“Life happens.” Have there been times when you made solid plans, very happy with yourself, so assured that you could beat your chest and shout, "I did it!"? Hmm, and then you are like, "I thought everything would be perfect, you know." At times, it takes us in directions we could never imagine.

In that moment, you say to yourself, "this one no follow at all; no bi so I take arrange am."

Sometimes, the real test of our faith is not whether we can wait for God, but what happens to our faith while we wait.

The taste of the food is in the bottom pot. (African Proverb) Delay brings out everything that would otherwise have stayed hidden.

What happens when the chips are down?

It's sort of painful when you find out that the journey you have been preparing for has been delayed, or you get to the venue of the party and nothing is happening. At that point, you might want to go back feeling disappointed, or you might decide to sit in a corner and sleep.

It has happened to me on several occasions when my flight was delayed or cancelled. It is normal in Nigeria. Two years ago we boarded a flight from Lagos to Anambra. After we wasted about five hours, the flight was cancelled entirely, and we boarded another airline. We eventually had to look for a hotel to rest our heads, and we continued the journey the next day. It was an awful experience because we had our children with us, and they were both less than two years old.

I have had several ugly experiences in the United States too.

You pray, at times; fast, at other times; stay awake throughout, thinking of the upcoming events, and suddenly, there is a delay. When that happens, you become so disheartened and disorganized.

My sister, oftentimes, midnight does not ring a bell; it just happens. It comes when we least expect it.

In the parable of the ten virgins, the bridegroom didn't show up at the appointed time. He tarried; hence, the ten virgins got tired and fell asleep.

And at midnight there was a cry made, Behold, the bridegroom cometh; go ye out to meet him. (Matthew 25:6)

Midnight!

Wetin make am no come for morning, when people don clean finish, ready to meet am? The oga no come for afternoon, when time dey to rearrange some kind things. Midnight! Na for midnight when people dey sleep, the man come arrive.

And suddenly, what each sister had prepared became meaningful.

There is a lot of interesting insight in this part of the parable. The wise virgins distinguished themselves, not because they knew when the bridegroom would arrive, but because they came prepared. Not for the future they could predict; no, they were ready for the delay.

Isn't that something huge?

We always prepare for every moment: the past, present, and future. We prepare for weddings, studies, a new job, travelling, and more; but we often prepare only for the things we expect, and for the day everything finally falls into place.

However, the waiting?

What happens to us when things don't come through as expected? When answers are faint and misunderstood? When the door stays locked no matter how hard we try? When the moment changes without our consent?

Do we still have oil?

Oil na wetin you build for private, so your light no go die for public. Na your own walk with God. Nobody fit lend am to you when midnight reach.

Most of the time, we feel we are so in charge, but maybe our faith is what will help us build a dependable plan that will enable us to reach our destination or goal.

A faith that can endure and wait. That beautiful kind of faith that will not let your light dim when the excitement is done and dusted.

My sister, you have to prepare, because we do not have the power to keep the schedule as we want it; moments can change when we least expect them.

You should always watch and pray.

When you know who you dey wait for, e no go hard you at all. You go even carry the matter for head dey waka up and down.

Abeg, make you shine your eye well well, put your ear for ground; make we no come dey find oil anyhow sake of say we no prepare, na mgbese bi dat o.

Midnight must come. Wetin you go do then?

Little Reflections, Lasting Lessons.

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My sister, let us pick up where we left off.

However, right now, let's move from the salon to the wedding banquet.

Only borrowing is involved now.

Somehow, people sabi borrow, especially ladies; we dey even borrow some kind things wey we no suppose share with another.

At times, it's your dress, your shoes, perfumes, body spray, your phone; at times, makeup; other times, wig.

"Abeg, can I borrow your earrings?"

"My sister, send me that recipe."

"Lend me 50k, I go pay you back."

We borrow things shaa; most times, we forget to return them, or when the owner comes it turns into an argument that ruins the relationship. I learnt to be content with whatever I have; I don't need to borrow oil from someone else, neither do you, though more often than not, it takes a friend to do that.

Nevertheless, there is something precious that you cannot ask for anyhow, especially when you discover you need it urgently. That it is very urgent does not make it important or a must-have; this is where we go wrong: we eye that which belongs to someone else, maybe a friend or neighbor.

Oil.

Reflect on the story of the ten virgins.

Five were wise and five were foolish.

Each person had her lamps.

Dressed well, came to the feast, ready for the bridegroom.

They became exhausted and gradually dozed off.

At that moment they were together, no show-off; they were waiting; they had the same purpose, as well as motive: the bridegroom.

The moment the midnight cry came that the bridegroom was coming, sleep simply went away because their reason had arrived.

And unexpectedly, the unfortunate thing happened: the foolish virgins discovered something.

Their lamps were going out.

They were left with one option; so, they turned to the wise virgins. It must have been an uncomfortable moment.

"Give us some of your oil," they said.

If this had happened at today's wedding party, I can almost hear the conversation.

"Abeg, give me a little oil naa?"

"The one wey go carry us through this night."

"After all, we dey go the same place."

"My sister, I take God beg you."

Honestly, the wise virgins did nothing wrong; at that time they couldn't give. They simply could not give what was needed.

It wasn't wickedness, nor was it lack of love; it was simply because they had come prepared for themselves; there was none to spare.

And abruptly, something struck me.

There are some things friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, and more can help you with; however, they cannot do for you what you can do for yourself.

I like the fact that someone can pray with you; her faith can inspire you; but you need faith of your own; another's testimony can strengthen you, but you have to work out your salvation; you need your own relationship with God; someone else's oil cannot keep your lamp burning.

For everyone who supports us in difficult moments, we show our gratitude.

We are fortunate to have them in our lives.

We need one another.

You aspire to be like someone; you learned the pattern, the devotional, his or her church outfit style; you definitely cannot borrow their walk with God.

Oftentimes, I wonder whether we have become too comfortable living on borrowed oil.

When we don't spend enough time building our lives, we end up trying to be the next person.

Then life happens.

The person we leaned on becomes inaccessible.

The season shifts.

The answers take a while to come.

The prayer takes longer than anticipated.

And again, we realize that we have been pushing to light our lamp with somebody else's oil.

My sister, that will not work.

Scripture teaches us to bear one another's burdens, and it is a beautiful thing.

But there is a big difference between standing supported and being spiritually dependent on someone else.

One allows you to stand.

The other stops you from learning to stand on your own.

And possibly that is one of the reserved lessons concealed in this parable.

The wise virgins could not hand over their preparation.

The oil, the lamps, the readiness, the season were theirs; they were sure of it because it was theirs.

"My girl, what is yours?"

Not something borrowed; something earned and worthwhile.

What is truly yours?

What have you been slowly building that no one else is seeing?

Life will have its midnight moments; if they are long, I hope we won't discover we have been carrying empty lamps.

So, my sister, you can borrow anything else; but when it comes to the things that keep your soul alive…

Don't live on borrowed oil.

Build your own, little by little, step by step, precept upon precept, here a little, there a little. When it is accomplished, one day, you will look at your lamp and realize:

There is oil here.

And when midnight comes…

I will not be found perplexed and unprepared.

Little Reflections, Lasting Lessons.

This is the first in a little series on the five wise and five foolish virgins, and on getting ready for the things that matter most.

Sometimes, we are so busy getting ready for the occasion that we forget to prepare ourselves.

A friend was preparing to attend a four-day old-school reunion. You know how these things can be. You want to look good, meet old friends, take pictures, and show up looking like time has been kind to you.

Two days before the trip, she went to get her long, full braids done.

By 6 p.m., the woman making her hair said she needed to go home to her children and husband. But the hair was nowhere near finished. Somehow, the work continued into the early hours of the morning.

My friend finally left the salon at about 2:30 a.m. And guess what? She refused to let her husband come and pick her up. She walked quite a distance before finding a cab, and the fare was about six times what she would normally pay.

Imagine o!

After a very short rest, she returned to the salon, hoping to get the hair finished. But the people who were supposed to do it were resting!

Her bags were not packed. Things at home were not properly arranged. And by the time she got to the reunion, she looked exhausted throughout the event.

I laughed, honestly. After I stopped laughing and tearing up, the real thought came.

Was she prepared for the reunion, or was she only preparing to look prepared?

Then I remembered myself.

Sunday morning can be a whole drama in my house. Getting everyone ready for church, checking this and that, making sure nobody has forgotten anything. And just when I think we are ready to leave, I look at myself.

My dress is half rumpled. My hair needs attention. My shoes are not what I planned to wear.

And there I am, trying to fix everything at once, wondering how everybody is ready except me!

I think we do the same thing in bigger ways. We prepare for meetings, weddings, reunions, birthdays, and all the important events on our calendars. We prepare our children, our homes, our clothes, and even the pictures we hope to take.

But what about the person we are taking into all these places?

What about our peace? Our faith?

This brings me to the parable of the ten virgins in Matthew 25. Five were wise, and five were foolish. They all had lamps, and they all waited for the bridegroom. But the wise ones took extra oil with them, while the foolish ones did not.

When the bridegroom delayed, they all became sleepy and slept. But when the call came, the difference became clear. Some had oil; others were not prepared.

I keep thinking about that extra oil.

It reminds me that there are things we cannot borrow at the last minute. We cannot always wait until the moment of need before we begin to build our faith, seek God, make room for peace, or strengthen our relationship with Him.

Goodness knows, I am still learning! But the oil is the part nobody sees, so it is the easiest part to ignore.

So, my sister, the next time you are rushing to get everything ready, pause for a moment and ask yourself:

Girl, where is your oil?

May we never forget to care for ourselves, not just the outfit.

Sister, have you ever been so busy getting everyone or everything ready that you forgot yourself? Tell me about it. I have a feeling I am not alone!

“Watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh.” — Matthew 25:13 🕊️

I thought about what has kept me together all these years. I sat alone on the balcony, counting my days as a child, the little child who fell in love with something powerful that I could not do without.

It is not something I do when I remember. It is my everyday must-do.

So many things in life will never make sense unless we invite God into them. In those quiet moments, something in me has to accept it: you do not own your life. It does not belong to you. Everything about you belongs to the Maker and Giver of life.

There are certain things you cannot compromise on, especially the things that keep you going every day. The best communication I had every morning and evening while growing up in a Christian home, attending seminary school, and focusing on Jesus Christ automatically became what I live for, what I die for, and the greatest thing I learned to do.

He is my every day.

I don't just call on Him when trouble comes. I seek His face all the time, and He has always answered my prayers according to His will.

I : Like most Christian homes, I was raised by godly parents who taught my siblings and me how to kneel by our bedside at night to thank God for the day, the night, the moon, the stars, the rain, the sunshine, food, water, shelter, clothing, our parents, grandparents, and every member of the family. We prayed for our going out and our coming in—that is how it would always come out. In fact, the list was endless.

Where I came from, family members lived together. We often had family devotions and said our prayers at sunrise and sunset.

We normally woke up by 5 a.m., freshened up, and rushed off to partake in morning devotion, where we would be singing, clapping, dancing, and nodding our heads. When it was your turn to read the scripture and explain it, sometimes sleep would take over, and whoever was sitting next to you would keep pinching you and trying to wake you up.

It was funny then, but I thank God all those things happened because they became the foundation of everything good and lovely. They helped raise children who were not afraid to love God.

Another thing I learned was how to pray for others. We also fasted and prayed for family, friends, distant relatives, and even those in the village.

In Nigeria, many homes were like that because we believed that serving God, praying every day, and studying the scriptures sincerely and earnestly would bring good fortune and goodwill into the home. We believed it would also help inculcate good values in the children.

Then we would attend catechism classes, Bible study classes, Brigade, and youth camps during holidays. In those moments, we were taught to master the scriptures and take part in quizzes where we could win prizes for topping our children's group.

I learned to pray for my country—to commit the leaders into God's hands and ask God to bring the right leaders who would bring change in a regime that was not working, for the betterment of the people.

Even though many bad things were happening, we had faith in God and knew that Jesus Christ would continue to give hope, peace, and love to the lives of those who worship Him in spirit and in truth.

I actually knew that prayer was essential. Someone has to pray, right?

I honestly enjoyed those days, not because they were the best, but because I appreciated what we had then compared to what we have now. Maybe it was the family values. There was a lot of “decency” back then.

Letting the Lord prevail in all I do became part of me. Those years of constantly praying might not have seemed like much at the time, but they shaped all I could and could not do today.

II : My love for Jesus Christ grew while I was in secondary school. Many scary moments happened—going to the stream to fetch water, falling from the top of a hill and being held by a small stick, eating food that troubled my stomach, and visiting the clinic often because of health challenges.

Looking back, I saw His hands in those moments because He is my advocate with the Father, my Redeemer, my light, and the reason why I am still standing, no matter what the circumstance may be.

He was, He is, and will always be there for me.

I would rather keep my heart and eyes on Jesus Christ than allow the distractions of the evil one to take my focus away, because where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. I know the evil one has his own offers, and some of them look like riches. But I have seen what they leave behind, an empty soul. I only want the true one.

My love for Him keeps growing by the day.

Some days are bumpy, at times dusty, sometimes muddy, and at times very dangerous, so that you become so confused about what to do that you may be unable to understand a thing.

Other times, it is so rosy and sweet, less noisy and chaotic. Those are the days when everything seems fine and goes well, the days you don't stop thanking God for His love, mercies, and grace.

Still, you thank Him for good times and bad times, for yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the future.

These days, when it is hard to navigate life, I go on my knees to pray. I ask for His abundant love and divine help in figuring out the best way to handle whatever I am facing.

I ask for forgiveness for my weaknesses and the harsh words I may have used during the day. I pray for the strength to remove the natural man in me and focus on following the Lord's pattern.

I have never been left on my own. The Holy Ghost has comforted me, taught me, and brought things back to my remembrance, sometimes when I least expected it.

There are times I feel stressed, exhausted, or "spiritually imbalanced," if such a thing exists. But those are some of the best times to talk to God. I pour out my heart, and He listens. He does not let me go. He would rather walk with me through it all.

III : I was busy throughout the day with household chores, taking care of my children, helping them with their homework, doing some of my own work, attending my virtual class, and handling other things. I was so exhausted that I couldn't participate actively during night devotion. I literally dozed off.

But something in me asked me to say a little prayer before I slept.

Hmmm.

I couldn't do that. I was too tired.

Then, at midnight, I had a weird, scary dream. I was in my village, and a lot of people were there, but I did not recognize any of their faces. They were fighting me, and just as they were about to stab me, I landed on the floor. I screamed, jumped up, and dropped both knees on the floor at once. I was sweating profusely and panting. My whole body ached throughout that day.

I first asked God for forgiveness for not listening to the still, small voice that spoke to me earlier. Then I asked Him for the strength to fight my battles and more.

My fears were gone because I had spoken to the One who fixes every situation and keeps it under control.

Our trials and temptations seem to be endless, but those are often the moments when my deepest revelations come.

Several times, God has shown me the solution to a problem before I even asked. One of those times involved my little daughter. She had a stomach upset, and the solution had been given to me two days earlier, but I ignored the message until it became severe. Before then, the doctor had asked me to take her home and give her a lot of water, saying there was nothing she could do because she was a baby. She suffered for six days before I went back to the message I had received. Then I fasted and prayed, I followed the still, small voice, and my daughter was healed.

What pained me most was knowing I had been told what to do and did not act on it. But it was a complete miracle to me, and it deepened my faith in Jesus Christ.

I have had moments when He asked me to wait. I struggled a bit, but later I understood that it was for my own good.

I had one where He was preparing me.

"This moment is not for you. Listen, my daughter. Your time will come."

I had no other choice than to listen and wait. It is the Lord. You have nowhere to run to but to stay.

Prayer is the only thing that can put my mind at rest. It reassures me of my Heavenly Father's promises and love through His Son, that He will not leave nor forsake me. He has sent His angels to watch over me and the Holy Spirit to abide with me.

In my extreme moments, I gently close my eyes and invite Him to come and walk with me.

No moment has He abandoned me.

All He asks is that I have faith in Him and put all my trust in Him.

This is the promise I hold on to:

Matthew 7:7–8

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:

For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened."

That is why I pray anyhow and anywhere.

There is no timetable when it comes to praying to God. He is always willing to hear me call.

"Dear Heavenly Father…"

I thank Him for blessings, mercies, and grace. I pray for personal and family needs, for wisdom and understanding, and I also pray for the welfare of others. I ask Him to forgive my sins and imperfections. Then, I close in the name of Jesus Christ.

Amen.

I know you have your own way of praying. It's okay.

God hears you. He listens and is ever willing to pat you on the back, promising to walk with you.

This is my best way to communicate with my loving Father in Heaven.

IV : When I look back today, I realize that prayer is not just what my parents taught me. It is the thread that binds everything together.

It held the young girl who knelt beside her bed.

It held the girl who prayed through uncertainty.

It held the sister who didn't always have the answers.

And it holds the woman I am today.

I have learned that I don't have to understand everything to trust God, and I don't have to be sure about tomorrow before I can kneel and pray.

So, in the morning, in the middle of the day, and at night, I will pray—in the kitchen, in my closet, in the car, in the bathroom, in the garden, whenever the need arises, especially in my quiet moments, and in those moments when all I can say to my Heavenly Father is:

Thank You.

She loved him.

He had proposed.

And still, she didn't know if she could say yes.

Her mother died when she was very young, and her father went away. She grew up raising her younger siblings and holding the home together, responsible long before she ever had the chance to be a child.

When she began to talk, her words came out like a silent whisper. She stared straight ahead while the tears simply fell. She wasn't blinking. It was as though every year she had kept bottled up had finally found its way out. I felt her pain, and I felt the heaviness in her eyes. Somewhere in that conversation I started sobbing without even knowing it. I handed her a napkin to wipe her tears, but she wasn't seeing me. She was somewhere back in those years.

One sentence she kept repeating: "I walked it alone, and I will finish it alone."

I held her hands and told her, "You didn't walk alone. God walked with you."

I could see what she couldn't yet. She had survived things that could have broken her, and she was still here. I told her she never gave up. Not then, and she wouldn't now. Life had taught her a lot, and she had endured more than most people would ever know. But in those moments, with the Lord's support, she made it this far.

And I reminded her that God loved her enough to preserve her through all those years. Maybe He kept her so that one day her story would strengthen another woman who needs to know she can keep going too.

Sometimes we don't recognize God's help while we are in the middle of the storm. We are just trying to survive the day. It is only later, looking back, that we see the little things that carried us: the people He placed in our path, the strength that showed up each morning, the angels He sent to guard us.

Then she told me about the proposal. Love wasn't the problem. She was afraid.

"I don't want to be controlled. I don't want to lose myself. I don't want to be owned. I just want to be free."

I understood. When you have watched people leave, trusting someone to stay is frightening. When you have had to grow up too fast, depending on another person can feel like giving away the little control you fought so hard for.

She was also afraid of having children. Not because she didn't want them, but because of what could happen to them. If life took her away, who would raise them? Would their father stay? Would they know the love of a good father and a good mother? She had lost her childhood once, and she didn't want her children to lose theirs.

Then she said something that touched me deeply: "I want my siblings settled in every way. I want them to aim and touch the skies before I can think of settling down."

Still holding her hands, I said, "They are all grown now. Allow them to find their way. They would want to see you settled, to see things, visit places, dream dreams, hold your own children. Do whatever you want to do."

She was happy to hear it. But would she accept it? The storms we face can thwart our fate and strangle our lives. They can drain the blood from our veins until we begin to doubt our own existence. And someone who has lived in survival for so long doesn't easily believe she is allowed to stop.

I told her that her parents' story cannot become every other person's story. What happened in her home shaped her, but it doesn't mean her marriage must follow the same road. The man she marries is not her father. And her children, if God blesses her with them, will have their own lives too.

Marriage should never be a place where she disappears. It should be a covenant, two people choosing to make room for each other. Scripture says:

"A man shall leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh."

I have always loved that word, cleave. There is something beautiful about choosing to hold on, not because you are trapped, but because you have chosen each other.

I also told her not to rush. This is a decision worth taking to God. Pray. Fast. Ask questions. Seek counsel.

Then we came back to what frightened her most: tomorrow. We want a guarantee that the person will stay, that the children will be safe, that nothing will take away what we've built. But we don't steer the whole ship. We can make the right choices, prepare, pray, and do our part. Tomorrow still belongs to God. So we move one step at a time, line upon line, precept upon precept, and we don't have to know everything before we take the next step.

She is an extraordinary person. She had taken care of her younger ones from a very young age, and there was something exceptional about her. The moment I spoke sense into her, her tears just dried up, and a fierce look came over her face. I kept wondering how much strength she possessed, the kind that gave her leverage over girls her age.

I don't know what she will decide. That decision belongs to her and to God. I only wonder: will that strength carry her through marriage, or will it leave her in a hard place? I pray for her that God perfects all concerning her. I pray that what we spoke about stays with her and molds her into making the best decision for her life.

And I hope she remembers this: her past can explain some of her fears, but it doesn't have to decide her future. The little girl who grew up too soon does not have to spend her life protecting the woman she has become from every possibility of pain.

She can live, love, and hope.

She is a beautiful young lady, and I wish her all the best in life.

A quiet thought for you

Maybe something in your past has made you afraid of what tomorrow might bring. Maybe you keep expecting an old story to repeat itself.

Your past is part of your story, but it is not the whole of it. God has been with you in places you thought you walked alone, and He is with you now.

You may not know what tomorrow holds. But you know who holds tomorrow.

And yet, beyond all of this, I find myself reflecting on God.

Oftentimes, I pause and wonder about the kind of God who created such a world — so real, so intentional, and so beautiful.

I know Him as my Father in Heaven. His love is greater than any love I have known on earth, and I have tried, in my own way, to become the daughter He wants me to be.

But this journey has also taught me something about being a daughter.

For a long time, I thought being a good daughter meant getting things right. Being the good girl. Making the right choices. Not disappointing the people who loved me.

But I have learned that being loved does not mean being perfect.

I was nine years old when I took those coins from my mother. It was a small thing, but I carried it for thirty years. My sister was blamed for something she did not do, and I said nothing.

Thirty years is a long time to carry something.

When I finally told my sister, I was afraid of what she would say. She was angry. She screamed. Then somehow, we laughed.

And she forgave me.

Looking back now, I see God’s hand in that moment.

I had spent so many years thinking about the mistake I made, the secret I kept, and the guilt I carried. But God knew the whole story. He knew what happened when I was nine. He knew why I was afraid. He knew the things I could not say.

And still, He loved me.

God is wonderful.

He sent His Only Begotten Son, Jesus Christ, to take away our fears, our troubles, our anxieties, and our sins. He has given me the opportunity to repent, to make things right, and to begin again.

Even when I took thirty years to find the courage.

I love Him, and I never want to take His grace and His mercies for granted.

Jesus Christ is my light. He is the Rock of my salvation. He helps me become better every day.

Sometimes I wonder how God can know so much about me and still love me so completely.

He knows the parts of me that nobody else sees.

He knows the mistakes.

He knows the regrets.

He knows the things I wish I had done differently.

And He still calls me His daughter.

That means something to me.

Maybe this is one of the things I have learned along the way:

Sometimes we spend so much of our lives trying to be the woman everyone can be proud of that we forget to become the woman God is forming.

I am still becoming.

I am still learning.

And I know now that I do not have to pretend I have always gotten everything right.

My parents are gone. My sister is gone. But the lessons remain.

And God remains.

When I think about everything He has given me, I still find myself asking:

Who am I that God loves me this much?

I don’t have a perfect answer.

All I can say is thank you.

Thank you, God.

For Your mercy.

For Your forgiveness.

For giving me the courage to tell the truth.

For the people who loved me when I was still learning how to love well.

And for giving me the chance to keep becoming.

One lesson at a time.

People are blamed for things they didn’t do more often than we like to admit. Somewhere right now, someone is sitting in a cell for a crime they didn’t commit, because nobody spoke up in time — and I don’t say that lightly, knowing what my own thirty years of silence cost, even on the small scale of a schoolyard and a pouch of coins. We have to do better raising children who tell the truth. Not children who are simply well-behaved. Children who are honest, even when honesty costs them something.

Watching my sister carry a consequence that was mine has never fully left me. My mother couldn’t see into that pouch of coins that day, but I think of her often now — a woman who “looketh well to the ways of her household” (Proverbs 31:27) — and I believe that kind of watching goes deeper than what the eye can see. She was still forming us, still shaping us, even in the moments she was helpless to get the truth out of any of us. Mothers carry a kind of discernment the world rarely gives them credit for. They sense what’s wrong in a room before anyone says a word. They hold a family together through what’s said and unsaid — even when their own hands are tied.

That is not a small strength. That is one of the strongest kinds there is.

I think about correction differently now than I did as a girl standing guilty in a schoolyard.

“He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes” (Proverbs 13:24). I used to hear that as sternness. Now I hear it as risk — the risk a parent takes when they choose to correct instead of look away. My mother could have let it go. She suspected it was me, but even suspecting, she still pursued the truth in her household, because love does not shrug at what’s wrong. It leans in — even when leaning in is hard, even when someone else in the house makes leaning in dangerous.

“Ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord” (Ephesians 6:4). This is the part I think we get wrong most often — correction that crushes instead of teaches, and correction that lands on the wrong child entirely because the right one was protected from ever being questioned. My sister was corrected for something she didn’t do, and I have wondered, all these years later, whether the sting of that unfairness ever left her the way it never quite left me. Correction has to build a person up even while it addresses what went wrong — and it has to be aimed at the right person, which means every child in the house has to be equally allowed to be wrong.

“Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it” (Proverbs 22:6). I don’t think I was ever sat down and taught, plainly, what to do with guilt once I already had it. I knew stealing was wrong. Nobody had shown me how to walk it back — how to tell the truth even when the truth was ugly and had my name on it. That’s a gap I didn’t know I was carrying until I had carried it for thirty years.

“For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth… nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness” (Hebrews 12:6, 11). I understand this now in a way I couldn’t have as a child. The chastening was never really about the coins. It was about the years I spent not saying anything — and the peace that finally came, thirty years later, in one conversation with my sister, when I laid it all down. The fruit came late. But it came.

“If a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual, restore such an one in the spirit of meekness” (Galatians 6:1). This is what I wish someone had done for my sister as a child — not accused her outright, but restored the truth gently, by simply asking, by giving her room to speak. I think this is what love does even when it doesn’t have a name for itself yet. It listens before it corrects.

“A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger” (Proverbs 15:1). My mother never knew for certain it was me. I sometimes wonder what her face would have done if I’d told her. I believe, knowing her, it would have softened rather than hardened. I just never gave her the chance — and my father never gave her the room.

“For God shall bring every work into judgment” (Ecclesiastes 12:14). Nothing stays hidden. Not a coin. Not thirty years of silence. Not the ache of watching someone else carry what was mine.

But judgment was never the point — mercy was always available, the whole time, waiting for me to walk toward it.

So if there is anything I would want every parent — every mother especially — to sit with, it isn’t a rule. It’s simply this: give your children room to speak before you decide what happened. Don’t let one child become untouchable while another becomes the default answer. Teach them what honesty costs, and teach them what it’s worth. Stay calm before you correct. Make room for repentance, not just punishment. And no matter what — let the child walk away still knowing they are loved.

I didn’t get all of that as a child. I got some of it. I have spent a long time learning the rest of it on my own, the slow way.

I made a quiet promise to myself somewhere in all of this: if I ever had the chance to love children, I would love them the same. No favorites. No one carrying what isn’t theirs.

All those years I couldn’t let go, couldn’t forgive myself — those were some of the most awful I’ve ever known. Seeing my sister, I always felt like I owed her something I could never quite name, and I would have done anything to take her troubles away. I was there for her during her last days. I sat by her, I helped where I could, I loved her the way a sister should. But being there wasn’t enough. It didn’t erase what I had felt — not in the past, and not even in the present — until I finally said the words that had been sitting in me for thirty years.

I sat with her and I said it — finally, plainly — and she screamed, and then she laughed, and I asked her to forgive me. She did.

Not long after, she passed away. I never got to tell my parents. They are both gone now too.

The sister I wronged as a nine-year-old is the same sister who forgave me thirty years later, at thirty-eight, near the end of her life. I have held onto that ever since — not just as a memory, but as a mercy I almost missed the chance to receive.

There is a miracle that happens when you ask for forgiveness, and a second miracle that happens when you receive it.

Being forgiven is one of the best gifts a person can be given — it clears your conscience, it gives you room to breathe again, it makes you feel worthy of God’s love, over and over, no matter how many times you’ve doubted it. Oftentimes we think we’ve only hurt others, when really, we’re the ones carrying the heavier pain. We think forgiving ourselves is enough, or that asking the person is enough, or that asking God is enough — but until we’ve done all three, honestly, we’re still roaming around with a burden that eats at us slowly, quietly, for years if we let it. And believe me, it takes real courage to ask someone for forgiveness. It is one of the hardest sentences a mouth can form. But while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us (Romans 5:8). He knows us. He knows our hearts. He knows exactly when our pain has grown deep enough to finally bring us to Him. I know that God loves me so much — He cares for me, and He is always willing to forgive me so I can keep moving forward in life.

These days, when I remember this whole episode, I laugh and cry at the same time. I laugh at the nine-year-old version of me who thought a coin could be returned quietly, no questions asked. I cry for my sister, who carried something that was never hers, and who forgave me anyway, with her whole heart, near the end of her own. But mostly, I thank God that I was able to rise above the pain and grief that was, for a long time, quietly destroying me from the inside.

I pray that the soul of my sister keeps resting in the blossom of the Lord.

There was a time I dreamed of becoming someone others would look up to — someone they would talk about and use as a reference for their children. I wanted to be everything that success looked like, so I could create a beautiful beginning and pass on a life filled with good energy and possibility to my children and future generations.

I came to understand early that being intelligent or brilliant was not enough. One needed to be smart, hardworking, and intentional to truly succeed. The right friends, the right energy, the right mindset — these were just as important as academic ability. In many ways, I had those things. Being in good schools helped, but it was never everything.

People often wanted me on their team. To them, I was intelligent, brave, and always ready with answers that would win and bring home the prize. It felt fulfilling — being seen that way. At times, I was even viewed as different, almost untouchable, because I wasn’t always around. Boarding school kept me far from home, and that distance created a kind of image — one that seemed polished and admirable.

People respected me, almost as if I had everything it took to be the “perfect girl.” But how I wish perfection were real. There is something sobering about realizing you are not who people think you are. You are human. You can make mistakes. You can get things wrong.

Sometimes, it is not failure that weighs you down, but people’s perception of you. They place you so high that you begin to believe it — you begin to see yourself as the best, the center, the one who must always get it right. But that kind of expectation can quietly become a burden.

But long before anyone else’s idea of me existed, there was a love that didn’t need me to pass.

At home, I was deeply loved. Being one of the most cherished children meant I could sometimes pass through situations without correction — and I remember exactly what that cost.

I was nine years old. My mother would drop my younger siblings and me off every morning, and every morning she’d tuck a little pouch of coins into the car — enough to fill her tank on the way home, with change to spare. Nigeria was good like that then, honestly — one mobo, five kobo could carry you far. She always packed us more than enough anyway — biscuits, juice, water, the works — but some children came to school with just a coin or two of their own to buy roadside snacks, and something in me wanted that little bit of independence too. So one morning, I took a little from her coins.

I want to laugh now when I think about what happened next, because it is almost comedy — except it wasn’t, not then. I got to school with my stolen coin and couldn’t spend a single kobo of it. Guilt sat on my chest the whole day like a stone. I remember telling myself, very seriously, for a nine-year-old, I will put it back before anyone knows. As if coins whisper where they’ve been.

On the way home, my mother reached for her coins to buy fuel, and they didn’t add up. She asked. I said nothing. We got home, and she asked all of us again — and still, I said nothing.

Here’s what I understand now, as a grown woman, that I couldn’t have understood then: I think my mother knew. Or at least suspected. But she couldn’t come at me directly — because if she scolded me, I would run straight to my father, and my father frowned at anyone who dared point a finger at me. He’d fold his arms around whatever I’d done wrong before the sentence was even finished. So my mother, who probably felt it in her bones, was helpless in her own house that day. She couldn’t chase the truth all the way to where it lived, because the truth lived behind a door my father guarded.

My younger sister was the one who was corrected for it instead. Not me. Because I was the trusted one — the one who wasn’t supposed to need correcting, and the one nobody could safely accuse. Nobody sat her down and asked, did you do this, tell me the truth. She was simply assumed guilty, because I was assumed untouchable. If she had been given room to speak — really speak — maybe the truth would have found its way out that same day, instead of thirty years later.

I carried that silence for thirty years. Nine years old when it happened. Thirty-nine when I finally spoke.

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TAGS: Faith, Motherhood, Christian Womanhood, Becoming, Family Story

There are women who preach the gospel. And there are women who become the gospel.

My grandmother was the second kind.

Her name was Hannah. Methodist to her core, soft-spoken, widowed too early, diabetic, hypertensive. Life had not been kind to her body. She lost her husband young and raised her children alone—before the war, during the war, and after the war. Grief settled into her bones and turned into sickness. By the time her children were grown and finally caring for her, she had the right to sit down and rest.

But Hannah never learned how to close her door.

The Morning the Yard Gathered

She owned a building in our township. It was spacious. The main house in front was for family, and the backyard was lined with rooms for about ten tenants. It was always lively, always noisy.

One morning, the noise changed. It turned into chaos.

Tenants rushed out of their rooms. Neighbors poured out from the street. Passersby stopped and crowded around our gate to watch like it was a movie scene.

In front of the house was a carton. A cardboard box soaked by rain, soft, collapsing, almost melting into the ground. Inside it was a baby—a boy—about three weeks old.

He was wrapped in a dirty cloth soaked in blood. Smelly. Extremely filthy. He was not crying loudly—he was too weak to cry. He was hungry, malnourished, and so sick that you could see his bones through his skin.

The whole yard was in chaos. People tried to find out if any girl from the neighborhood had done this. Some were afraid to touch the baby because of how he looked and how dirty he was. Some stood at a distance, cursing the woman who dumped him. It was a terrible, awful scene for those who witnessed it.

People kept asking, where did she stay all this time? No medicine. No food for the baby. The mother must have been sick after giving birth.

Everyone was watching.

Then my grandmother came out from her main house.

She didn’t cover her nose. She didn’t ask who did it. She bent down and picked up the baby that everyone else was only watching.

The Woman Who Nursed Without Milk

That baby should not have survived.

He refused to eat. He refused to drink water. His tiny body had learned to reject the very things that could save him. And my grandmother had no milk to feed him. How could she? She was an old woman managing pain, diabetes, and high blood pressure from years of loss.

But Hannah had something stronger than milk.

She had motherhood without biology.

She washed him. She threw away that blood-stained cloth. She prayed over him. She fed him drop by drop, day by day, as if she was breathing life back into him. She gave him his name. To name a child is to claim him. It’s to tell heaven and earth, "You belong somewhere now."

And while she washed and prayed, something else happened in the same yard that had been full of curses that morning.

Very good people began to run. Some went to the market to buy clothes and other baby needs. Others went into their own homes and brought what they had. By evening, they had gathered a lot for the baby. The same ground that was filled with anger in the morning was full of generosity by night.

Because of that terrible start, his body was slow. He didn’t walk until he was over three years old. Every milestone was a miracle we waited for. But Hannah never hurried him. She mothered him at the pace his body could handle, not at the pace the world expected.

I often think of her now as the honey bee. She didn’t wait for a hive—she made one. From her own body, from her own pain, she made honey for a child who was not hers.

The Bible calls this pure religion.

"Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress." James 1:27

Hannah lived that verse long before I could quote it.

The Day She Let Go

He was about five when she came.

A woman walked into the same yard where a rain-soaked carton had been left five years earlier. She said she was his mother. She claimed she was the one who had dumped him on that rainy day.

The resemblance was clear. You could see the boy in her face.

The yard gathered again. But this time the scene was anger. People wanted to call the police. How could someone leave a newborn, malnourished, bloodied, and wet, for an old woman to find? How could she come back after five years?

My grandmother would not allow it.

She looked at the woman. She looked at the boy. She felt in her heart that the woman was telling the truth.

Then she did something I didn’t understand for many years.

She went inside. She brought out the baby’s belongings—the clothes bought that first day, the little shoes he had outgrown, everything she had gathered—and she gave it all to the woman. Then she handed the boy back to her.

I was stunned. How could you pour five years of sleepless nights, prayer, and love into a child and then just let him go?

Now I understand.

Hannah was not raising him to own him. She was raising him so he could live.

That’s love at its highest. That was not just kindness. That was sacrifice. That was service. That was acting and being like Christ.

For years I thought love meant holding tight. Hannah taught me that some love holds tight, and some love lifts up, repairs, and sets free.

She had done this before in other ways, but this was different. To rescue a newborn left to die, nurse him back to health, and then give him back—that takes a special kind of woman.

Her sacrifice, her service, her kindness, her perseverance, her tolerance, her honesty, her courage—all the qualities of a good Christian woman shone in her. Until her death, she kept sacrificing and caring for others.

Becoming a Hive

There is a verse that has become Hannah’s verse for me:

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands." Isaiah 49:15-16

Hannah lived as if she were engraved on God’s palm, so she couldn’t help but carve others on hers.

To become a woman is not just to achieve. It is to become a hive—a place where the abandoned find honey, where the broken find healing, where even strangers can become like family.

My grandmother did not become a queen by demanding a throne. She became one by becoming a refuge.

That is the woman I admired. That is Hannah. My grandmother, the angel in our township yard.

And by God’s grace, I am still becoming her.

A prayer for you reading this:

Father, make me a Hannah in my generation. Give me eyes that see the carton in the rain, hands unafraid to carry what others only watch, and a brave heart to let go of what I love for Your glory. Make my life pure religion.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

If this story moved you, would you share it with one woman who needs to remember that her pain does not disqualify her from being used?

I write weekly devotionals about women becoming—healers, builders, hives, and more, in a world that often throws away.

Subscribe to get the next story in your inbox.

With love,

Iz

If Part 1 asked: What is behind the habit?

Part 2 asks: What makes up the whole woman?

A woman is more than her body.

She is also her thoughts.

Her emotions.

Her relationships.

Her environment.

Her sense of purpose.

We say we know this, but many of us don’t live like it.

We have learned to weigh and measure and monitor the body, while the rest of us goes untended. We apologize for our tears but not for skipping a meal. We push through exhaustion but feel guilty for needing quiet. We pray for God to fix our bodies while quietly carrying a heart that has not had a moment to breathe.

But God has never seen you in pieces.

He saw you whole when He formed you. Whole when He called you. Whole when you felt too tired, too tender, too much, and not enough — all in the same day.

“Thou hast searched me, and known me.” Psalm 139:1. Not the edited version. The whole woman.

She Is Her Thoughts

There is a conversation happening inside every woman that no one else hears.

What you say to yourself when you are late again. When the house is not together. When you compare your life to another woman’s and wonder why yours feels heavier.

Many women are exhausted not just from what they do, but from what they constantly think about what they do.

We rehearse old failures. We anticipate what might go wrong. We try to hold everything together in our minds because we are afraid of what will happen if we don’t.

But Scripture says, “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee.” Isaiah 26:3.

Peace was never promised to the woman who thinks perfectly. Peace was promised to the woman whose mind has somewhere safe to rest.

Some of our healing will not come from doing more, but from letting God renew how we think. Not harsh thoughts about ourselves, but honest, gentle, true ones.

What would change if the voice you heard most often inside your own head sounded more like God’s voice towards you?

She Is Her Emotions

Women feel. Deeply.

We feel for our families, our homes, our work, our future. We feel what is said and what is left unsaid. Sometimes we feel everything at once and don’t know where to put it all.

So we tuck it away. We say, “I’m fine.” We keep serving. We keep showing up. Because many of us learned early that strong women don’t cry too long.

But Jesus never called strong women unfeeling women.

He wept at a grave. He was moved with compassion. He sat with women in their grief and did not rush them to be okay.

Your tears are not a sign that your faith is weak. They are often a sign that your heart is still soft enough to feel what matters.

“The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.” Psalm 34:18. Not disappointed in them. Near to them.

You don’t have to explain your emotions away. You can bring them to Him. All of them.

She Is Her Relationships

A woman becomes who she is in the presence of others.

No woman becomes whole alone. We are shaped by who we confide in, who we laugh with, who we feel safe enough to tell the truth to.

Some relationships make you feel like you have to perform to be loved. Others feel like rest. Some leave you questioning yourself. Others remind you who you are in God.

We don’t often think of this as part of wellness, but God does. He put us in families, in friendships, in community for a reason.

“Two are better than one.” Ecclesiastes 4:9. Not because one is weak, but because we were never meant to carry life alone.

Who knows the real you right now? Who can you call when you are not strong?

God often does His healing work through people. Not perfect people — present people.

She Is Her Environment

Look around you.

Not just your room. Your rhythm. What you see first in the morning. What you hear all day. What you scroll through before you sleep.

A woman who lives in constant hurry, constant noise, constant comparison will struggle to feel at peace no matter how much she prays for peace. Not because her prayers are not working, but because her soil is tired.

Even Jesus withdrew. “And in the morning, rising up a great while before day, he went out, and departed into a solitary place, and there prayed.” Mark 1:35.

He didn’t wait until He was empty. He made space before He needed it.

You don’t need a more perfect life to have a more peaceful environment. You need small, faithful choices that protect your soul. A table that feels calm. A morning that starts with God before it starts with people. A phone that doesn’t sit on your pillow.

Sometimes holiness looks like rearranging what surrounds you so that what is inside you can finally breathe.

She Is Her Sense of Purpose

At some point, every woman quietly asks: Is this it? Is what I’m doing with my days actually meaningful?

We can care for everyone else and still feel invisible. We can be busy and still feel unfulfilled. Because purpose isn’t about being busy. It’s about knowing that your life is not an accident.

You are not just keeping things going. You are building something that God sees.

“For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them.” Ephesians 2:10.

Workmanship. That word means masterpiece. Crafted. Intentional. Not mass-produced. Not forgotten.

You were created on purpose, for purpose, before you ever tried to earn it.

Purpose doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like raising children who know they are loved. Like serving faithfully where no one claps. Like becoming the kind of woman whose presence brings peace into a room.

Your life doesn’t have to look impressive to be deeply purposeful in God’s hands.

God Wants the Whole Woman

We keep trying to bring God a better version of ourselves.

A thinner body. A stronger faith. A quieter mind. A less emotional heart.

But God is not asking for a better version. He is asking for the whole one.

“Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.” Matthew 22:37. All. Not just the parts that feel put-together.

He wants your thoughts, even the restless ones.

Your emotions, even the ones you wish you didn’t have.

Your relationships, even the complicated ones.

Your environment, even the messy house and messy schedule.

Your purpose, even when you are not sure what it is anymore.

You don’t have to hold yourself together perfectly. You have to bring yourself wholly.

And He does what only He can do — He keeps you. He establishes you. He makes you whole again.

“Now the God of peace... make you perfect in every good work.” Hebrews 13:20-21. Perfect here doesn’t mean flawless. It means complete. Whole. Lacking nothing He intended for you.

You are not too much. You are not too late. You are not behind.

You are a whole woman, being made whole by a faithful God.

One day at a time.

A Quiet Reflection

Tonight, don’t rush.

Light fades. The day is done. And God is still here.

Ask yourself gently:

What have I been believing about myself in my thoughts — and is it what God says about me?

What emotion have I been holding alone that I can finally lay before Him?

Who in my life feels like grace — and do I need to lean into that more?

What one small thing in my environment can I change tomorrow to make space for peace?

Where, even quietly, do I sense God calling me to be faithful in this season?

Choose one. Not five. One.

Write it down. Not as a goal to achieve, but as a prayer to carry.

Lord, here is my whole heart tonight — not just my body, not just my strength, but all of me. Make me whole again, in Your way.

Because becoming well was never about becoming someone else.

It was always about bringing your whole self to the God who has always seen you, and loved you, whole.

One quiet reflection at a time.

— Iz

Quiet Reflections with Iz

Women’s Health Series

I know a woman who had little, yet gave so much. Her husband left her with five children — the same five who became her pride — and she raised them alone on a primary school teacher’s salary, stretching what little she had until it somehow became enough. He only returned when illness had taken hold of him, and even then, she set everything aside to nurse him through to his last breath. Through all of it, she never broke. She kept her family standing.

She has grown old now, and her words still fall like music on whoever is near enough to hear them. There is a kind of light in her that needs no explaining — you don’t have to look for it. God simply lives in her, plainly, without needing a second glance to notice.

This is written about her, and for every woman walking a road shaped like hers.

Some women live without chasing noise or visibility. Their path is quiet, rooted in surrender, and unbothered by the need to be seen.

She shines the way a star outshines the moon — not by reaching for attention, but because the light was already hers from within.

“The steps of a good man are ordered by the LORD: and he delighteth in his way.” — Psalm 37:23

Her surrender isn’t weakness — it’s alignment. Having given her life fully to God, she moves in a rhythm that is guided and deliberate. Nothing about her walk is accidental. Every step is watched over, valued, held. Even when the way ahead is unclear, she moves with confidence, certain she is neither forgotten nor lost.

God is watching her feet fall.

In the hours no one else sees, her life is being formed. In stillness, in obedience, in the discipline of reflection, she grows — not outward, but deep. Her discernment sharpens. She learns to hear what isn’t said and to read what lies beneath the surface.

Her growth is unhurried but sure, like the first light before sunrise — slow, but never in doubt.

She refuses to measure her life by outcomes. Purpose is her center, not performance. Joy doesn’t pull her off course, and hardship doesn’t undo her — both are simply part of the process.

What others dismiss, she holds as sacred. What others avoid, she leans into as formation.

Her thoughts, disciplined.

Her words, weighed.

Her actions, deliberate.

Wisdom takes root in the space between.

She has learned that real strength doesn’t announce itself — it endures. It stays low, patient, planted. She carries it without display, letting it shape her responses instead of her reactions, refusing to let bitterness have the final word.

Understanding lives in her.

There is a softness to her spirit, but it isn’t fragile — it’s been tempered by truth. She leads with kindness while remaining unmoved at her core. Compassion comes easily to her, not because her life has been easy, but because she knows exactly where her strength comes from.

She reaches for understanding before assumption.

Patience before frustration.

Stillness before chaos.

In her relationships and in her work, she doesn’t bend to circumstance. In abundance or in waiting, she stays faithful to what’s in front of her. Her diligence in the unseen places builds a foundation nothing can shake.

And slowly, without announcement, something begins to show.

A light — quiet, steady, unforced — starts to mark her life.

It brings clarity where there was confusion, peace where there was unrest. She didn’t manufacture it. She simply stopped standing in its way.

She shines like a star that outshines the moon — not through effort, but through nearness to the One who orders her steps and fills her with understanding. Her growth was never about being noticed. It was about becoming whole.

Refined in thought.

Grounded in truth.

Rich in wisdom.

Anchored in purpose.

Her life speaks — not loudly, but clearly, and it doesn’t need repeating.

People who meet her sense something steady in her presence, something her circumstances alone could never explain.

She doesn’t strive to shine. She simply is the light.

If this stirred something in you, take a quiet moment to sit with your own journey — where is God shaping, refining, and ordering your steps right now? I’d love to hear your reflections below, and if this spoke to you, subscribe to keep growing in purpose, wisdom, and quiet strength.

Why knowing better doesn’t always mean doing better.

There is a version of wellness we are constantly being sold.

Drink more water. Exercise regularly. Eat better. Sleep eight hours. Manage your stress. Think positively.

Simple, right?

Except real life isn’t.

Sometimes you know exactly what you should do and still cannot bring yourself to do it. Sometimes you reach for your phone, food, entertainment, silence — or anything that gives you a few minutes of relief.

And sometimes you quietly wonder: Why do I keep doing this when I already know better?

That question has become increasingly meaningful to me as an Applied Health student. The more I learn about health and human behaviour, the more I realize that wellness isn’t simply about knowing what is good for us. It is about understanding why we do what we do — and learning how to meet ourselves with enough compassion to change.

Scripture speaks to this too. Paul writes, “be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind”(Romans 12:2) — not by white-knuckled willpower, but by a mind made new. Change was never meant to be a fight we win through sheer force alone.

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We Are More Than Our Habits

A habit can look so ordinary that we rarely stop to question it. Checking our phones first thing in the morning. Eating when we’re stressed. Withdrawing when we’re overwhelmed. Saying yes when we really want to say no.

None of these behaviours exist in isolation. Our emotions influence our behaviour. So do our environment, relationships, routines, stress levels, beliefs, and previous experiences.

“Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life” (Proverbs 4:23). Our habits so often begin in the heart before they ever show up in our hands.

This is why I’ve become increasingly interested in the space between feeling and reacting.

That small space is where awareness lives.

And awareness is often where change begins.

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What Are You Really Responding To?

One concept I’ve found particularly useful is the habit loop: Cue → Routine → Reward.

Imagine a woman who has had a demanding day. She finally gets into bed, but instead of sleeping, she starts scrolling. The cue may be stress. The routine is scrolling. The reward is temporary relief.

This doesn’t necessarily mean she lacks discipline. It may mean her brain has learned a pattern. When we label ourselves as lazy or incapable, we create shame. But when we become curious about our behaviour, we create an opportunity to change it.

Instead of asking “What’s wrong with me?” — we can ask

“What is this behaviour doing for me?”

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The Journal Knows Things We Sometimes Avoid Admitting

This is one reason journaling has become especially meaningful to me — not simply because writing feels therapeutic, but because it has become a practical way to observe behaviour, emotions, patterns, and triggers.

David prayed, “Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts”(Psalm 139:23). That is, in many ways, what journaling does. It invites God into the parts of ourselves we don’t always examine on our own.

Sometimes putting something on paper makes a pattern visible in a way that simply thinking about it doesn’t. The journal doesn’t necessarily give you an answer.

Sometimes, it gives you enough silence to hear the question.

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Sometimes the Problem Isn’t You

We often make behaviour change far more personal than it needs to be. But what if we looked at the environment too?

If your phone is beside you while you’re studying, temptation is always within reach. Our surroundings can either support the person we’re trying to become or constantly pull us back toward old patterns.

Proverbs reminds us, “A prudent man foreseeth the evil, and hideth himself” (Proverbs 22:3) — wisdom isn’t only resisting temptation, it’s sometimes removing yourself from its path altogether.

We don’t always need a stronger version of ourselves. Sometimes we need a kinder environment for the version of ourselves that already exists.

⸻

Don’t Just Stop. Swap.

Beneath many habits is a need. Maybe you’re not actually craving the phone — maybe you’re craving relief.

So instead of saying “I won’t scroll when I’m stressed,” ask: “What else could give me a moment of relief?” Maybe it’s a walk. Maybe it’s prayer. Maybe it’s sitting quietly for five minutes.

“Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you” (1 Peter 5:7).

Sometimes the healthiest swap isn’t a new activity at all — it’s simply remembering where our anxiety was always meant to go.

⸻

Start Small Enough That You Can Believe Yourself

Motivation comes and goes. Self-efficacy is often built through something much quieter: evidence.

You tell yourself you’ll walk for ten minutes. You do it.

You keep one small promise to yourself. Then another. Eventually, something changes.

“Who hath despised the day of small things?” (Zechariah 4:10). Scripture never mocks small beginnings — it honors them. A goal can be specific and achievable without becoming another impossible standard.

⸻

Your Setback Is Not Your Identity

We can be so quick to turn a behaviour into an identity. “I missed my workout, so I’m lazy.”

But one behaviour does not define you.

“For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again” (Proverbs 24:16). Righteousness was never defined by never falling — it was defined by rising.

The question isn’t “Why did I fail?” The better question is “What can this teach me?”

⸻

A Woman Doesn’t Need to Become a Different Person to Become Healthier

Wellness is not perfection.

Real life is much messier. Real wellness leaves room for difficult days, for rest, for asking for help, for changing your mind.

“His compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness”(Lamentations 3:22-23). You are not required to arrive whole today. Mercy meets you fresh, every single morning — which means so can you.

And “being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it” (Philippians 1:6). You are not finishing this alone.

⸻

A Quiet Reflection

Tonight, before you sleep, ask yourself:

What habit in my life is trying to tell me something? What am I actually needing in those moments? Where have I been relying on willpower when I could change my environment instead?

And perhaps the most important question: What is one small promise I can make to myself — and actually keep?

Write the answer down. Don’t make it impressive. Make it honest.

Because sometimes becoming well is simply learning to listen to yourself again — and to the God who is patient enough to meet you exactly where you are.

One quiet reflection at a time.

— Iz

Quiet Reflections with Iz

Women’s Health Series

Part 2: The Whole Woman — coming next.

For Chidere — every word here is for you, and every word here is because of you.

One day, my daughter sat with me and asked a question that every woman, at some point, will ask:

“What kind of man should I marry?”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even deeply philosophical. She wasn’t even fully looking up from her phone when she asked it — just tossed it out there like she was asking what was for dinner. Simple. Honest. Real.

And like many young women, her answer came quickly too.

“I want a man who earns more than me… and is a good person.”

I paused. And then, I’ll admit, I laughed a little — because I remember being nineteen and having almost that exact same list. Mine even had a height requirement on it. God has a sense of humor about the lists we make Him.

I wasn’t laughing because she was wrong. I was laughing because I knew something she didn’t know yet — that she hadn’t gone deep enough. And if she didn’t go deeper, life would eventually teach her herself, in ways I would rather protect her from.

So I put my own phone down too, and I told her something that came from my own journey, not just my role as her mother:

“When I was younger, the one thing I asked God for was a God-fearing man. And God gave me everything else.”

She gave me that look — you know the one, the “okay, but what does that actually mean” look every daughter gives her mother — so I knew I needed to explain more.

Because what sounds simple on the surface can carry a lifetime of consequences underneath.

You see, wanting a man who earns more is not wrong. Wanting a good man is not wrong either. Girl, I wanted those things too.

But it is not enough.

Because a man can earn more than you and still lack discipline.

He can be “good” and still be inconsistent.

He can be kind and still not know how to lead, protect, or build.

Money can make life easier — but it cannot make a man faithful. I’ve never once seen a paycheck talk a man out of walking away when things got hard. Character does that. Only character does that.

And being a “good person” is not the same as being a grounded, disciplined, God-led man. Goodness on its own is untested — it’s easy to be good when nothing is asking anything of you. Sweetheart, anybody can be good on a first date. I want to know who he is on a Tuesday, three years in, when nobody’s watching and nothing’s going right.

So I told her the truth, as gently and honestly as I could:

“Don’t just look for a man who has something. Look for a man who is something.”

She raised an eyebrow at me — she thought that sounded like a fridge magnet. Fair. But sometimes the truest things sound the simplest, until life makes you learn them the hard way.

Because what a man has can change overnight.

But who he is?

That will show up every single day of your life — the good days and the deeply unglamorous ones.

A God-fearing man is not perfect.

But he is guided.

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” (Proverbs 3:5) That is not just a verse I quote to her — it’s the filter I want her running every man through, whether she says it out loud or not. Does he lean on his own understanding, or does he submit it to something higher?

He makes decisions with awareness that he answers to something higher than his feelings, his ego, or the moment.

And that changes everything.

It means when temptation comes, he has restraint.

When conflict comes, he has humility.

When life gets hard, he has direction.

It means he is not just reacting to life — he is anchored in something deeper.

And that anchor becomes your safety.

I want my daughter — and I want you, reading this, whoever you are — to understand that love is not just about how someone makes you feel in the moment. Butterflies are lovely. Butterflies have also never once helped anybody pay rent or survive a hard season.

It is about who they are when life tests them.

Because life will test them.

There will be pressure.

There will be misunderstandings.

There will be moments where feelings are not enough.

And in those moments, money will not save a relationship.

Charm will not sustain it.

Even being “nice” will not be enough.

Character will.

Discipline will.

Reverence for God will.

So I told her:

“A man who fears God will think twice before hurting you. Not because he is afraid of you — but because he understands accountability beyond you.”

“Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” (Galatians 6:7) He knows this in his bones even when no one is watching. Especially when no one is watching. That’s actually the whole test, if you want to know it early — watch how he acts when he thinks it doesn’t count.

And that is the kind of man who can build something lasting.

Not perfect.

But intentional.

Not flawless.

But grounded.

She got quiet after that — the good kind of quiet, the kind where I could tell something landed even if she wasn’t ready to say so yet.

Then, because she is still my daughter and not a Bible study, she broke the silence with, “Okay but can he still have a car though?”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my tea. Yes, baby. He can still have a car. He can have all of it — the job, the car, the good teeth. I just need him to have a soul that answers to God first. Get both if you can. Just don’t mistake one for the other.

And as I looked at her, I realized something important.

This conversation was never just about choosing a man.

It is about choosing a life.

Because the man you choose will influence your peace, your growth, your stability, and even your relationship with God.

So choose carefully.

Choose deeply.

Choose beyond what is visible.

Because in the end, the goal is not just to find a man who looks right.

It is to choose a man who is right — at his core.

And that makes all the difference.

To my dearest daughter and all young girls seeking direction: I pray you find him. And I pray, above all, that you never settle for a fraction of what God already has for you.

If you’re a mother, what would you want your daughter to know before she chooses a husband?

And if you’re a young woman, what are you learning to look for beyond the obvious?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Q R I 🕊️

We’ve talked about rest, and we’ve talked about stress. This final part is about something harder to admit: that caring for everyone else while quietly neglecting yourself isn’t sustainable — no matter how much love is behind it.

Q: How can we care for others — and also support ourselves and others going through difficult times?

R:

Loving your family, showing up daily, giving your all — that is beautiful. It’s one of the most God-honoring things a woman can do.

But losing yourself in the process was never the goal. It was never even asked of you.

Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the idea that a good woman disappears into her role — that wanting rest, help, or a moment to breathe makes us selfish. So we stopped asking. We got quiet about our own needs, and loud about everyone else’s.

And it felt righteous, for a while. It felt like love.

But you can pour into your family and still keep some water in your own cup.

Those two things were never supposed to be in competition.

Practical ways to hold both:

• Accept help when it’s offered — you don’t earn extra points for suffering alone

• Put rest on the schedule the same way you’d schedule anything important

• Notice when “I’m fine” is actually a habit, not the truth

None of these are grand gestures. They’re small corrections — the kind that only you will notice at first, and that’s fine.

Nobody needs to see you choosing yourself for it to count.

And when someone else around you is struggling — a sister, a friend, a fellow woman of faith — you can be a soft place for them too:

• Listen without rushing to fix or judge

• Gently encourage them to rest instead of praising their exhaustion

• Remind them, plainly, that they are not alone

You don’t have to do everything alone. And neither does she.

All work and no rest doesn’t take life from us all at once. It happens in quiet, invisible pieces — a skipped meal here, a canceled coffee with a friend there, a prayer that turns into a to-do list — until one day you look up and don’t recognize how tired you’ve become.

That’s the danger of it. It doesn’t announce itself. It just accumulates.

I:

“Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.” — Proverbs 4:23

Everything you do — your care, your strength, your love — flows from your heart. Guard it. Tend it. Because when your heart is depleted, everything downstream suffers too. Your family doesn’t need a woman running on empty. They need you — present, whole, and honest about what you need to stay that way.

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” — Matthew 11:28

Rest was never meant to be something you earn after you’ve proven your worth. It’s offered — freely, before you’ve done anything to deserve it. If God isn’t asking you to run yourself into the ground, you don’t have to either.

Taking care of yourself is not selfish — it is necessary. Your life matters, not just your labor.

This week’s practice: Ask for help with one thing this week — even something small. Notice how uncomfortable it feels to ask, and let that discomfort be a sign of how long you’ve carried things alone, not a reason to stop.

Choose one small way to keep something in your own cup this week, and tell me what it is in the comments. Let’s hold each other accountable.

Final Reflection

That’s the series — rest, stress, and now this: choosing yourself too. Three different rooms, but the same door in and out of all of them. I hope what you carry forward isn’t just what we talked about, but permission to actually live it.

Love your family. Care deeply. But please do not forget yourself while doing it.

You deserve rest.

You deserve help.

You deserve to live — not just survive.

"It's been a long road," Bere said. "But a meaningful one."

She said it plainly, the way people speak when they've made peace with something rather than performed it. I wasn't just hearing a sentence. I was being handed years.

Bere raised two sons alone.

She built her days around twelve-hour nursing shifts — other people's emergencies, other people's families — and then came home to her own. There was no line where one job ended and the other began. Homework got checked at the kitchen table with her shoes still on. Dinner happened because it had to. The house ran on her, whether or not she had anything left to give it.

"I learned early that I couldn't let hard days define me," she told me. "I had to grow through them."

That's not a mindset she arrived at once and kept. It's one she returned to, probably thousands of times, in ways too small to notice from the outside — the decision to get up on a morning that offered her no reason to.

She talks about routine the way some people talk about faith itself: not as comfort, but as scaffolding. Bedtimes, meal plans, a set order to the evening — none of it made her life easier. It gave her somewhere to put her hands when she didn't know what else to do with them.

There were seasons of real financial strain. Seasons where the house felt too quiet after the boys were asleep, and she sat with the particular loneliness of carrying something no one else could carry with her. She told me she used to wonder, some nights, whether she was doing enough — a question mothers ask themselves far more than anyone acknowledges.

She kept going anyway. Not because the doubt resolved itself, but because her sons were on the other side of it.

"The life I'm building will shape theirs," she said.

That sentence did more work than any five-year plan.

Her sons are grown now, finding their own footing. Her career moved forward with her — she's pursuing further certifications, still building, still unwilling to call it finished. Nothing about her story wraps up neatly. It just keeps extending, one deliberate choice at a time.

Talking with her rearranged something in how I think about success. Not the version that gets photographed — the version that shows up, tired, and does the next right thing without an audience.

Near the end of our conversation, I asked what had carried her through it.

She was quiet for a moment. Then she smiled.

"It could only be by His grace. God's grace."

Not her own strength, in the end — though I'd watched an hour's worth of evidence of it. She credited something outside herself, and I believed her more for it.

Bere's story isn't really about how much a person can endure. It's about who you become on the other side of the enduring, and whose hand you recognize was on yours the whole way through.

What does resilience look like in your life? I'd love to hear it in the comments.

Last week we talked about rest. This week I want to go one layer deeper — to the thing that quietly steals our rest before we even notice it’s gone: stress. Not the passing kind. The kind that moves in and doesn’t leave.

Q: What is good stress — and what happens when it becomes too much?

R:

I remember the day I almost lost myself too.

My body started hurting — my chest, my back, even my left side. But before that, I had been running on almost nothing. Staying up from midnight till morning doing assignments, then caring for my children and home… all on just 2–3 hours of sleep.

I thought I was managing. I told myself, “just this season, just until things calm down.” I didn’t realize I was draining myself — shrinking my own life one sleepless night at a time.

Until one day, I had to be dragged to the hospital.

The cause? Stress. Lack of sleep. Exhaustion that had nowhere left to go but into my body.

Here’s what I’ve come to understand: not all stress is bad. There’s a kind of stress — sometimes called “good stress” — that sharpens our focus, gives us the drive to meet a deadline, or helps us rise to an occasion. It’s temporary, and it fades once the task is done.

But when stress becomes constant — when there’s no gap between one demand and the next — it stops helping and starts harming. It shows up as headaches, tight shoulders, a racing heart, poor sleep even when we finally lie down, irritability, or a heaviness we can’t quite name.

Some ways to manage it before it manages us:

• Start tasks early instead of racing the clock

• Break big responsibilities into smaller, doable steps

• Take real breaks — not just switching from one task to another

• Do something calming daily, even five minutes: music, prayer, a walk, silence

• Protect your sleep like it’s non-negotiable, because it is

Why do we feel like we have to do it all?

I think, for many of us, it’s tied to love — we equate exhaustion with devotion. But love was never meant to cost us our health.

The truth is, the world will still move on if we pause. The dishes will wait. The message will still send in an hour. But what about us? Who tends to us while we tend to everyone else?

(If you’re reading this and you’re in real distress right now — please don’t carry it alone. Talk to someone you trust, or reach out to a doctor or counselor. You matter too much to go through this in silence.)

I:

“Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.” — 1 Peter 5:7

Ignoring stress doesn’t make us strong — it slowly breaks us. Naming it, and handing it to God honestly, is where real strength begins.

This week’s practice: Notice one moment today when you feel the tightness of stress in your body — your shoulders, your jaw, your chest. Pause. Take three slow breaths. Name it: “This is stress, not strength.” Then choose one small thing off your list to let go of, just for today.

Have you ever pushed through exhaustion until your body made you stop? I’d love to hear your story in the comments — someone reading this today may need to know they’re not alone.

This series is about something we rarely talk about openly: our health. Not just the physical, but the quiet toll of exhaustion, stress, and constantly showing up for everyone but ourselves. Over the next three weeks, we'll walk through rest, stress, and self-care — not as trendy buzzwords, but as things Scripture actually speaks to, and things I've lived through myself.

I hope that by the end of this series, you'll feel less alone in the tiredness you've been carrying — and a little more permission to put yourself back on your own list.

Let's begin.

Part 1: Learning to Rest as Women

She was the strongest woman I knew. Then one day, she was just… gone.

There's a quiet lie many of us have believed without ever saying it out loud: that rest is something you earn once everything else is done. This week, I want to gently challenge that — because I've watched what happens when a woman never stops. I've lived it too.

Q: Why do we, as women, struggle to rest — and how much rest do we really need?

R:

I once had a beautiful friend — she was like a sister to me. One day, we just heard that she had passed on. Everyone was in shock. What happened? No one could believe it.

She looked strong, healthy, always active — waking up early, going to the market, ironing clothes, taking care of her children, her husband, and even extended family. She carried her home the way she carried her faith: quietly, faithfully, without complaint.

And then suddenly… she was gone.

Deep down, I couldn't help but think — was it stress? Was it the years of pouring out with nothing poured back in?

So many women are silently carrying too much. We keep going even when we are tired, because slowing down feels like failing someone. We push through exhaustion like it's normal — like it's the price of being a good wife, a good mother, a good daughter, a good woman of God.

But the truth is, our bodies are not machines. They are temples. And temples need tending.

Doctors generally recommend about 7–9 hours of sleep a night for adults to function well physically, mentally, and emotionally. Not "if you have time." Not "whatever is left over." Seven to nine hours, as a baseline — not a luxury.

I learned this the hard way. Running on little to no sleep may feel like strength. It may even earn you praise — "look how much she carries, look how she never stops." But over time, it doesn't build you up. It quietly wears you down, cell by cell, until the body finally forces the rest we refused to give it ourselves.

Rest is not something we should postpone until the children are grown, until the workload lightens, until things "settle down." Things rarely settle down on their own. We have to choose rest — on purpose, before our bodies choose it for us.

I

*"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."* — Matthew 11:28

Notice — Jesus doesn't say "come unto me once you've finished everything." He says come *as you are*, heavy laden, mid-task, exhausted. Rest is His invitation, not our reward for perfection.

Rest is not weakness. It is obedience. It is wisdom. And as women, we must allow ourselves to receive it — not just offer it to everyone else.

This week's practice: Pick one night this week and protect it — no scrolling, no "just one more task." Go to bed with the intention of getting 7+ hours. Notice how you feel the next day. That feeling is information, not indulgence.

If this spoke to you, I'd love to hear your reflection in the comments.

Part 2- comes up a week today

So she made a decision. Not out loud — she would never say it this plainly — but somewhere beneath the surface of her very reasonable, very modern, very intelligent new worldview, the decision was made:

God is too inconvenient for the life I’m building.

She grew up in the church. That’s what makes this complicated. She didn’t come to this from the outside, with no frame of reference. She knows the difference between right and wrong — she was raised on it, steeped in it, shaped by it. She’s heard the scriptures so many times she could finish the sentences. She knows exactly what she’s walking away from.

That’s not doubt. That’s something else.

Here is what she has decided, on some level that she might not fully admit even to herself: that she should be able to do whatever she wants without consequence. That her choices belong to her alone. That no one — not her parents, not her community, and certainly not God — has the right to hold her accountable for the life she lives in private. She has reframed this as liberation. As finally, truly becoming herself.

And parts of it do feel like freedom. That’s the honest thing.

Sin has a season where it feels like relief. Like a door opening into a room full of air.

She is standing in that room right now, breathing it in, and it feels so much better than the tightness she used to carry. She mistakes the relief for rightness.

But she is a woman who was formed in truth. And formed things don’t forget their shape easily.

You can see it if you know what to look for. The weekends that have started to blur into each other — the parties, the laughter, the drink she swore she’d never touch now sitting comfortably in her hand because everyone else is holding one too. The calls to her family she lets ring out, because family time means questions she doesn’t want to answer and a version of herself she’s not ready to perform anymore. The way she’s started arguing over the smallest things — not because the things are worth arguing over, but because somewhere underneath, she’s fighting for the right to live exactly as she pleases, and any pushback feels like a threat to that.

And underneath all of it, something quieter and harder to name: she has stopped believing in herself. Not loudly. Not in a way anyone would notice from the outside. But the self-doubt is there, woven through all of it — and maybe that’s closer to the truth than anything else.

Maybe the distance from God was never really about God at all. Maybe it started the moment she stopped trusting that she was someone worth believing in.

She pushes it down. She is very good at pushing things down.

She is also very intelligent, which means she has sophisticated tools for this. She has books that agree with her. Podcasts that validate her. A whole language of self-actualisation and personal truth and living authentically that hands her a more comfortable name for what she is doing. She is fluent in it. She can make almost anyone nod along.

But you cannot argue your way out of a conscience. You cannot rebrand conviction.

What I want to say to her — gently, because she would close this essay the moment it started sounding like a lecture — is this:

Accountability is not punishment.

That is the lie she has accepted without examining it. God’s standard for her life is not a cage built to keep her small. It is a blueprint drawn by someone who knows exactly what she is made of and exactly what will break her. The rules she is running from are not the rules of a God who wants to control her. They are the guardrails of a God who has seen where the road goes without them.

She thinks freedom is the absence of accountability. But a woman with nothing to answer to is not free. She is just unmoored.

And unmoored things don’t sail — they drift, and eventually they are lost, and the tragedy is that they often don’t realise it until they are very far from shore.

She is not lost yet. But she is further than she knows.

And still — this is the part I can’t get over — still, He has not stopped loving her.

Not the version of her she’s presenting to the world. The version that is making the choices, carrying the weight of them, pushing down the conviction and waking up in the small hours with that unnamed distance from herself. That version. He sees her completely and loves her completely and has not moved an inch.

She thinks she has outgrown Him.

She hasn’t outgrown the need for grace. No one does.

She will discover this — maybe soon, maybe after a few more seasons of this particular kind of freedom. She will reach the end of a road she chose for herself and find that it leads somewhere she didn’t plan for. And when she turns around, He will be there. He was there the whole time.

Not to say I told you so.

Just to say come home.

Because that is the nature of the love she grew up hearing about, and somewhere deep beneath the philosophy and the self-permission and the very curated new self she is building — she still knows it. She never stopped knowing it.

She just found it inconvenient. For now

A note from me, before you go —

There is a song I have loved for a long time. It speaks of a God who gives power to the weary, who lifts and comforts, who walks beside us toward something eternal — not because we earned it, but because that is simply who He is. It speaks of a love that blesses, fills, and changes a heart forever. Of walking with Jesus, and Him walking with us.

I think about that song when I think about her.

Because that is what she is walking away from. Not a set of rules. Not a religion. Not a Sunday morning obligation. She is walking away from a God who has promised — in the quietest, most unshakeable way — that He will never leave her. Not even when she falls. Not even when she decides He is inconvenient. Not even now, in this season, when she has turned her back and filled her weekends with noise and let her family’s calls ring out and convinced herself she is finally free.

He is still walking with her. She just doesn’t know it yet.

And when she does — when she finally gets quiet enough to feel it — I believe it will not feel like defeat.

It will feel like coming home to a place that was always, already, hers.