Have you ever seen a ship moored at dock? It looks sturdy, serene, and safe. This view can be enjoyed at night or day. However, there is something this ship needs to buoy itself, an anchor. Without the anchor, the ship will drift away from the dock and be exposed to the dangers of the sea.
We tread, swim, and float in the murky waters of life every day and are very similar to vessels at sea. Trained from infancy, we were gradually taught how to set our sails and meander our way. However, many of us have seen people who are very dear to us drift away. Just like that ship without an anchor. Drift away from what exactly? From the dock of values and ideals they learned and were persuaded to believe. Most ships are known to drift away at night time, when the crew and dock watchers are fast asleep, but the type of drifting being discussed is different. It is daydrifting.
In broad daylight, you watch someone dear drift, sometimes unintentionally and at other times, a deliberate effort. Such a person may choose to remove the anchor that helps him or her to stay afloat with the hope of gaining independence and ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’. Strangely, daytime provides excellent vision for both the person drifting and the individual watching the drift take place, but that is where confusion stems from. Everyone expects that anyone can see this someone drifting in daylight, so anybody can help this somebody who everybody is watching drift. Surely, that sounded twisted and so is the situation of daydrifting.
Thinking of such dear ones paints the picture of a person who finds himself in deep waters without any clue on how to swim. Initially, the person started out with a float, which slackened off with the passage of time. It was a really long time. Frantically, with flailing arms he tries to maintain balance at sea, but the float is gone and there is no one in sight. So, the person gives up and succumbs to the demands of the sea.
That is not the same with you dear ones that have drifted, although it may look similar. We are standing at opposite sides of a circle’s diameter and that protruding mound of despondence makes it seem that way. If you could just call out or listen to my voice as I call out to you, then it will be possible to guide you back to safety. All hope is not lost and neither are you.
This is not a condemning piece, pointing fingers at the reader for that is not my intention. It is just a heart that bleeds for dear ones drifting. We saw you drift in daylight. Sorry that we did not reach out immediately, but we want to help you swim back to the dock for you are exposed to the dangers of the sea. To us, you are as good as dead. For the hope that we will see you again is very dim. Therefore, we are armed with anchors to help in any way we can, to bring you safely to the shore. We yearn to say, “Our dear friend was dead and came to life again; he was lost and was found!”
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
DOES THE FINISHING LINE ENERGIZE OR PARALYZE YOU?
Picture a situation where it suddenly seems that you cannot go on anymore, although you can almost see the end in sight. Let us call those situations races, for in actual fact, every individual is involved in a race. Today, I encountered one of those races during my swimming class.
The class instructor wanted everyone to swim the length of the pool with the front crawl stroke. I took off with a nice push and transitioned to the full stroke. As the wall of the pool came into sight, it felt like I had exhausted all my energy. Worse still, I felt like stopping, since I could not go on anymore. Then, it dawned on me that despite the fact that I could see the finishing line, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by what exactly? Perhaps, apprehension of drowning, doubts in my abilities, and worry that I may not reach my goal. Petty things you may be saying. However, this is what confronts every runner in a race, albeit not the drowning part, nonetheless, the principle remains.
Scrutinizing my swimming experience isn’t it interesting to note that I was motivated in the deep end! Could it be that there were less obstacles swimming in the deep than in the shallow? I do not think so. The deep actually poses a greater struggle than the shallow for there I can drown. In the shallow end, the depth did not bother me; it was imminent defeat that elicited concern. I was paralyzed instead of energized by the finishing line.
Dissecting the crux of the matter, one may want to start with what the finishing line represents. It is the evidence that hard work has paid off, the prize received for a personal victory, and evidence that you triumphed against all odds. Sounds like quite a lot to give up for a moment of temporary, undue anxiety. Sometimes, we tend to forget that before we saw the finishing line in sight, we had contended with weightier things. With arms literally locked in combat, we huffed and puffed and prevailed. Yet, the finishing line approached and our determination transitioned to apprehension.
While swimming, the finishing line was the other end of the pool, but it can be anything that you are racing for. Some are in a sprint race, while others are in an ongoing marathon. Whatever the case may be, see the finishing line for all that is. Do not give up some few meters away from the finishing line for not every race can be re-run. Run the race that is set before you with endurance (Hebrews 12:1), while keeping your eyes set on the prize.
The class instructor wanted everyone to swim the length of the pool with the front crawl stroke. I took off with a nice push and transitioned to the full stroke. As the wall of the pool came into sight, it felt like I had exhausted all my energy. Worse still, I felt like stopping, since I could not go on anymore. Then, it dawned on me that despite the fact that I could see the finishing line, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed by what exactly? Perhaps, apprehension of drowning, doubts in my abilities, and worry that I may not reach my goal. Petty things you may be saying. However, this is what confronts every runner in a race, albeit not the drowning part, nonetheless, the principle remains.
Scrutinizing my swimming experience isn’t it interesting to note that I was motivated in the deep end! Could it be that there were less obstacles swimming in the deep than in the shallow? I do not think so. The deep actually poses a greater struggle than the shallow for there I can drown. In the shallow end, the depth did not bother me; it was imminent defeat that elicited concern. I was paralyzed instead of energized by the finishing line.
Dissecting the crux of the matter, one may want to start with what the finishing line represents. It is the evidence that hard work has paid off, the prize received for a personal victory, and evidence that you triumphed against all odds. Sounds like quite a lot to give up for a moment of temporary, undue anxiety. Sometimes, we tend to forget that before we saw the finishing line in sight, we had contended with weightier things. With arms literally locked in combat, we huffed and puffed and prevailed. Yet, the finishing line approached and our determination transitioned to apprehension.
While swimming, the finishing line was the other end of the pool, but it can be anything that you are racing for. Some are in a sprint race, while others are in an ongoing marathon. Whatever the case may be, see the finishing line for all that is. Do not give up some few meters away from the finishing line for not every race can be re-run. Run the race that is set before you with endurance (Hebrews 12:1), while keeping your eyes set on the prize.
A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS
As I contemplate traveling to my home country Nigeria this December, I cannot help but contemplate on the bittersweet experiences I have had in the hustle and bustle of the Lagos metropolis. The food, the noisy crowds, the transportation system, the erratic power supply, which no Nigerian ever forgets, and the struggle to make a substantial living are facets of a Lagosian’s life. Sometimes, it seems like it may be difficult to adjust to life in Eko after a fifteen month sojourn in the United States, which brings me to the reasons why I want to go home.
With the passing of each day in the American city I reside in, I can’t help but notice that I am a very exotic fish in this sea of people. The questions just do not stop pouring in. What kind of meat do you eat in your country? What kind of pets do your country men keep in their homes? You see, I move with friends that are very deliberate about their choice of words, so they try to keep away from the “popular” questions that range from do you have naked people that still climb in Africa and do you live in the wild with lions and tigers at your beck and call?
I remember the first time I attempted to answer “the meat question.” It went like this: “We consume different types of meat from the cow, goat, dog, snails…” My list halted when I saw the expressions on my friends’ faces, so I decided to focus on the cow, which was a huge mistake. I went on to describe the tastes of Pomo, “Shaki”, “Fuku”, “Roundabout”. My response was covered with a blanket of silence as everyone seemingly turned to what they were doing prior to my bizarre revelation. I sought to redeem my carnivorous image by searching through the internet for the “common scientific” names of these meats and I shared this new piece of information with them, but the damage had already been done. I briefly chuckled to myself as I considered the thought of telling them about the “Isi-Ewu” and “Nkwobi”, joints in Nigeria, but I decided to spare them the part two of my “horror” tales.
I have greatly digressed, which is a usual occurrence for me. Nostalgia tugs at my heart as I recall hopping in and out of the red and blue BRT buses to commute from the mainland to the island and vice-versa. Scenes of the irrational CMS bus conductor harassing women, men, and children for 20 naira keep replaying in my head as I reflect on those lazy days that I refused to take the 10-minute walk from City Mall, Onikan to the US Educational Advising Center. Sometimes, it feels like I am losing my hustling spirit, but do not get me wrong for things do not go smoothly here. However, nothing compares to Lagos atmosphere.
Definitely, there will be many changes in Lagos when I return and I hope on a positive note. Also, I will return a changed person who is eager to learn more about my surroundings and the people who occupy them. Don’t be surprised if you see me armed with my notepad and pen at every passing second (except when I’m asleep), taking notes about the types of meat Nigerians eat and adequate answers backed with evidence for whatever question I may be asked when I return from my December homecoming.
With the passing of each day in the American city I reside in, I can’t help but notice that I am a very exotic fish in this sea of people. The questions just do not stop pouring in. What kind of meat do you eat in your country? What kind of pets do your country men keep in their homes? You see, I move with friends that are very deliberate about their choice of words, so they try to keep away from the “popular” questions that range from do you have naked people that still climb in Africa and do you live in the wild with lions and tigers at your beck and call?
I remember the first time I attempted to answer “the meat question.” It went like this: “We consume different types of meat from the cow, goat, dog, snails…” My list halted when I saw the expressions on my friends’ faces, so I decided to focus on the cow, which was a huge mistake. I went on to describe the tastes of Pomo, “Shaki”, “Fuku”, “Roundabout”. My response was covered with a blanket of silence as everyone seemingly turned to what they were doing prior to my bizarre revelation. I sought to redeem my carnivorous image by searching through the internet for the “common scientific” names of these meats and I shared this new piece of information with them, but the damage had already been done. I briefly chuckled to myself as I considered the thought of telling them about the “Isi-Ewu” and “Nkwobi”, joints in Nigeria, but I decided to spare them the part two of my “horror” tales.
I have greatly digressed, which is a usual occurrence for me. Nostalgia tugs at my heart as I recall hopping in and out of the red and blue BRT buses to commute from the mainland to the island and vice-versa. Scenes of the irrational CMS bus conductor harassing women, men, and children for 20 naira keep replaying in my head as I reflect on those lazy days that I refused to take the 10-minute walk from City Mall, Onikan to the US Educational Advising Center. Sometimes, it feels like I am losing my hustling spirit, but do not get me wrong for things do not go smoothly here. However, nothing compares to Lagos atmosphere.
Definitely, there will be many changes in Lagos when I return and I hope on a positive note. Also, I will return a changed person who is eager to learn more about my surroundings and the people who occupy them. Don’t be surprised if you see me armed with my notepad and pen at every passing second (except when I’m asleep), taking notes about the types of meat Nigerians eat and adequate answers backed with evidence for whatever question I may be asked when I return from my December homecoming.
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