Second chances

I have been delaying this post in an effort to avoid the demons I have to confront.  A new year awaits and instead of rising to the challenge with unbridled enthusiasm, I'd much rather take cover, and assume the fetal position.    

My failure to launch originates when less than a fortnight ago (I'm trying to sound old school) my negligent driving resulted in the tragedy accessorizing the rear of my mum's car.  (Okay, 12 days ago I crashed my mum's car.)  Aside:  I finally got my driver's licence after trying 8 times.  I  think it's an accomplishment that deserves to be recorded as a novel.

The damage is minimal, but still an eyesore.  I make a point of not using that side of the car, because the memory of maiming a vehicle is really inconvenient to live with.  It's kind of like living with the guilt of sin.         

James 1: 23- 24 Anyone who listens to the word but does not do what it says is like someone who looks at his face in a mirror and, after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. (NIV)  

People crash cars all the time, and they get over it.  Also, there are worse things to fret over.  But I was overwhelmed with condemnation.  I didn't want to drive again.  I kept reliving it, analyzing everything I did and didn't do.  I felt shame for doing something that stupid.  Two days later my dad got me a brand new car, which I wasn't keen on driving because I was so guilt-ridden.  In fact, every time I get behind a wheel, I get stressed about crashing, a fear I didn't have before. 

That's what sin does.  It makes living unbearable and it steals your joy so you can't appreciate your blessings.  There's always that reminder that you might make the same mistake, that condemnation really gets you down.  It stirs up doubt in your capabilities and who you are.  (It's like "bad driver" automatically became one of the descriptions of my character.)  

This incident disrupted my plans.  It descended like a bird of prey, ready to scoop up my independence and shatter my confidence.  In a week I'll be leaving the place I called home for 23 years.  In the past two months, I've been struggling to keep up with my responsibilities as an adult, and the additional fears I have about driving have been weighing me down.

But as James wrote, you can't just acknowledge the problem (sin) and do nothing about it.  It festers and cripples you.  So yes, I crashed a car, but I can't let that stop me from driving again, now I just drive with more care.  Your sin is a mistake, but once you address it, you move forward in righteousness without the fear of stumbling again because you live by grace.  Alternatively, my mother's translation was: "You need to grow up, but I forgive you.  Now you have to forgive yourself".    

Sure there will be more mistakes I may or may not have control over, but I will not be beaten down by fear.  So, as I uncurl myself from a web of self-mortification, head raised and a heart with hope for the future, I walk into 2015 by grace and mercy for second chances.   

Sex Ed

Sehks.  We think we’re comfortable talking about it, but we really aren’t.  (I suffer from the inability to spell the word correctly barring the one time I got it right for the title of this very blogpost.  Baffling, most girls just giggle, but I had to be the one girl that degenerates intellectually).   

A conversation between my gran, me and my subconscious (about Sehks) went somewhat like this: 

Gran: Do you have male friends Lameez?

Me: … (Stop hesitating, you must say something, eventually) … uuuuhh (hand gestures only work when you’re actually speaking)   uhhhmmmmmm mmmmm (You’re humming now?)  eeeeeeeehhh (What the hell is that sound your making with your mouth?!)

Gran:  It’s alright, you can tell me.  But you must know, don’t have sex with guys.  They will promise you the sun, moon and stars, but don’t do it. 

Me: eeeeeeeehhhh (Seriously?!  Do you know words?  Nod your head, it’ll be less suspicious). 

I feel like my entire generation has been misled when it comes to sex education (brilliant, I’ve suddenly overcome my “misspelling-of-naughty-words-so-that-they-sound-less-naughty disorder”).  Adults encouraged us to talk about it and ask questions (but not too many).  It was awkward, so we asked each other.  (Please, picture 13-year-old virgin girls talking about a naked, grown man thrusting his privates into your privates.  It’s kind of traumatising to find out there’s a hole in your body you didn’t know about).  

  

I remember still coming to terms with the puberty talk.  The area you thought was just useful for urinating will now have blood gushing from it on a monthly basis, because of the child you’re not having.  Naturally, I tried my best to pretend that my childhood wasn’t over by thinking about more wholesome things like puppies and Jesus.  It was easier to choose Jesus over puppies.  The latter soon had a way of making me think about the mechanics of reproduction.  

  

I turned a blind eye but when I was 18, in Bio class, it all caught up when our teacher made us draw and label sexual organs and watch a slideshow about STDs.  My eyes were shut through the whole thing.  She said images of rotten privates were all over the internet and we could always Google it later.  (It’s been five years, I haven’t Googled yet).    

The giddy feeling I got when it came to sex has now transformed into hysterical rage at the f’d up message the world is teaching us about it.  I’d just like to get through one day, or rather one episode of a primetime sitcom, that doesn’t bombard my unsuspecting mind with some vulgar idea about sex.

Example: I really liked watching Game of Thrones.  It’s a great story and I thought I could ignore the monstrous sex scenes.  In the end I decided to stop watching the show because it clashed with God’s perfect design for sex within a marriage. 

I think my generation compromises when it comes to relationships and sex because we’re not taught God’s design for it.  A marriage is supposed to represent the Gospel, our reconciliation with God.  Christian teenagers are taught to “save themselves” or “be pure” for their spouses instead of being taught that their body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, we are the bride of Christ and we have His righteousness.  You’re not “saving yourself” because you love your future spouse/ life partner.  You’re saving yourself because you love Jesus Christ and you want to glorify Him.  

Some little girl is growing up with the perception that one day a Prince (or Princess, now with these new, progressive, homosexual fairy tales) will take her to be his wife and he’ll be mighty pleased to know she’s a virgin.  The motivation is wrong.  It’s been distorted not only by the world, but by the countless relationship talks that lack the Gospel’s message of unconditional love.

Could that little girl love the unlovable?  Could that little girl love a guy who’s a recovering a drug-addict and who’s basically “banged” his way to get a new fix?  I bet she’ll feel cheated once she’s found that she’s been saving herself for a half-dead, fornicator.  Can you blame her?  Pastors have torn pieces of paper to represent the soul ties that will take away pieces of her heart in an effort to stop her from sleeping around.  Nothing about a shredded piece of paper encourages you to love the unlovable.  In fact, it only tells you not to be unlovable.   

She was strictly told to give her whole heart to her spouse because God wants her to have a happy marriage.  Although that’s true, the same emphasis wasn’t placed on giving her whole heart to Jesus Christ, surrendering all things for His perfect and good will to reign in her life. 

Our generation has had the convictions and visions (man-made and flawed) of previous generations drilled into us.  Maybe if we spoke more about the Gospel (the greatest love story the world will ever know), we’d find it much easier to talk about sex.  

Woody Allen, Kangaroo Court and the Gospel

I recently watched Blue Jasmine, the Woody Allen movie for which Cate Blanchett got the Oscar for best actress.  I loved the imperfect ending, it's like Woody Allen respects us enough to give us a realistic conclusion as opposed to those pansy fantasy "happily ever afters" that dupe us.  

I've actually brought Blue Jasmine up in conversations and managed to bond with newsroom colleagues over Woody Allen lines.  I was a bit obsessive and had a mini Woody Allen movie marathon.  It got me thinking about the first Allen film that hooked me.  It was titled Midnight in Paris, and before giving it to me, my friend said, "Just watch it, it will surprise you".  

She was right, watching Owen Wilson caught in nostalgia taught me to value the present.  I was so intrigued I told everyone else to watch it too.  I've made plans to watch  Allen's new film, Magic in Moonlight.  It's got Emma Stone and Colin Firth, so it's bound to be good with such excellent talent.

Speaking of which, Allen has a knack for casting great actors.  Besides the incredible script and the enchanting soundtracks, the actors really pull things together.  

In other news, I'm a huge fan of the duo Capital Cities.  I was first exposed to them when I heard  their song Kangaroo Court.  There was something about the lines "Shut up, shut up, shut up.  Sit down, sit down, sit down" that made me continue listening.  

When the epic music video came out last year, I shared it on each of my social media accounts.  Later I discovered Safe and Sound, Farrah Fawcett Hair and their version of Madonna's Holiday which became my favorites to loop on playlists.  

But a year later, I found some people who didn't know the awesomeness of Capital Cities, and had neither, SHOCK HORROR, seen the Kangaroo Court music video.  So on Friday my colleagues YouTubed the story of a zebra who painted himself black to impersonate a mustang so that he could enter a club.  

They enjoyed the jazzy bits and were gripped by the slaughtering of the zebra who became a lion's supper as a punishment for his crime.  (If you're lost, just google the music video).  

You may be wondering what the point of this is, but in some way, I feel like I was doing a public service by sharing these fragments of pop culture.  It's not like it made a difference in anyone's life.  My colleagues and I could've bonded over something simpler, like coffee.  But I felt like they had to know about something I enjoyed, so that they could enjoy it too.  

And here's the part where it gets intense, see, I don't feel the same when it comes to sharing the Gospel.  I say I'm intrigued by the Gospel, but I don't have the urgency or the courage to talk about it like I did after I watched Allen's Manhattan Murder Mystery.   

It bothers me that I'd talk about fading things that add no value to anyone's life, as opposed to  the one thing that gives life. I think twice about sharing a Bible verse that speaks to me, and then don't. 

In my head I value the Gospel, but my actions show it's more important for me to talk about Woody Allen than Jesus Christ.  

If I valued the Gospel my actions would be different.  

My heart's not there.  My heart's not moved.      

   

Cumberbatch

No.  I am not a Cumberbitch.  I hate the word.  It’s disgusting how it generalises women by one interest.  Can’t I thoroughly enjoy an artist’s craft without my admiration being likened to sexualised worship? Besides, Benedict Cumberbatch himself said “Cumberbabes” would have been a softer option- although, still objectifiable.    

  

I am not a groupie, but I cannot deny that I am mad about Benedict Cumberbatch.  I wasn’t always a fan.  I was first exposed to his acting in the film, Atonement.  He was the paedophile who ruined James McAvoy’s dreams to go to medical school and marry Keira Knightley.  I hated him, because I was all about McAvoy (still am).   Then he played Mary Boleyn’s loser husband in that offensively inaccurate biopic about the Boleyn Girls. 

Of course I was surprised when I heard about the Cumberbitch phenomenon.  I did not understand the hype around this giant British guy and his awkward face.  I had only seen him in supporting roles, and no one remembers those people.  I was keen on watching the BBC series Sherlock until I found out Cumberbatch was the lead. 

But I was young and stupid back then.  One episode of Sherlock and I was charmed by his talented performance, understated good-looks and that British wit.  So much so, I drew up a list of all the things I love about Cumberbatch.  

  

10.  He is British

Thanks to Hugh Grant, we all have a thing for posh British guys.  If Cumberbatch was American, he probably wouldn’t be as-cool.  Also the British gave us cricket, fish ‘n chips, Will Shakes, the Beatles and other cool pop-culture stuff.  Cumberbatch is one of them.    

9. Great looks

At first, I didn’t notice.  But after two episodes of Sherlock, you warm up to that dark hair, those deep blue eyes and kissable lips.  He’s not a poster boy, nor is he a man’s man.  He’s unconventional and that’s attractive.   

       

8.  Bad boy factor

It’s a cliché, but he has mastered playing the role of a villain and a hero.  Bad boy Cumberbatch is different because he’s intelligent.  If he insulted you, that would be a complement.  

7.  Sherlock Holmes

This should have been higher on the list, but I thought it was obvious.  He plays Sherlock  and a bloody good version too.  If you thought Downey was good, you are mistaken.  He is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s high functioning sociopath incarnate. 

6.  He CAN act

He has this ability to transform himself into the character he’s playing.  He totally immerses himself in the role.  I watched him portray Australian Julian Assange, with the lisp in tow.  He can do a great Western American accent.  His versatility is commendable.  I have seen him do off-the-cuff impressions in interviews, and it is breath-taking to watch. 

5.  Harrison Ford

I watched an episode of the Graham Norton Show with Cumberbatch and Harrison Ford.  Long story short- Harrison Ford is a big fan of his.  Well, that settles it. 

4.  All in the name

Benedict Cumberbatch- say it out loud, it packs a punch.  I bet kids didn’t pick on him at school probably because all the syllables made him sound so cool.  It’s not a superstar’s name, and that adds to the element of surprise.  If it’s not already, it will probably become a catch phrase soon- “What the Cumberbatch?”  or “Check out my Cumberbatch moves”  or “You’re so Cumberbatch”.      

3. New leading man

As stated before, Cumberbatch was cast in supporting roles, before he hit the big time (Sherlock).  Ever since he's starred in Oscar nominated movies, one of the recent ones being August Osage County.  Also, I can’t wait for him to take on Moriarty when the new season of Sherlock returns.

2. Anonymity

I love how he’s not famous.  (He almost turned down his role in Sherlock because he didn’t want to become famous).  He’s only popular amongst certain circles (all the Cumberbatch fans I know are smart people- that’s just a general observation from an objective third party person with absolutely no personal interest in the matter). 

1. Cumberbatch

The Cumberbatch-effect is this phenomenon where this British guy who is just doing is job, gets written about and spoken about by these strangers from all over the world.  They’re not talking about him because he does his job really well, or because of his looks or his personality.  Those things are secondary.  They’re talking about him because he’s novel.  You can’t compare him to the likes of Pacino, Nicholson or Washington.  He's different.  He’s “other”.  He’s Cumberbatch.     

August Rush

Time has this rude habit of running out on a person.  The older I get, there seems to be less of it to go around. 

This thing all things devours; Birds, beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds had stones to meal; slays king, ruins town, And beats mountain down- J. R. R. Tolkein (The Hobbit).

It is one of our most valuable commodities, yet we live as though there is an unlimited supply of it. We forget that irretrievable moments are attached to those seconds, that keep slipping away. 

There is the flip-side, where we are so focused on getting through the endless list of things we have to do within a limited time-frame.  We neglect to do the other things that do not fall on the list.  Those things may be the difference between a great mood or a miserable one. 

We are chasing a lead, and time has a head-start.  The unfair disadvantage is that we are left with the consequences of rushed decisions. 

If mastering time-management is part of adulthood then I am failing dismally.  I have developed a bad habit of scheduling time with my friends and then bailing on them to complete other tasks. 

The horror is knowing about these tasks well in advance and then delaying them to the point where the time dedicated to them runs over to parts scheduled for things of "lesser" importance.  Those "things" often happen to be people. 

It must be because negotiations are welcome with people.  They are always open to hearing excuses and they seem to understand, well at least they pretend to.  Tasks are different.  If they are not completed then they just haunt until they finally get done. 

So with the eighth month of the year entering its final week, people start re-examining the year's resolutions.  These reflections are useful for restructuring and addressing management issues. 

Living towards deadlines is never ideal.  But it is so easy to get caught in that trap.  Once a task is completed, the next one automatically springs up.  We become so self-consumed in this race.  What is the point?  What is the point of trimming the hedge when no one smells the roses?  What is the point of having friends when there is no time set aside to see them?

Living rushed lives means we live past each other.  We neglect the things that add quality to life and we are left with regrets about wasted time.   

            




    

     

As You Are

Death, in the beginning, makes you aware of the absence you will feel for the rest of your life.    

It was July of my second year, I had one last macro-economics exam left for the semester.  I decided to stay at uni for the weekend to study, despite being told that my grandmother was being administered morphine to numb the pain of her bone cancer.

I thought, "Gee, I only have one exam left and then I will be able to go home and see her again within a week".  That was the Friday.  On that very Friday, my heart was pulling towards home but my mind was persisting to stay, with logic and discipline.   The following Sunday, while I was curled up in my warm bed, I was awoken by a phone call.  A phone call I wasn't ready to answer.  A phone call I wish I never answered.

Sure I was sad for a few days.  Then there was the reassurance that she was in a better place.  I didn't let it soak and become musty.  I let it run through me... built the altar and left the sacrifice to burn out.  But the smell of smoke lingered on me. You lose something in it, but you take something from it.

The last time I saw her, I forgot.  I know that the last time I saw her she was lying in a coffin... and I know the second last time I saw her she was lying in a bed.  But I forget the last time I saw her as she was.  And with each day I forget more and more.  And I only remember the absence, what it's like when she isn't around.  You lose something, but you take something else.

I forgot what it feels like when she's around, but I know what it feels like when she's not around.

In the past three years, more people I know have slipped out of mortality.  Some of them were just acquaintances, others were friends and some were people who were dear to people that are dear to me.

If people you know are dying, how different does that make you?  What sets you apart?  When will you stop breathing?  When will your presence cease? When will your absence begin?  And who will remember you as you were?

You think people care about you as much as you care about yourself.  You think your company is valuable and that you are leaving a significant mark on the world.  Do people see you as you see yourself?  As you are, you are forgettable.

My grandmother was a brilliant human being, wise, kind and respectable.  But those are adjectives I am comfortable using to describe her because the memories I have of her are leaving me.  I don't know her smell anymore.  I don't know her voice without thinking of the words she use to say.  I can't remember the colour of her eyes without looking at a photograph.  And if I do remember something about her,  I can't trust that it is, as she was.

The smoke may linger in the beginning, but it wears off.  You get immersed in other smells and then you are left with hints of it that come and go, depending on the direction the wind takes.

Death, in the end, is the absence you will leave behind.  The absence of you, as you are.





 

Full Circle

A year ago I was getting ready for the Absa Capital Pioneering Young Women Conference.  I was scared.  I did not know what to expect.  I did not want to go anymore.  I had to psych myself up just to move an inch out of my comfort zone.  I “opened” my mind to it.  I put myself “out there”.  I went through with it.  In the end, it turned out to be one of the best decisions I made for my life.

You see, for many years I dreamed of being a journalist.  I wanted it so badly it hurt just to think about it.  It felt like someone had driven a knife through my heart every time I thought about writing and how I was not doing it.  I was angry.  I was miserable.  I was kept from the thing I loved and I was convincing myself to make my situation work.    

It was hard.  I was lost.  My friends were making adult-decisions, and I was… not.  They were driven and excited about their futures.  I was driven and excited by socks with the days of the week on them, it worked wonders for my laundry schedule.  They were all going for job interviews and I was working out a system to categorize my rejection letters. I was failing at some standard of “life” I created.   

And then this conference came along.  It was like rain that came after a drought.  I met some brilliant women (whom I have already written about).  It unlocked a valuable lesson that steered me into destiny: Do what you love.        

So a year later, I found myself on a plane to the Motherland.  Doing that very thing.  That thing that makes your heart beat faster.  That thing that gives you a rush that surpasses infinities in one moment.  That thing that brings you to your knees with humility.   

That thing that is so scary it is crippling, so you do your best to move forward so that you do not sink into darkness.  That thing that makes you vulnerable and happy at the same time.  That thrill.  That thing you know is the right thing, because you have never been so dependent on God’s grace for life.  

Sure, it takes courage to do it.  That is because things are hard to do on your own.  But those are your dreams, no one else’s.  You cannot expect someone else to share the same passion you have for it, or to complete tasks with the same commitment.  The fire is in YOUR heart.  It is YOUR adventure. It is what YOU love.   

I have only been doing journalism for six months.  What I know is: I am happy when I am working, and I am miserable when I am not working.  And even though I have three jobs and no money- I am rich in the experiences that have grown me. 

Someone told me that my face lights up when I talk about it.  She told me she wished she felt the same way.  She wished she loved what she was doing.      

 Do what you love.       

The Father

My dad asked if I wrote him a blog post for Father's Day.  I was surprised that he asked, especially because this year I was going for the "I'd rather tell you face to face how awesome you are than take up space on the internet and propagate more anti-social behaviour" thing.  But hey, writing about my dad seemed like a good opportunity to involve The Father.

2 Corinthians 6:18 And I will be a Father to you, and you shall be My sons and daughters, says the Lord Almighty.  (Amplified)

There is something about a dad's approval that sets it apart from the opinions and recognition of other figures.  It carries more weight and it has a greater impact on your actions than you may acknowledge.  Knowing that he reads everything I publish means a lot, and I bet my brother runs a little faster just because he knows dad is watching him on the track.   His criticisms count more than any complement we would get from anyone else.  His complements outweigh any criticisms we would get from anyone else.  

This may sound like an obvious statement, but it is as if we were designed to be fathered.  Like, as soon as we were born we were made to reach out to the place we felt most safe. Like, we were made to run towards open arms.  Like, we were meant to make someone proud without having to do anything extraordinary.  Like, we were meant to be swept up in unconditional love without having to secure it.  Like, blessings were meant to run over us without us having to do anything to earn them.  Like, we were meant to be heirs of a kingdom we have not yet seen because we were born sons and daughters of a King we will see.

My dad has set an example of the peace, grace and love my brother and I can have in The Father.  For years I lived as though God was a spiritual entity, detached from me.   But before I met my parents, before I felt their love, He was the first.  He fathered me first.  He loved me first.  And the story of my life is His gracious pursuit of it.  He is dad.  We just do not believe it as well as we should.  

We struggle to trust His words or promises because we do not think of Him as dad.  Only to find, He is the Father we have spent our lives searching for.  His approval, His opinions, His complements, His hopes for our lives, His infinite joy, His incomparable love, His unlimited grace; His fatherhood, that is what we are drawing towards.  And He is the only one designed to fill that role flawlessly.  

Medically infants cry to receive oxygen for their organs to start working, but I am convinced the real reason they cry is because they realized they were detached from dad.  And they got scared because they were not sure they would ever see Him again.  He knew we needed Him, so He gave us someone like Him to hold onto in the meanwhile.  

Whether that person was your actual father, or whether someone else had to double up as your father, the good news is that your real dad is The Father and you can live with the hope that you will see Him again.  

Thanks dad, for showing us the face of The Father.  

Thanks Dad, for showing us your face through our father.  

  

 

 

How to lose a guy in 10 minutes

I hate talking about dating, and I hate that it occupies so much space in our conversations (if you were a woman, you would know what I am talking about).  But a guy told me that the first time he met me, he thought I was crazy.  Well, I have been told a number of times that I was strange.  I have accepted that I am not  first impression-friendly and I am genuinely sorry for making anyone feel uncomfortable.  But I am not apologizing for being me.   

As a woman you are constantly judged.  If you are not too needy, you are too independent.  If you are not too loud, you are too quiet.  If you are not too ditzy, you are too smart.  If you are not too skinny, you are too fat.  If you are not too pretty, you are too... nope, you can never be too pretty.  Speaking of pretty, how is my pure intellect supposed to compete with that?  Seriously it is insulting.  

Unfortunately, first impressions last.   Here is a list for you to chuckle at and nod your head in agreement, because you know as well as I do, how true this is. 

First impression fails

1. You love Jesus. 

You do realise this guy is going to have to compete with the unconditional love Jesus has for you.  That is way too much pressure.  Poor guy, let him tap out. Shem.  

2. You laughed.

Maybe you genuinely thought his joke was funny, but someone told you once that you laugh like Charlie Brown (What does that even mean?  You were not even sure Charlie Brown could laugh).

  

3.  You keep talking about your brother.

What?  Do you have a crush on your brother?  Sure he is a nice guy, even your friends think he is cool, but after Jesus, that is one more guy in your life too many.

4.  You said you want children.

Let us backtrack, at what point in an initial meeting with a guy did you think it was safe to mention procreation?  With that statement you may have single-handedly ruined him for all women.

5.  You are so smart, you sound stupid.  

This is a common case where your mouth moves too slowly for  the words to come out soon enough.  So when you said "I want to be married at 25" you really meant to say "I believe that monogamy is in the best interests of society."  Also, being so incredibly smart alienates you socially, learn to live with it.

6.  You are not smart enough.  

Okay, you are smarter than the average girl, but this guy happens to be a genius in a field you find useless.  There are only so many times you can nod your head in agreement  and say "wow" before he realises you are a fraud, and not in the Mike Ross way.

7.  You said nothing the whole time.

This after you heard him specifically tell a friend that he does not notice girls who do not engage him in conversation.  

8.  You thought it was cool that he knew all the words to Katy Perry songs.

His boyfriend thinks so too.  This is a classic case of misdirection.  Now it is your turn to tap out.  Honey, you would not even know how to begin to compete.  Trust me, this is not your guy.  

9.  You had your serious face on.

Yes you are having a hard week, there are tests and assignments, but all he is wondering is, "Is she constipated? "  You probably are, mentally.  But your game face just gives off "Bitch I will cut you!" vibes.

10.  You did not wear make-up.

Sure, you are all for natural beauty, besides you have sensitive skin.  But he does not care about your allergies.  He cannot look into your almond shaped eyes if they are not framed with eyeliner and he can not kiss chapped lips (Gross- would you?).  All those girls, Emma Stone, Jessica Alba and Rachel Weisz use Revlon for their blemishes.  (Seriously though?  You thought natural beauty was a thing?)

11.  You wore clothes.

Maybe if you pranced around naked, more guys would open doors for you.  You would certainly get more attention.

12.  You left your hair curly.

I know you like curls and the sleek look is generic and overdone.  But he cannot run his fingers through your hair.  Screeches are not romantic.  Besides, why would he make an effort if you did not?

13.  You are not easy.

You are too much effort.  He was trying to flirt but you could not pick up his hints because you thought he had a cold which made his voice sound like that, or maybe there was something in his eye because he was winking so much.  It is like when you have to explain a joke to someone, once you unpack a punchline, it is just not funny anymore. 

14.  You punched him.

Ooh, too soon.  So, you were so desperate to touch him, the only way you knew how was to punch him?! 

15.  You are that girl.

You know, the cool one.  But he does not know yet because his 10 minutes are up.  If he could not stick around for you for more than 10 minutes, then he probably was not worth your time anyway. 

So, do not be sorry about someone who was not man enough to accept the challenge that is you. 

Do not be sorry about someone who prejudged you before he got to know you better. 

Be sorry about compromising your character to impress someone with whom you might not have a future.  And be sorry about not valuing the freedom of being yourself.    

Mum

It is the fifth year I will not be home for Mothers Day.  I guess if you keep telling yourself, "there's always next year," eventually next year becomes five years later.

I love my mother. I can not stop talking about how much I love her.  So much so, my friends think she is awesome.  And she is.  She is wise, and kind and has a killer sense of style.  Genuine- when I wear the clothes she picks out for me, people actually complement my dress.

But I miss her.  I miss talking to her about irrelevant things I worry about, and then listening to her tell me that I should not worry about irrelevant things.  I miss her curries, the way she makes hot chocolate, her fingers running through my hair to set it right, when she dusts the back of my shirt, her hugs before she leaves and indeed, her screeching voice when I do something wrong.  

When I do not know what to do, I quickly try and think about what my mother would do in the same situation.  She is the first person I call when something important happens.  She is the first person I call when I am in trouble.  I call her first, just because.  Her opinion matters most.  She is my person.  She is my home.  She was my first home.  She is the reason I call home.  And wherever she will be, is home.    

She knows me.  She knows when I am scared.  She knows when I am confused.  She knows when I am happy.  She knows who I am not.  And when I am with her, I can be just that.  The person no one else sees.  The person who is just irritated with the world.  The person who wants to be left alone for a few hours.  The person who is not brave and undefeated.  She is my hero when I can not be the hero.

She is the good part.  She inspires my story.  She is fearless.  She is strong.  She is forgiving.  She loves.  She is Mum.

AND

This is the hard part.  One day.  I will have to inspire.  I will have to be fearless.  I will have to be strong.  I will have to be forgiving.  I will have to love.  I will be Mum.

LOVE YOU MUMMY

       

  

Who's your friend?

Every guy I meet always wants to know about some friend of mine... "So, who's your friend?... Can I get her number?... Will you tell her about me?"  Sometimes I think that is God's idea of a practical joke.  After five years of this long-running joke, it simply is not funny anymore... Who am I kidding?  It is probably so hilarious, even the disciples laugh about it.  I bet they gather around a table and hit the replay button multiple times.  They probably pick the slow motion option too, freeze-frame, real time, the works.  Oh my word, my life is a PVR decoder advert.  

Well, the topic of this post has got nothing to do with the fact that I have too many attractive friends, but rather, that I have an unattractive friend who I have been subconsciously trying to hide because I have been ashamed of our relationship. I have denied this person in public and rejected opportunities to talk about this person or acknowledge my affiliations to this person by my actions.  

Luke 22: 60-62 Peter replied, "Man, I don't know what you're talking about!" Just as he was speaking, the rooster crowed.  The Lord turned and looked straight at Peter.  Then Peter remembered the word the Lord had spoken to him:"Before the rooster crows today, you will disown me three times."  And he went outside and wept bitterly. (NIV)

In the past few years, I feel like I have been walking on eggshells around non-Christians, careful not to offend them by announcing my faith with statements like "I will pray for you,"... "Wow God really blessed you,"..."Thank God for His protection."  I muted that voice so that I would not trespass on someone's belief system.  I thought I was being considerate and respectful of their faiths, but it came at the expense of my faith.  I started making compromises.  I always chose not to speak up in discussions about religion and spiritualism because I did not want to be the blow-horn Christian everyone hates.

Things escalated sooner than expected and I found myself in positions where I was constantly "tolerating".  I condoned slander against my God.  Someone would cuss in my presence and I would not even flinch. I would always second-guess mentioning God in a conversation, or Facebook status, heck even this blog!  It was okay for people to offend me, but it was not okay for me to offend them, because I did not want to "hurt" anybody.

I have grown up being hurt by hypocritical Christians and almost every non-Christian I meet has been hurt by a hypocritical Christian.  In my attempt to be the opposite of a hypocritical Christian, I achieved hypocrisy.  Saying one thing and doing another.  Saying I am a Christian, but not acting like one.  What I really had to do in those situations was share the Gospel.  If I did, non-Christians would realise that Christians are not perfect people passing judgment on them.  It is true, we are terrible people and we do hurtful things, but we have been sanctified and we are being made into the likeness of Christ.  Christ is perfect.  Christ does not judge. Christ does not hurt. We are only Christians because God graciously chose us first, and we rely on that grace every day for life.  

I forgot that being a Christian meant that I was a follower of Christ and simply walking in obedience to Christ would not hurt anybody.  I was trying to achieve Christianity by my own strength, which is impossible and the opposite of the Gospel.  Apostle Paul illustrated that perfectly

Romans 7:19 For the good that I want, I do not do, but the evil I do not want is what I keep doing. (ESV)

But I was an idiot and I made stupid decisions. I made a mistake.  I offended the only person who really matters. I became Peter and denied Jesus and there is nothing I can do to retract those actions. All I can do is trust and rely on His grace to come through for me without fail, as it always does.

The good news is that Peter was restored and he could live without shame.  He even died for the cause of Christ.  And that is what I aspire to do, live proclaiming the goodness of God and the Gospel of Christ by my words and actions.  

So, let me introduce to you a friend of mine.  His name is Jesus.  We have been friends for about 10 years.  He has been a good influence in my life.  I have been trying to be less of myself and more of Him.  And when I meet new people, I always pray that they will get to know Jesus-in-me and not me, because I will hurt people, but Jesus will never.  

I am Lameez Omarjee and I am unashamed to say that Jesus Christ is my friend.  

An Education

I was blessed to graduate for my honours degree.  It brought back memories of my first postgraduate year.  Seeing my old classmates reminded me of the valuable time we shared, and how over a span of a year we became friends.  Although this time, things were different.  We were much different.  Not so fresh faced and eager to impress as we were the year before.  We are grounded adults now, and our stories are written on our faces.   

Proverbs 3:13 Blessed is the man who finds wisdom, the man who gains understanding (NIV)

It has only been a matter of months, but we have already grown into the responsible citizens we were groomed to be.  Our parents looked proud as they watched us engage in adult conversations, “What are you doing these days?”...  “How are things at work?”... “When is the wedding?”... “What is it like living in a different city?”  A year ago we asked different questions, “Did you read the articles for class?”... “How is your research coming along?”... “Do you want to hang out after the last exam?”... “Did you get a job offer yet?”

Those were days we took for granted and now some of us are doing the very things we set out to do, and have found that things in reality are much more difficult to accomplish than in theory.  However, we were inspired with hope to fight for the things we believe in and to stand up for our values, unshakably and relentlessly.  A special moment for me was before I got capped, the acting Vice Chancellor said, “Yey, yey for girl power.”  I was pleased to receive those simple words from a fiery feminist and I will always hold onto them as I endeavour to leave my fingerprint on the world.

Every day since the completion of my studies I have found more reasons to be grateful for my education.  Education liberates you from the only thing withholding your freedom; your mind.  It sets you free from your self-doubt and the limiting ideas of your identity and the path your life will take. 

An education throws you in the company of unlike minds who have tapped into greatness, just as you did when you chose it.  The choice of education is what some people fight to have and what others fight to keep, and the ones who choose to share it find friends.  As I tried to soak up the company of my friends one last time before the rest of our lives, I thought about how their presence made a difference in my life.  I was grateful that these great people shared their education with me. 

I did not just work to receive an honours degree, I gained so much more in that experience and I wish more people would make the choice to fight for their education.  I learnt that an honours degree is not about being awarded the degree, but rather the things you learn in obtaining that degree.  It is not the academic knowledge and understanding you gain, but rather the self-trust and independence you develop.  It is not the positions you get to choose from once you are qualified, but rather the courage to compete for the likes of Oxford and Columbia.  It is not the games or the parties you had to miss, but rather the taste of what it feels like to solve problems through research.  It is not the networking you get to do, but rather the lifelong friendships you seal. 

An education is not a gift reserved for the gifted, but a task that challenges you to hold on a little longer and to push a little further because the pleasure of learning is one of those blessings God sets aside for you to appreciate with moments of “Aaaaah!”

when i look at the cosmos

when i look at the cosmos i think of you

their fragrance brushed past our noses to lure us

through rolled down windows we stretched out with no fuss

we pulled over to pick flowers for you

you smiled when we handed the few

you rummaged for a drinking glass

your hands, wrinkled, clutched at them in their half-sized vase

the rain brought them and you knew

soon we would pick flowers to lay on your grave

to protect us you held back tears

these were memories in time you were trying to save

for the morning you would let go of your fears

we see now that you were brave

and when i look at the cosmos i think of your valuable years

Being Sherlock

In the past month, I have been engulfed in a frenzy, commonly known as the newsroom.  Being able to practice journalism is a dream come true, but it has proven to be quite a challenge.  So far I have learnt that my writing skills are less than mediocre, I have terrible if not non-existent people skills and I suffer from abnormal internet dependency (which may be a misguided self-diagnosis of a too-modern-to-be-medically-documented disorder).  I have also carelessly been creating new adjectives by breaking grammatical rules and overusing the dash. 

The very short time I have spent in the newsroom has just reaffirmed that I am useless at confrontation and always anxious.  My dreams (or nightmares), involve me pitching bland stories for news conference that inevitably get cut.  At every waking moment, all I think about is the next possible story I could break.  It does not help if you covered a front page with a lead or got a byline in the paper, because the reality is, there is always a new edition to produce and you need to find something else to fill the pages, which is just as newsworthy and probably more radical. 

Contrary to the popular belief that television shows about professions are nothing like the real working world- Will McAvoy’s Newsroom is legit!  We are expected to haul out incredible general knowledge on demand, engage in debate (not just internalise all the cool arguments you could use- actually say them out loud), be tech-savvy (having three inactive social media accounts is not technologically economical) and think on your feet (because thinking with your brain is not helpful if you want to be fast enough to meet deadlines). 

 

I have learnt about Chomsky, hegemony and objectivity, and also that there is no such thing as objective truth.  But the most valuable thing I have learnt is to be Sherlock Holmes.  Be an observer; a reader of people and things.  Everything is a clue and you just need to figure out how it ties in with the bigger picture.  Be charismatic.  Be knowledgeable (of the necessary things).  Be tenacious.  Be hungry.  Be ten steps ahead.  Be a troublemaker.     

I am out of my depth, given my history of conservative, wallflower-ness, I am not Sherlock.   Sherlock Holmes is one of the few literary heroes I look up to.  Recreating him in me is madness.  Firstly, it would upset Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from beyond the grave and secondly, it would be impossible to be Sherlock without having a Watson to carry through this spectacle (and I doubt any of my friends have read enough Sherlock to truly capture Watson’s character).  

The only way I know how to deal with these explosive feelings is to bare all my insecurities in a blog for strangers to read and judge me for not keeping a journal. But I have to write this with the intention of someone to read.  I have to write because someone else wants to write (or do something equally brilliant) and their fears of inadequacy are holding them back.  Too many of my friends should be blogging, or vlogging or doing more productive, impactful, Sherlock things, but there is a tiny voice inside of them which has convinced them to do nothing.  That voice is doubt. 

 

You doubt whether you are good enough, smart enough, talented enough, Sherlock enough or just enough.  I use to feel that way about writing, but I was blessed to have a fellow writer, and a good human being share a quote that changed my perspective forever, “The worst thing you write is better than the best thing you didn't write.”  That has stuck with me, and whenever I question whether I should write something that seems strange (like this post for example) I remember the words of that quote, and this one, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.”  When you do what you love, the pleasure of it outweighs all the trivial things.  Do not let doubt take away from a good experience.  Even though the newsroom is intimidating for me- I love every minute of being in that rush.  

Do you think Sherlock would have solved all those cases if he listened to the doubtful voice inside of him? (And yes, he had doubts.  After his encounter with Irene Adler stupefied his crime-solving skills, I bet his ego was bruised and he felt like he could not solve another case- for like 5 seconds, but still!)     

I am nowhere near Sherlock, but it will not hurt to try.  So go do that thing, whatever it is.  Your worst attempt is the best effort you never made.  Sherlock knows, and Watson agrees.