Time's Unforgiving Exchange

The looming prospect of death does amazing work to rouse sentimental feelings of nostalgia, introspect and a yearning for something "more."

Suddenly, life is revealed to be more than the mundane routine we've reduced it to: time spent wastefully inspires contriteness of the heart. All our dreams and hopes packed neatly onto shelves of future plans, chronologically ordered from "Student Life" to "Old Age/Retirement," gather dust as we rush about our lives, doing whatever demands our attention most. In this way, we move about intentionally, following the aimless whims of the present; ever forgetful of our goals and the passing of time.

I've learnt that time only gives you age in exchange. Growing old can be as beautiful as the blooming of a girl child into a mature, white-haired old woman of wisdom and grace, made knowledgeable by experience; in contrast, it may present bitter individuals, hardened by years of struggle imposed on themselves & time wasted saving for a future never to be lived.

The latter is a type of person I've grown to be impressively familiar with. See, my heart breaks each day when I come home to my bed-ridden father, who desperately wills his body to stay alive - perhaps in hopes of defeating his malicious fiend, cancer.

I think of my father's ambitions: here's a man who worked all his life for a comfortable last few chapters of his life but never savoured the years antecedent to his future.
When I think carefully, I see that I am no different.

Time is precious and finite.

We go to bed every night with no guarantee of being granted another breath of consciousness the next day, yet we make zealous plans for unpromised days ahead. I'm guilty of banking on tomorrow to fix my mistakes, or even to finally realize my full potential, but faithfully, I postpone it for another day each day.

I always thought that my ability to create an environment ideal for reconciliation would make strides as I grew older, so I procrastinated the day I would have a heart-to-heart with my dad, in hopes of having better capability to go through the discourse of mending a broken father-daughter relationship later - definitely later. The fault in my goal of course, was the lack of a set time-frame, thus, today I am burdened with the regret of never quite "fixing" things.

Earlier this year, I wrote him a letter, following high tensions in the house after he had done something to undermine the role of my mother in our family. Something said to me that "unforgiveness" is poisonous, and that I ought to let that go, lest it begins to hurt me without personal intent. I set out to pen my thoughts and grievances diplomatically, apologized for my anger, and made known my forgiveness for him/his actions.

Today, ebb tides of sadness play in my heart when I consider our incomplete story. We only ever shared one sacred moment of laughter and joy, that was on the 3rd of April this year.
My whole family had chosen to sit around his bed as he told us stories about his childhood and young adult years. His thoughts were lucid at this stage, but his body had begun to give in to the pressures of being slowly monopolized by cancer.

He has never been the same again.

So today, I must apologize:

I'm sorry that I leaned so heavily on the belief that I could do better to amend our relationship in the future, rather than first trying today, and perhaps later improving on past efforts.

I'm sorry that I let anger find a home in my heart for so long, and delayed his long overdue eviction.

I'm sorry that you're sick in bed and unable to control your thoughts and your movements.

I'm sorry that life has panned out this way for you, and that pride has had his way with you.

I'm sorry that I focused so gravely on everything you couldn't and didn't do, that I fail, even today, to see what you have done for me.

I'm sorry that this is how our story ends as father and daughter - that you'll always be a familiar stranger to me.


Today, I must begin to work harder to see the good in people; to invest in my present self in preparation for the future and, to nurture an environment in my heart fit for compassion, honesty and forgiveness to call home.

Slow Dancing With Heartbreak

Hi.

My name is Ayanda, and I'm a sucker for romance. I thrive on romantic comedies, and weepy stories about dreamy gentlemen who never make their existence known. 

Life is always so much easier in those movies. What the author of the story has written, is exactly what will happen. The characters have no capacity to make their own decisions, altering the original story the author intended to tell. I once wished I could live a life as simple as Allie and Noah's in The Notebook. 

Nicholas Sparks(the author) intended to share a specific story, and the characters he created, portrayed just what he desired.

Our (live) stories are so much more complex. 

Free will, granted by the Ultimate Author, our God, puts a spanner in the works for us and the ultimate 'happy endings' God had in mind for us.

I imagine the story about the fall of mankind could have been turned into a romantic comedy:
Adam is perfect, he is in love with his Creator, handsome(I imagine), chivalrous, selfless, has a servant heart, humble and he is a natural leader- he is a real man.
Eve is beautiful, Adam has seen nothing in the garden as lovely as her, and has a crazed urge to protect her, serve her, shower his love on her, and to tend to her heart's needs and desires.
Adam and Eve are literally a match made in heaven!

I visualize God as He writes our life stories individually, resting His feet on our planet, as a footstool, and never frowning unknowingly about what to write next. From His mind, a hologram reflecting His intentions for each of our lives, from the day we are born till the day we make a long awaited return home, to Him in heaven. I imagine bright flashes of light as events happen, and the sound of a 'scratch' on a (playing)CD, each time we decide against the original 'script' He writes, He is not perturbed by this interception, but quickly makes alternative plans to get us to the ending He thought ideal for each story.
I imagine a sick dubstep track being formed by the constant scratch noises created each time we doubt His will, and choose our own over His. I think God would tap His feet slowly to the beat, never defeated, because He has a sevenfold back-up plan, sevenfold, for each seven in that 'fold'. I bet even more.

I am guilty first of taking matters into my own hands. Often, when faced with a tough decision to make, I will be polite and "ask" God what I ought to do; in my brain, calculations as far as the mind can see have been made, and a conclusion has been reached; at this point, only my heart cab be swayed.

I would love to say sincerely, that this Man has 100% control over my life. At the word control, please disregard the image of a tyrant or slave-driver, by all means.

He is loving, He is kind, He is gracious, He is gentle, He is fierce, He is just, He is pure, He is patient, He is majestic and He is in control.

But something in us never fails to fool us into thinking we can make better decisions than He does already, never mind the fact that He gave us the ability to assess situations, and make informed decisions.

I have lost count of the number of times I have burnt my finger from never believing that the fire is indeed scorching hot.
I have cried buckets of tears, apologized, and gone back to my old ways, repeatedly.
I have questioned God, despised Him,  and at some point, completely denied Him all rights to say anything about my life, and how I live it.

Today, something particularly heartbreaking was revealed to me. Pain wrapped its tentacles around my heart, and squeezed tightly, as my little heart struggled to continue with its mission to beat. I wept: my nose turning an ugly red-pink brown.

My heart was broken over something I refused to give up years ago. Like a cancer, it grew silently and destructively on the side, only to have the truth of its immutable existence shake the idea of the total control I claimed God had over my life.

I made plans for my future, and left God to His own devices, to do what He pleased with the leftover aspects of my life I couldn't care less about. Like an inexperienced hiker, I left my Guide to venture on a new path alone, fell off the mountain face, and managed only to gain grip on the branch of an oddly placed tree(thank You God for Your unending grace).

Silvermine, Cape Town. I really am an inexperienced hiker.

"Hey Jesus, I'm sorry I ever doubted Your will over my life. Help me out, I was wrong. Please, take the wheel, I'll hang out in the backseat, going where You lead me: that is my solemn promise."

Ideally, as any movie would have it, the Guide appears, salvaging the once proud victim, who is now subdued into repentance, and they continue with their hike in each other's company, as it should have been.

Happily ever afters are not too farfetched, after all. I am done with denying God what is His. It is wrecking enough to know that sin is in my nature.

Here God, my life is Your portion.

Goodbye.

My name is still Ayanda, and I am still a sucker for romance: in His timing.

Returning Home: A Short Story

I pledged my life-long commitment to a man, nine years ago, proclaiming, "I do."
Today, I drive back home as a widowed mother, in a darkness as loathsome as death himself, with two precious little princesses, so still, in the backseat of my car.

I last saw my parents on Christmas; my circumstance was different then. My only battles were against the financial strain of mortgage payments, and the cost of ballet classes at the private studio in town, for Angel and Scarlet. They were asleep now, but when they awoken, the questioning would begin, again. "Where is daddy, mommy?" mentally, I could hear Scarlet ask gently.
"When will he come join us at Grammy's house?" Angela would frown, baring her now aged, six milk-teeth. I do not know where I will begin, in explaining his disappearance from their lives. My heart has not made sense of it yet: it refuses to.

Gerald was a real hero. Even the day we met, I had watched him solve a dispute, outside a vibrant cocktail bar at the beach, between two impetuous men, who had resolved to, "take it outside," when a casual conversation turned into a mindless debate. I could not interpret the movement of his lips, into words, but his body was relaxed and his face was calm. The men walked away from each other, defeat painted heavily on their faces. I had obviously forgotten that I was staring at him, because he now walked in my direction, with a kind, curious expression on his face. He was not too tall, he wore black Havaianas, red shorts folded at the knee, and a white v-necked vest, Che Guevara staring sternly at me, framed perfectly by Gerald's lean arms. As he approached, I noticed a scar on his chin, I could not begin to imagine the story behind it- he already seemed so courageous, selfless.
He spoke, saying, "Hi- Gerald," he smiled, nodded and extended his hand. His voice was like gentle thunder, in a mild storm. His teeth were white, and told the story of a boy who wore braces throughout his schooling career.

Eight months later, we were sitting in my parents' dining room. My mother was beaming, she was undeniably fond of him. At that moment, I was as happy as I imagined a newly wed bride would be, yet we had only spoken about marriage twice, and sometimes just in passing.

Twenty-seven months, two weeks and five days after meeting each other's families: he invited me to coffee at our favorite café. When I arrived, the place was empty. I was early, Gerald would probably come soon, and we would drive to another coffee spot. Waterfront was beautiful. Perhaps Myatt Café & Chocolatier, had closed business in preparation for a special event later. I turned around, walking towards my dirty, once white Opel hatchback. I heard Gerald call my name, I turned, again, only to see him beckoning me to come join him inside the little shop. It looked as though they had closed for an auspicious event as I had predicted. 

My heart began to dance.

The setup inside was whimsical. All the tables had been taken out, hidden elsewhere I assumed, except one, set in the center of the room. Gerald's guitar was in the newspaper corner, and Norah Jones sang, softly suggesting to come away with her, through the speakers mounted on the walls. Our table, had places set for two. The tease aroma of butternut, Danish feta and other lovely ingredients, led me to believe my favorite bruschetta was served, but hidden from my sight, by a glass jar, containing aged squares of paper- I looked in closer, curious. Every note, every little doodle and sometimes verse, that I had playfully written or drawn for him, was contained. I made a habit of leaving these little notes in his car; sometimes on his kitchen counter, or on his desk at the office.

He pulled my seat out for me, I sat, and he kneeled down beside me. At this, my heart did a dance I could not name: it was a strange fusion of the salsa, zulu dance and ballet.

"Love, we make a good team. I am okay alone, but I am better with you- see, you add to the quality of a person I am. The greatest things about us is, we're not just united in love, but we're purpose driven, by something greater than life itself. You are the essence of beauty. We are flawed, differently, and connect, more than just physically and mentally. This glass jar is yet a fraction full, with only my half of our memories shared, I want to add to this collection, together, for the rest of my life. 
Join me in the challenge of filling it, and marry me?"
Dumbstruck, I looked deeper into the jar, then back at him, and reached out my hands, exclaiming,
"YES!"

Nine years later, and our marriage had only grown better with time; like a bottle of wine left to age in the security of a wine cellar.

Now, after spending two days on the road, I had finally reached home. My mother welcomed me with the warmth I had always known as unique to her alone. Emotions tugged at my heart's strings, sadness against joy, brokenness against deep pining. My vision became blurred, and my cheeks began to heat up, tickled by a warm, trickling sensation, "Hi mom."
"Grammy!" Angel and Scarlet had woken and raced out the car, to greet their grandmother, whose face now shone with a joy so sincere and great, it squeezed my heart tightly within.

We walked into the house, lugging our suitcases behind us- Gerald always took care of tasks of this nature. I felt a deep pain in my chest. The reality of his death was only beginning to settle now. His absence from our lives, now made permanent, dawned on me. At that moment, something in the substance of my soul shattered, broke. It gave in like a single pillar, left to withstand the pressure, and weight, of a structure fit for the support of four counterparts. I fell to the ground, letting out a moan that slowly turned into cries of agony, heartfelt anguish. I had wanted so badly, to be a pillar of strength for my daughters, but I had reached my breaking point. I was home, my mother would take care of things: she always managed to solve problems as they presented themselves.

My bedroom had not been interfered with since I left for University. Its pastel green walls, brought back memories of a teenage girl who had her future planned, right to her funeral. My story was not going to end the way I had hoped. Gerald, my dream husband and more, was gone. He had been shot while helping a teenage boy into the back of an ambulance. The gangs were out that night, news about their initiation of hopeful new members had been broadcasted frequently on the radio. Gerald was caught in the crossfire: they shot at him for attempting to help a victim of their wild behavior.

The aroma of freshly baked bread, and cinnamon butternut soup, wafted into my old room, through the door which Scarlet had left open as she dropped her luggage off in a hurry. 
This would do. Being home always simplified even my most complex of situations. I would mourn, and then heal- right here, now as a widowed mother of two, and daughter.