The Hem of Grace, chudleigh, lusaka (2026)

23/03/2026

About how I robbed myself..

Some Years ago, I walked to an Airtel booth one Sunday afternoon with one intention, withdraw a small amount of money, just enough to get me through the day.
Nothing excessive..
The sun was hot, the line was short, and everything moved quickly. When it was my turn, I keyed in my details absent minded. With my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.
I entered my password, confirmed the transaction, and stepped aside.

The agent counted the money and handed it to me.

For a brief moment, something felt off because the notes in my hand felt… too many.

I paused.

I looked at the money again, quietly recounting in my head. This looks like more than what I asked for. I glanced back at her. She seemed calm, unbothered, moving on to the next customer with the confidence of someone who had done her job correctly.

And then the debate began.
Is this Miracle money I thought😂😂

Should I ask her?
What if she made a mistake?
What if I’m just overthinking?
What if I look foolish asking?

For a second, just a second, my conscience nudged me harder. Check again. Confirm.

But I silenced it.

Maybe it’s correct, I told myself. Maybe I’m just not remembering well

And with that, I walked away without looking back lol

I didn’t go home and I didn’t sit down to think it through. Instead, I went straight to the nearest mall. And like money that feels unexpected often does, it slipped through my fingers faster than usual. Little purchases here, something extra there, things I probably wouldn’t have bought if I was certain of my balance.

By the end of it, I felt satisfied… even a little indulgent.

Until later that day.

I needed to send money to someone. It was very important. I opened my phone, keyed in the amount, and hit send.

Transaction failed.

I tried again.

Insufficient funds.

That’s when my heart dropped.

Confused, I went into my transaction history, scrolling slowly, carefully this time. And there it was, clear as day. The withdrawal amount. Not what I had intended.

Much more.

In that moment, everything became painfully clear.

The agent hadn’t made a mistake.
I had.

In rushing, in not paying attention, in ignoring that quiet voice that told me to double check. I hadn’t been given extra money but I had taken more of my own than I realized.

And then I did something even worse by spending it carelessly because I thought it was miracle money lol

Standing there, phone in hand, I felt a strange mix of regret and realization. Because the truth hit me in a way that went beyond money,
I hadn’t been robbed, I had robbed myself.
Not out of malice, not out of intention but out of carelessness, assumption, and the choice to ignore conviction.

And it made me wonder…

How many times do we do this in our lives?

How many times do we move too quickly, make decisions without full awareness, and later find ourselves lacking, not because life was unfair, but because we were inattentive?

How often do we silence that inner voice that tells us to pause, to check, to be sure?

How often do we consume what we have, our time, our energy, our opportunities without mindfulness, only to realize later that we’ve exhausted something we can’t easily recover?

The lesson that day was humbling.

Not everything that feels like a blessing is one.
Not every “extra” is a gift, sometimes it’s simply a misstep we haven’t noticed yet.
And not every loss comes from outside. Some losses are self inflicted, quiet, and unintentional.

That day taught me the discipline of awareness.

To slow down.
To pay attention.
To question gently when something feels off.
And most importantly, to listen to that still, small voice that often knows the truth before we do.

Because sometimes, the greatest losses in life don’t come from what others take from us but from what we unknowingly take from ourselves.
Happy New Week 💕

19/03/2026

She left home the way we all do, without ceremony, without fear, without the slightest thought that it could be the last time.

The morning was ordinary. The kind of ordinary that feels guaranteed. The children moved through their routines, one looking for a shoe, another asking what was for supper later, the youngest clinging just a little longer than usual.
She responded the way mothers do, half listening , half planning the day ahead. There were errands to run in town. It wouldn’t take long. She would be back.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

And everyone believed it.

Because we always do.

We step out of our homes each morning wrapped in an unspoken assumption that departure automatically means return. That the roads we travel will carry us safely both ways. That the world, unpredictable as it is, will somehow spare us today.

She got to town like she had many times before. The noise, the movement, the busyness of Lusaka, very all familiar. Nothing about that day announced itself as different.
No warning. No pause in the rhythm of life to suggest that something irreversible was unfolding.

And then, suddenly, she wasn’t well.

What started as discomfort quickly became something more serious. In the middle of an ordinary errand, her body began to fail her. The same streets she had walked countless times became the place where everything changed.

She didn’t go home that day.

Instead, there were hospital corridors. Confusion. Phone calls no one ever wants to make. A family thrown into a reality they had not prepared for.

Two days later, she was gone.

Just like that nobantu!

No long goodbye. No final embrace with her children. No moment to gather them close and say the things that matter most. Life, as they knew it, ended in the space between an ordinary morning and an unexpected illness.

At home, her absence grew louder by the hour.

Her husband , now carrying a silence he never imagined. Four children ,waiting, asking, hoping, not fully understanding why “later” never came.
A family trying to make sense of something that has no real explanation.

And that is the part that stays with you.

Not just the loss, but the suddenness of it.

How a normal day can quietly become the day everything changes.

How the smallest goodbye can unknowingly be the last.

We move through life assuming continuity. We plan for tomorrow. We postpone conversations. We rush past moments. We leave home thinking, of course I’ll be back.

But the truth is harder, and more fragile than we like to admit: return is never guaranteed.

There are people who kissed their children goodbye this morning and will never do it again. People who walked out of their homes with full lives ahead of them, only for everything to be interrupted in an instant.

Not because they were careless.

Not because they expected it.

Simply because life can change without permission.

And so the lesson is not to live in fear, but to live in awareness.

To speak gently, because your words might be the last someone carries of you that day.

To love openly, because there may not be another chance to say it.

To pause, even briefly, in the middle of routine and recognize its quiet blessing.

Because the greatest illusion we hold onto is the certainty of return.

And the greatest wisdom we can learn is to treat every departure, no matter how small, with the weight it truly carries.

Not every goodbye is just a goodbye.

Sometimes, it is the last one..!!

15/02/2026

About The Power of Letting Go

I remember the day the decision settled in my chest. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It came quietly, almost gently, but once it arrived, it refused to leave. I knew I had to resign.

From the outside, everything looked fine. I had a job. I had routine. I had something predictable to wake up to each morning. But inside, I felt stuck, like I was shrinking to fit into a space I had already outgrown. Every day I stayed felt heavier than the one before. Still, the idea of leaving without a plan terrified me.

What made it harder was the season of life I was in. I had just transitioned into a new chapter, one that required responsibility, independence, and a sense of stability.

This was the phase where having something of your own mattered. Walking away from an income in that moment felt almost irresponsible.

One evening, overwhelmed by the weight of it all, I called my mom. I didn’t call with confidence; I called with fear. I asked her the question that had been haunting me: How will I survive? Saying it out loud made it real. It exposed how little control I actually had and how much faith I was being asked to lean on.

Part of me hoped she would talk me out of it. Tell me to hold on a little longer. To wait until something else came through. But deep down, I already knew that staying was costing me my peace. And peace, once lost, is expensive to recover.

So I resigned.

The days after were strange. There was no rush of excitement, no immediate relief. Just silence. Time slowed down. Doubt crept in during quiet moments, especially when I thought about the future. I questioned myself more than once. Was I too emotional? Too impatient? Too hopeful?

And yet, beneath all the uncertainty, there was a calm I couldn’t explain. For the first time in a long while, I felt aligned with myself. I had chosen honesty over comfort. Faith over fear. Even without answers, something in me rested.

Two months passed. Exactly two.

Then one ordinary day at about 08am, I received a call that changed everything. It was a job offer, for a position I had applied for a year earlier. A year!!!!!
I had moved on. I had stopped checking. I had even forgotten about it. But somehow, it hadn’t forgotten about me.

As I listened, it became clear that this opportunity wasn’t just a replacement, it was better. Better suited. Better growth. Better timing. It required a version of me I was only able to step into because I had let go of where I was.

That was the moment I understood something deeply: life often waits for us to release what no longer fits before it hands us what does.

Letting go felt like risk.
But it turned out to be alignment.

I didn’t lose anything by walking away.
I made space and what filled that space was greater than what I had been afraid to leave behind.
❤️

07/02/2026

Short story time.

In 2022, after my short consultancy came to an end, I found myself at home for months, suspended in an unfamiliar stillness. Days blended into each other as I waited, applied, hoped, doubted. When the call finally came for a position I had applied for earlier, excitement rushed in, followed closely by relief. I remember reporting for work with gratitude in my heart and cautious optimism about what lay ahead.

But before I had time to settle into my new role, narratives began to form around me.

The first colleagues I interacted with did not speak about systems, procedures, or institutional culture. Instead, they spoke about her: my supervisor.

Their words were heavy and consistent: mean, inconsiderate, difficult, someone to be feared. Each conversation reinforced the same image, and slowly, fear crept in. By the end of my first day, I had not yet met my supervisor, but I already felt intimidated by her shadow.

I began the job guarded. I spoke less than I normally would. I second-guessed my work. I anticipated harshness even before it appeared. In many ways, I was no longer responding to reality, I was responding to stories.

Then, inevitably, the moment came when I had to interact with her directly.

What I encountered was not the caricature I had been handed. Instead, I met a professional woman, firm, yes, but clear; direct, but fair.
She had expectations, and she articulated them without malice. She corrected where correction was due, guided where guidance was needed, and above all, she treated me with respect.
Over time, our interactions revealed humanity and balance, things that had been completely absent from the warnings I had received.

That was when the lesson quietly settled in.

I realised how easily we borrow fear. How readily we allow other people’s unresolved experiences, disappointments, or perceptions to become our own truth. I understood that people often speak not to inform, but to offload and to validate their own encounters without considering how deeply their words can shape someone else’s reality.

The experience taught me the importance of discernment. That people, like situations, deserve to be met firsthand. That professionalism does not always come wrapped in warmth, and firmness is not cruelty. Most importantly, I learned that listening to everyone can cost you your own clarity.

Looking back, I am grateful I stayed long enough to see for myself.

That job did more than give me employment, it sharpened my judgment. It taught me to pause before accepting narratives, to separate opinion from fact, and to trust my own lived experience. In a world where voices are many and often loud, that lesson has remained one of the most valuable I have carried forward.

Let us experience people ourselves nobantu. Happy Sabbath ❤️

15/01/2026

THE WOMAN WITH THE ISSUE OF BLOOD (Mark 5:25–34)

For twelve years, she bled.
Twelve years of pain, shame, exhaustion, and unanswered questions.
She spent all she had on physicians, yet grew worse instead of better.

According to the law, she was unclean.
According to society, she was untouchable.
But according to faith, she was still seen.

She did not ask for attention.
She did not demand a miracle.
She said within herself, “If I can just touch the hem of His garment, I will be made whole.”

In a crowd pressing against Jesus, her quiet faith stood out.
The moment she touched the hem, the bleeding stopped.
And Jesus felt it.

Power left Him,not because of noise, but because of faith.

Jesus did not expose her to shame.
He called her Daughter.
He affirmed her healing.
He restored her dignity.
He gave her peace.

Her story reminds us:
Grace is not reserved for the perfect.
Faith does not need permission.
And one touch can change everything.

Sometimes all you can do is reach.
Grace will meet you there.

The Hem of Grace

23/03/2026

19/03/2026

15/02/2026

07/02/2026

15/01/2026

Address

Telephone

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share