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.

Smitten: A Man Who Loves Me Perfectly

Love. 

A word interpreted so differently by millions of individuals. 
For some, it is physical; others, emotional; or, a commodity to be bought and a whole range of other fleshy 'feelings'.

Perfection.

A word the human brain can only imagine, or dream of. God is perfect, and that's it, period.

But, what image of perfection can we connect with this word, when we haven't seen God's face?

Only the love we've experienced at His hands and the journey we have had with Him, in an interactive relationship. Our hearts have an image of perfection, God, but our brains.. Oh man, I don't think they have the capacity to contain such a reality.

The Man. 

The only Being in this universe capable of loving a person, perfectly. God takes this love issue to a whole new level. Why wouldn't He, He created it! God, this most beautiful King, shows us His perfection, His flawless character, His justice, peace, grace(oh I like this word!) and never-changing love.
God loves perfectly. I experienced it myself. 
I have learnt from past experience, that love will not always be pleasant, in fact, that it should not be. 
As it is, our Dad calls us to love people, I haven't read, not once, a scripture in the Bible that calls us to like people. Love is an eternal state of the heart, and mind: it is a decision.
God's love is made perfect by Him. He is just and wants only the best for us


Sometimes, we turn away from Him, giving Him the finger and tell Him to, 'Take a hike Old Guy!', with our actions. God, being the bigger person(literally), does not retaliate by striking us down with fiery bolts of lightning at that very moment, but lets us go instead, yet He never lets go or loses hope about our return. He beckons us to come back into our Dad's arms for a warm embrace; for the eternal well-being of our souls. He never abuses or interferes with our freewill and continues to pour out His grace on us.
God, whose helplessly in love with His creation, sacrificed Himself for a dying world that had distanced itself from Him, its own Creator.
He loves without reservation, equally. He loves freely.

Smitten.

I am. Well, see it's quite a story. I love God, but have always understood that He loves me more, in such abundance. I fell in love with the idea of God. The idea of a relationship with Him, the idea of an unglamourous life and complete contentment with His will for my life. 

But, the action of engaging in this relationship, without any selfish agendas, was far from me.

Not for long.


God, knocked me off my feet and romanced me. He told me I was beautiful, that I had great purpose and that He would capture my heart, make it new, fill it with love; joy; peace; kindness; goodness; faithfulness; gentleness and a tot of self-control. He held my hand, firmly, and told me that I was His exquisite work, His own little princess and that I deserved only the best.
With that information, I began to search, I was determined to find my 'Best'. I looked, not for long, and found someone that seemed to fit just perfectly. A creation whose heart reflected Jesus. Boy, did that draw me in! I pursued my own idea of what God wanted for me, after conveniently forgetting that God had everything under control. 


Of course I did not forget God in my desperate pursuit. I asked Him for strange things, politely thanked Him for everything I could think of and began to do some extravagantly good deeds. No-one knew about them but I was doing an excellent job at attempting to bribe God, which was, in hindsight, a thorough waste of time. Here I was, a little brat of a teenage girl, trying to twist my Father(who controls the activities of a wholes universe!)'s arm, into giving me my 'toy', that I felt I deserved already; I can imagine God grimacing at the image of my heart, shaking His head in disappointment, and just looking ahead in time to see the part where I get it; when I surrender and give it all back to Him to handle again.


I am there now. In fact, I have just arrived, and krikey(!), have I made a mess of things! I was on the verge of destroying a wholesome friendship for what I felt was right, but had never bothered to ask my Dad about. I sinned, lying to God about my heart's intentions and took control of my life again, after willingly handing it over and committing to submitting to God's will for my life.

Intermission.

I've always seen this term in the middle of old school Bollywood movies. I have never 'Googled' the word, but I can describe the feeling: a breath of fresh air, a time to relax your over-heating brain. Just before the climax of the story, when you're left to wonder whether Sharukh will meet his lover again or if her family will marry her off to the jerk of a rich a boy before Sharukh finds her. (Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge: my memory of it is a bit rusty.)

It's a bit like grace, a breath of fresh air. When things are certain to go wrong but you can be sure that they will work out for your good if you only hand them over to God to fix, because He knows exactly what you need!

It's only because of God's sacrificial love and grace that I can turn over the page and start a new chapter.

I shall name it:

Surrender. Trust. Patience. Growth.

God's grace is poured out on you, like an inescapable shower of rain that drenches you to the knickers.

Embrace His grace. It will blow your expectations of the life He has planned for you!