Of Ancient Fields And A Harvest Of Words

It’s thirteen days into the New Year and I can’t boast of the “ideal” New Year’s Resolution. This has nothing to do with me forming ‘woke’ like the folks who consider others immature for being resolute about something every year. I used to be like them, hating on New Year’s Resolutions and its strict adherents because every “intellectual” I knew did same. What I didn’t realize was I was shortchanging myself by living a life void of viable plans and actions. I was stuck in a maze, and the only movements I made were circumferential.

Last year, I had a Resolution. It was a decision made after observing how messed up my life had been the previous year. It wasn’t the ideal resolution mostly measured in figures and tangibility at every end of year’s review. Mine seemed like a wish, one transformed to a goal when I owned up to the facts staring at me: I was drowning in depression and needed saving. The whole world seemed too drawn to different issues of utmost importance to throw a rope to one petite soul in a sea of hurts. But in that sea, I realized that people can only extend help as much as they can, but our ultimate breakthrough would only come when we get intentional about our own lives. So on New Year’s Day, last year, I made my first resolution in years: a decision to win the many wars in my head.

Fighting mind wars can be exhausting when condescending voices have developed a bond with the mind that estranges one from the ideal perspective of self. Regaining control of such distorted identity is usually a herculean task. I mean, who would believe a very positive person like me once believed the voices that told me there was no me, that the image I see each time I looked in the mirror is the flopped version of the creator’s ingenuity?

When I chose the victory over my sanity as Project 2017, it was from an understanding that no positivity would embrace me until my perception of me is in sync with the indisputable perception of Christ about me. And for victory’s cause, I surrendered again, my ears to God’s word. That surrendering is the reason I’m falling in love with words this year. If this meets the “universal” standard for New Year Resolutions, then it would be mine for the year: a decision to embrace unashamedly, truth- words spoken about me through the ages.


When I was a stubborn teen with really wayward tendencies, mom  would wear herself out from scolding me. Then she would look at me with misty eyes and tell me that isn’t me, the child God had spoken to her about. She would tell me how she hasn’t forgotten the proclamations made during my dedication as an infant on a Sunday morning. She would weep. And speak blessings.

Dad had never been the ideal father until last year when I chose to see a million reasons why he acted the ways he did, ways that hunted me for years and made me live an hypocritical lifestyle of love in his presence and acute hatred in his absence. But for the things he didn’t do right, he never spoke curses, nor supported mom the only time she got really pissed at me and my siblings and uttered some. Dad made her take back her words. Dad’s God-bless-you’s used to be pathetic those days I needed cash more than prayers. But this year, I’m leaning towards those words. His, and mom’s.

I’m falling in love with words; words spoke over me by strangers I might never get to meet again. Words said casually, and those uttered through some divine inspiration. Words confirming the things mom had told me, and some syncing with what I’d perceived about me. I’m travelling back to encounters with weird souls who flooded my early days with truth; truth that shaped my sense of me in an environment fraught with dysfunctional perception of self, truth that’s pregnant with unfathomable breakthroughs for years to come.

I’m feasting on words, those that gave me a taste of the future while a young convert at 14, just loving the lord in my secondary school’s Scripture Union. I’m relishing every savory expression served as we held hands and worshiped Yahweh with such purity of heart. I’m munching thoughts gleaned from scriptures, every verse and chapter that conforms to my regenerated being. I’m ingesting the gentle nudges and whispers in my days of affliction, the reassurance of hope when ancient words seemed unappetizing.

I’m out in the field, walking down ancients paths -lands that words have plowed over the years – with a sickle sharper than optimism. I’m weeding out negative vibes, uprooting tares of frustrations and misery for the furnace. Because my storehouse of truth seems bereft of supply by pestilence of the past, I’m harvesting words. I’m grafting in all of mama’s prayers, daddy’s blessings, unforeseen prophecies, personal declarations, scriptural promises, and impressions in my spirit; words said many years back, words being said, and words yet to be said… till my barn overflows and there’s no more room for second-guessing my supply.

P.S.: I hope it’s not too late to wish you a happy “New” Year. May you have a harvest of words. And May your mind be saturated with truth- the indisputable perception of Christ about you.

I breathe in music, and exhale words tastefully woven for your soul's pleasure. When high on sarcasm, I could smash your ribs into fine pieces. But whether on a stage, singing out my heart, on in Solitude, scribbling out mysteries, my greatest aim is to bless humanity with the essence of my being.


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