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.

When Feelings Become Status Updates

We live in a world where emotions have become public property. Where frustration is a caption, anger is a status update, and pain is broadcast like breaking news. It’s interesting to watch — how easier it is for some to type than to talk, to post than to pray, to sub-status instead of speak to the one who hurt them.

I often see people running to social media to express what their hearts can’t say face-to-face. Some with genuine release — seeking encouragement or accountability — but then there are those who throw indirect shade and call it expression. They post paragraphs that were meant for one person, but feed hundreds. They drop “cryptic messages” but hope the right eyes see it. It becomes cowards retaliating in the safest way they know how — loud online, silent in real conversation.

And the part that stings? Many even call themselves children of God.

Yet instead of taking it to the Father in prayer, laying it at His feet, asking for peace and guidance… they run to the crowd first. They seek validation instead of revelation.

The likes, the comments, the “I feel you girl”, the “say it louder!” becomes fuel — not healing.

Because social media doesn’t restore, it amplifies.

It doesn’t fix the wound, it exposes it.

It doesn’t bring peace, it provokes more hurt.

What if… instead of posting, we paused?

What if… instead of subtweeting, we prayed?

What if… instead of venting to the world, we spoke directly to God — and maybe even directly to the person involved?

Maturity is not silence soaked in bitterness — it’s choosing wisdom over reaction.

Growth is not pretending you’re unbothered online — it’s handling offense with grace and courage.

Not everything needs an audience.

Not every feeling needs a platform.

Sometimes the holiest response is the quiet one — whispered in prayer, not shouted in a story.

Healing often happens in private long before it becomes a testimony in public.

Let us be people who take our wounds to Jesus first.

Let us be believers who respond with grace, not gossip.

Let us choose conversation over subliminals, peace over pettiness, and prayer over performance.

Because a healed heart doesn’t need a status update to speak.

I call this "Coward's Retaliation"

When Their Applause Sounds Hollow

A Reflection on Pretend Support & Private Judgement

I’ve come to understand something in this season — not everyone clapping is clapping because they’re happy. Some clap because silence would expose their envy. Some nod because truth would reveal their disbelief. Some smile because frowning would uncover the condition of their heart.

People will watch you build your life, brick by brick.

They will watch you chase dreams they’re too afraid to start.

They will watch you grow — not because they want to see you win, but because they want to see how far you'll really go.

And when you do make progress, when doors open, when you start walking differently, speaking differently, believing differently — suddenly it is quiet. The energy changes. The “I’m proud of you” becomes forced. The “well done” feels rehearsed. And the claps? They sound like paper — loud, but hollow.

Because pretense wears a mask, but authenticity carries truth in the eyes.

Not everyone pretending to support you believes in you.

Not everyone smiling at you is rooting for you.

And not everyone who doubts you has ever even tried what you’re trying.

It’s easy to judge the one writing a book when you’ve never written even a page.

It’s easy to mock the one starting a business when you’ve never built even an idea.

It’s easy to question someone’s calling when you’ve never stepped into your own.

Yet judgment comes quick from those who haven’t attempted, haven't risked, and haven't dared.

But growth exposes hearts — yours and theirs.

And while they point out the speck in your journey, they ignore the plank in their own.

They criticize your light but secretly hope to shine too.

They call you “too much,” while wishing they had the courage to be even half of it.

But here’s the truth:

You keep going.

You keep building.

You keep showing up for yourself.

People may pretend — but God never does.

People may judge — but God sees your motive.

People may doubt — but God has already approved the assignment.

Let them clap as they must — real or pretend.

Because what God is doing in you cannot be halted by human opinion.

Their disbelief is not your problem.

Their judgement is not your concern.

Their lack of support is not your hindrance.

Your journey is personal.

Your growth is divine.

Your purpose is God-authored.

And pretense? It will crumble under truth.

Because what is built in authenticity, in faith, in obedience — will outlive applause, criticism, and comparison.

Work quietly.

Build diligently.

Shine gracefully.

Let them watch — but don’t wait for their approval.

As the Word says:

“Why do you look at the speck in your brother’s eye, but do not consider the plank in your own?”

— Matthew 7:3

When Morning Prayers Become a Courtroom of Petitions

Let me tell you something I have learned — and I’m still learning it every day.

There are mornings when my prayers are no longer quiet whispers.

They become a courtroom of petitions.

In those early hours, when the world is still asleep, when the noise hasn’t started yet, when there are no opinions, no distractions, no interruptions — that is where I meet God. And I don’t come timidly. I come honestly. I come boldly. I come prepared to contend.

Because God invites us to do that.

There are people who believe prayer must always be soft and careful, but Scripture shows us something deeper. David spoke to God with tears. He told God how he felt. He laid his pain bare. In Psalm 56, David says:

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.”

That tells me something powerful: our tears are not wasted.

Our mourning prayers are not ignored.

Our early-morning conversations with God matter.

And so I speak to God. I petition my case. I tell Him what weighs on my heart. I declare what I am trusting Him for. I command my morning — because yesterday is gone, and today is a new day.

I remind myself that God is not intimidated by my honesty.

Look at Hezekiah. The prophet came to him and told him plainly: “Set your house in order, because you will die.”

And what did Hezekiah do?

He didn’t argue with people.

He didn’t panic.

He didn’t accept it as final.

He turned his face to the wall… and he spoke to God.

He contended.

He petitioned.

He reminded God of his faithfulness.

And God responded — not with rebuke, but with mercy. God added fifteen more years to his life.

That tells me something:

If God can add years, He can add peace.

If God can extend life, He can extend provision.

If God can change a death sentence, He can surely shift circumstances, timelines, and outcomes.

My situation may not be life or death — but I still contend.

I contend for clarity.

I contend for peace of mind.

I contend for fruitfulness.

I contend for the work of my hands.

I contend for the silencing of the noise in my mind.

And this is what I want you to hear today:

You are allowed to contend with God.

You are allowed to lay your case before Him.

You are allowed to speak your mornings into alignment with His Word.

Wake up early if you can.

Find that quiet space.

Remove the distractions.

And speak — not fear, not doubt — but faith.

Declare that your days are good.

Decree that what you’ve placed before God will produce a beautiful outcome.

Trust that what you are building will end in testimony.

And let me say this gently but firmly:

If people don’t believe you…

If they don’t understand what you’re doing…

If they keep naysaying, judging, doubting — let them.

They are not your judges.

They are not your source.

They are not your God.

God is shaping you into a message.

He is turning your test into a testimony.

He is giving you the authority to declare your mornings into destiny.

Nothing and no one can derail what God has ordained — as long as you consult Him, follow His Word, and remain faithful.

Your prayers matter.

Your tears matter.

Your faith matters.

And there will be a testimony at the end.

Reminder 

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

— Philippians 4:6