For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

FATHER HOOD

On Sunday, my daughter turned 18. I remember that day, 18 years ago when she was born as if it was yesterday. It was not a particularly difficult birth. Not for me anyway. She did not cry much and I carried her towards the window to look at the moon.  I gave a heartfelt prayer of thanks and told my daughter to look up at the moon. That bonding process led to the relationship that we have now despite a number of setbacks along the way. She then rewarded me greatly by giving me all her “firsts” when I was around - step, word and sentence. 2 years ago, we were both heart-broken when she could not get into her preferred choice of sixth-form but then as we discussed her options, I then realised that my little girl was  growing into a young woman and I watched and listened to her in wonder.

It also takes me back to what might have been. 21 years ago, I had a son who was not to live long. Unfortunately, I was unable to deal with his passing as philosophically as my hero David did in a similar situation. After David’s first son (with Bathsheba) died, a sickly baby, the Bible says in 2 Samuel 12:22, that David said (and I paraphrase), “Why should I cry now when the child is dead? When the child was alive, there was hope. Now the child is dead, I will go to him one day.”

In 8 or so weeks, I lived and aged 10 years. I did not think or act rationally and long after his passing, every decision I made and every thought I had was around the birth and death of my son. Outwardly, I was able to speak calmly and quote the Bible to members of the local community who would come and share their condolences. Inside though was continuous turmoil, anger and rage, directed towards myself for being helpless about the situation. In reflection, perhaps, my anger was more directed at God. And then Sue arrived.

I thank the Lord that I had to go through the painful process so that when my daughter arrived, I appreciated her more. Like a wise woman said to me a short while ago, this too shall pass.

HOSANNA

This has been a year of coincidental dates. I shared my birthday with Mother’s Day, my daughter had her birthday on Palm Sunday.  I do not believe in astrology, or reading the stars, however I have asked the Lord that this year should be a year of success, a year of greatness, a year of prosperity for me and all I love. Lord as you make me prosper, may I touch the lives of all around me in a positive way.

THINGS FALL APART

Chinua Achebe died last week. He introduced me to Okonkwo, a conflicted man, who worked hard to achieve power and wealth to separate himself from his father’s legacy – and fighting the religion of the white man. What an agenda! In the end, he ended up committing suicide, therefore bringing about the shame and disgrace to his name that he had spent avoiding all his life. It was the first African writer I read by choice.  Then, I did not quite understand the mysticism and the complex nature of Okonkwo’s driven nature and the consequences. The lesson I learn from it now is hard work and riches amount to nothing unless God has a hand in it. Except the Lord builds a house (or a dynasty, or a family), they labour in vain that build it, Ps 127:1.

For all of those who know me, I am the son of a teacher from a family of teachers. Please if you notice anything wrong about my grammar or punctuation, let me know before mummy sees it.

The art of aging

"In a cavern, in a canyon,  Excavating for a mine, Dwelt a miner, 49er, And his daughter Clementine."

These are the first few lines of the lyrics of the song Clementine, a haunting song that has been continuously ringing in my mind since I became a 49er myself a few days ago. Ok, I am not a miner, I do not have a daughter called Clementine (I have 3 but none of them were named after a citrus fruit, thank God!!), and God has been good to me so they do not have the misfortune of wearing “herring boxes without topses”!!

It is a weird feeling as I stand on the verge of reaching a half century and have had a chance to look back in reflection on my life. My hero, a man of faith from the Bible was just getting around to accomplishing great things. David was anointed King when he was 15, but was enthroned when he was 30. By 40, he was known as a fearless leader with great military knowledge, but as he approached his fifties, signs that he had reached mid-life crises began to creep into his life culminating in his affair with Bathsheba and murder of her husband.

So I ask myself, have I reached mid-life and if so, should I expect a crisis? For example, my taste in music has evolved and become quite eclectic and almost, well, nostalgic. Whereas before, I would chase down that elusive jazz LP latest release to the ends of the earth, I now find myself being more selective in my choices. On the other hand, I am less critical and more appreciative of other music forms that I used to pooh-pooh, though I do have the sense that a lot of the stuff I hear now has been recycled and repackaged. Perhaps the most telling sign for me is that the rate of death of jazz artistes increases proportionately with my increasing age, and makes me very aware of my own mortality.

The same applies to my love of reading, where again; I used to chase down the latest novel by a favoured author till I was “up-to-date” with all their writing, I am now more selective. Still reading voraciously, but now testing other authors about other ideas.

Walking is no longer a chore or a means to an end, but an opportunity to notice the things around me, resulting in a leisurely ambulatory inspection of my surroundings, though one may argue that the phrase “as quickly as his legs could carry him” no longer applies to me as much as it used to.

A friend emailed me recently with the following, “Charle wishing you the very best in last year of the 40s ”. I am going to enjoy this last year in the 40s with the same kind of excitement, ambition and hope as I did the 20s, 30s and the early 40s, and wait for this new era of the 50s. As long as the lord gives me breath. As the psalmist said in Psalm 90:9, 10 and 12, I will now number my days so that I will have a heart of wisdom, and knowledge.

When the cure is a pain in the ….

I have Sickle Cell Disease, a congenital condition which means that my blood cells are sickle-shaped and can crystallise very easily, sometimes causing blockages in my arteries and ensuing in very serious pain. (This is just the short version). The scientists tell me that my cells are abnormal, but Psalm 139:14 says that “I am fearfully and wonderfully made”, so I prefer to think of my blood cell shape as unique.

So I recently had a painful episode (which is usually referred to as crisis, that word again). I took the painkillers that usually help alleviate the pain but one of the side effects is that I itch uncontrollably, so once the pain subsides; I then spend most of the night scratching away. Most of the itch is in some of the most annoying places (my eyeballs? Please….). So then, I take Piriton which alleviates the itching, but then stops the sleeping, till the painkillers wear off, till I take the painkillers gain resulting in the itch (my Black and Decker and surrounding accessories? Please…), resulting in ensuing Piriton, insomnia etc….

Finally…

My birthday this year fell on Mother’s day so I received a phone call from my mother, instead of the other way round. It was wonderful day with phone calls from all the beautiful women in my life (mother, sister, daughter, sister-in-law). When my mother finished singing Happy Birthday, she then sang a second song, bringing back memories from primary school, wishing me many happy returns and the best of luck on my birthday. Somehow, I do not think its luck