid to admit.

REMINDER:

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” — Ephesians 4:32

When Seasons Reconnect

Not every season ends with conflict.

Some seasons simply grow quiet.

There are friendships that don’t break, don’t fall apart, and don’t end in hurt — they just pause. Life happens. Seasons shift. Paths unfold differently. Yet somehow, there’s
always a quiet assurance that everything is well.

You still think of the person from time to time.

You silently hope they’re doing okay.

You notice a familiar name liking a post, leaving a brief comment, or appearing on your screen — just enough to remind you that the connection was never lost, only resting.

And then, unexpectedly, the reconnection happens.

Not forced.

Not awkward.

Just… right.

What’s beautiful about these moments is discovering that while the silence existed, God was still working — on both sides. Separately, yet similarly. Shaping hearts. Deepening faith. Aligning purpose.

When reconnection happens in the right season, you realize you now speak the same language.

You see life through a similar lens.

You share a deeper understanding — not built on the past, but on growth.

These reunions are not accidental.

They are intentional, divine, and fruitful.

Suddenly, conversations flow with meaning. Gratitude replaces small talk. Faith becomes the foundation. And instead of catching up on who you were, you celebrate who you’ve both become.

This is the beauty of God-ordained reconnections.

They remind us that distance doesn’t equal disconnection.

That silence doesn’t mean absence.

And that what God preserves, He reunites — at the right time, in the right way.

Some seasons are meant to pause so that when they resume, they do so with clarity, maturity, and purpose.

And when they do, the joy is not just in reconnecting —

it’s in recognizing how faithful God has been all along.

The Mirror We Avoid

Human beings have always had a deep need for connection.

To be seen. To be heard. To belong.

And that makes sense — we were created for relationship.

But somewhere along the way, connection became conditional.

Transactional.

Measured by who reaches out first and who responds last.

It’s 2026, people say.

“I will only connect with those who connect with me.”

“I will only follow those who follow me.”

“I’m matching energy now.”

And while growth does require boundaries,

it also requires honesty.

Because what about the person who never reaches out —

yet complains about being unseen?

What about the one who waits to be checked on,

but never checks in?

Connection cannot exist where effort is one-sided.

And yet, silence is often masked as self-respect.

We came into this world alone.

We will leave it alone.

Somewhere in between, we learn to walk with others —

not by demanding connection,

but by choosing it.

There is a difference between maturity and emotional withdrawal.

Between healthy boundaries and quiet entitlement.

Children crave connection because they are still learning who they are.

Adults crave connection because they forget.

And instead of looking inward, we post outward.

Announcing rules instead of reflecting on habits.

Declaring distance instead of examining our own absence.

If you want change in your relationships,

the mirror must come before the announcement.

Connection is not created by declarations.

It is built through presence.

Through effort.

Through humility.

And sometimes, the very thing that upsets us

is the thing revealing where growth is still needed.

And when someone does reach out —

a message, a call, a moment of effort —

even if it’s been a long time,

even if life has pulled you apart —

that moment deserves appreciation.

Because everyone is busy.

Everyone is carrying something.

And connection, in its truest form,

is an intentional choice.

Before saying, “I won’t connect unless you do,”

ask yourself:

Have I truly been connecting at all?

When Responsibility Becomes the Turning Point

There comes a point in life — often quietly, often unannounced — where we can no longer blame our environment, our upbringing, or our past for the way we live today. Age brings with it a responsibility that cannot be ignored forever. At some stage, we are no longer the product of where we came from, but the result of the choices we continue to make.

Blaming your past may feel familiar, even comforting at times, but eventually it becomes a distraction from your future. Healing is no longer optional — it becomes your responsibility. Growth is no longer something that happens to you — it becomes a decision you must make.

There are countless resources available today — books, counseling, mentorship, faith-based guidance, conversations, and even silence. And if none of those seem to attract you, perhaps the invitation is to sit quietly with yourself. To reflect. To examine your heart honestly. To ask the difficult questions without running from the answers.

Even if you don’t believe you have a personal relationship with Christ, you can still speak to Him. He is not intimidated by questions, confusion, or uncertainty. He is the answer — even when you don’t yet know how to phrase the question.

We often say, “People treat me badly,” but the deeper truth is harder to face: people treat us the way we allow them to. Boundaries teach people how to treat us. Silence, avoidance, and emotional reactions often teach them nothing at all.

There is a distinction that must be made. As children, we are powerless. Abuse, neglect, mistreatment — those are never the fault of a child. Adults made choices that caused harm, and that responsibility remains with them.

But adulthood brings a new responsibility: mindset. Perspective. Response. If we continue to be deeply reactive to yesterday’s wounds in our grown-up years, we cannot keep assigning blame outward. At some point, we must ask ourselves: What am I doing to change this?

Boundaries are not walls. Walls block everyone — not just those who hurt us. When we build walls, we shut out the people who are genuinely trying to love us well. We close ourselves off from safe connection, understanding, and healing. Walls don’t protect wounds — they preserve them.

Unhealed pain doesn’t stay contained. It spills over. It affects relationships. It drains energy. It causes us to lose ourselves again and again — and often, the ones who suffer most are not the ones who caused the pain, but the ones trying their best to love us.

Healing doesn’t make you weak.

Self-examination doesn’t make you vulnerable.

Responsibility doesn’t make you guilty.

It makes you free.

And freedom begins the moment you stop asking who hurt me —

and start asking who am I becoming?

The New has arrived

“Being confident of this very thing, that He who has begun a good work in you will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

— Philippians 1:6

This year holds more than dates on a calendar — it holds moments appointed by God.

Through His grace and unwavering faithfulness, dreams once whispered in prayer are beginning to take form. Visions planted in faith are no longer hidden; they are manifesting.

What was prepared in silence is about to be revealed in season.

So keep your calendars open and your hearts ready — invitations will be going out.

This is not haste. This is alignment.

And what unfolds next will testify, not to effort alone, but to the goodness of God who keeps His promises.

Stay expectant.

What’s coming is purposeful, beautiful, and right on time.

“For the vision is yet for an appointed time; but at the end it shall speak, and not lie. Though it tarry, wait for it; because it will surely come, it will not tarry.”

— Habakkuk 2:3

When Disappointment Replaces Tears

There comes a moment when pain no longer looks like crying.

It no longer looks like arguments, pleading, or emotional outbursts.

It becomes quiet. Heavy. Settled.

That’s where I find myself now.

For many, many years — and I mean years — I have walked the same emotional road with the same person. I tried understanding. I tried patience. I tried shrinking myself, softening my words, excusing behaviour, hoping for change. I accepted things that should never have required acceptance, simply because I believed love meant endurance.

But something has shifted.

I no longer cry.

I’m no longer angry.

I’m no longer fighting.

I’m disappointed.

Disappointment is different.

It comes when you realise that the other person is not unaware — they are unwilling.

Unwilling to change.

Unwilling to take responsibility.

Unwilling to be accountable.

Instead, there is pride.

Deflection.

The blame game — always someone else’s fault, always a reason, never reflection.

And it makes me ask the hardest question of all:

Could things be the way they are… because you are the way you are?

Not because life is cruel.

Not because others are unfair.

But because you refuse to look inward.

Because growth requires honesty — and honesty feels threatening to pride.

I’ve realised something painful but freeing:

I did not tell anyone to hurt me the way they did.

But I allowed it — not because I deserved it, but because I was afraid to let go.

Afraid of what happens when you stop trying to save someone who is lost.

Afraid of what it means to stop carrying responsibility that was never yours.

Recently, I was reminded of a scene from Alice in Wonderland.

Alice finds herself lost in a maze and asks the Cheshire Cat,

“How do I get out of here?”

The cat asks,

“Where are you going?”

Alice replies,

“I don’t know.”

And the cat simply says,

“Then it doesn’t really matter.”

That moment struck me deeply.

How do you help someone out of a maze when they don’t know where they want to go?

How do you restore someone who doesn’t want restoration?

How do you keep pouring into someone who refuses to imagine a different future?

I realised I’ve been doing what only God can do.

Trying to restore.

Trying to rescue.

Trying to repaint something black into something soft and bright — when it doesn’t want to change its colour.

And that is not my job.

It was never my job.

I cannot heal what refuses accountability.

I cannot guide someone who won’t choose direction.

I cannot save someone who doesn’t believe they need saving.

Letting go doesn’t mean I stopped caring.

It means I stopped bleeding.

It means I finally accepted that love does not require self-abandonment.

That boundaries are not cruelty.

That peace sometimes comes when you step back and let God take over what only He can transform.

This isn’t bitterness speaking.

It’s clarity.

And clarity, though quiet, is powerful.

I am choosing to release what is not mine to carry.

To trust God with restoration.

To stop fighting battles I was never meant to win.

Because healing begins when you stop trying to fix what refuses to change —

and start honouring the life, peace, and wholeness God is calling you into.

Releasing What Is Not Yours

“Commit your way to the Lord; trust in Him, and He will act.”

— Psalm 37:5

From Break-Up Parties to Purposeful Living

Psalm 90:12 

So teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.

When I was younger, the year-end break-up parties were the moment.

You know the vibe — loud music, friends calling, excitement buzzing through the air. No real worries, no real deadlines, just freedom. No rushing home, no real responsibilities tugging at my heart. I wasn’t a heavy party animal, and drinking was never my identity — but being out there, being present, laughing with friends felt like life. It felt like that’s what the end of the year was meant to look like.

Back then, I couldn’t wait for that final workplace countdown…

"Ten, nine, eight…", and then we’re gone — hair down, heels on, music up.

But seasons change.

And so do we.

Now, at this more mature and grounded stage of life, my joy looks different.

It’s softer, deeper, more rooted.

I have a husband waiting at home.

I have grandbabies whose little voices call for me more sweetly than any party anthem.

I have dreams waiting on my commitment — books that need birthing, a business growing under God’s grace, ideas and purpose that need tending like a garden.

This season isn’t about partying.

It’s about building.

It’s about peace more than noise, legacy more than weekends, fulfillment more than late nights out.

I no longer crave the rush of “outside.”

I crave the joy of progress.

The sweetness of family.

The quiet work of purpose.

And today — as I switch off my PC for the last time this year and step into annual leave — I don’t feel like dressing up for the old kind of celebration.

I feel like celebrating growth.

Not the kind that shouts,

but the kind that speaks in gratitude, rest, and reflection.

Life has shifted — God has shifted me.

And I receive it fully.

This year, my breaking-up party looks like journaling, praying, planning, creating.

It looks like making room for the woman I’m becoming —

the builder, the writer, the businesswoman, the grandmother, the wife, the vessel of grace.

Growth is beautiful.

Maturity is beautiful.

And peace — peace is the greatest celebration of all.