How to Lose Weight (the stuff that really works)

About 4 months before my graduation, I decided that it was time to shed off the freshman 15 I had gained over the course of 4 years. I wanted to lose 13kg in 4 months so that I could weigh the same as I did when I first matriculated – which was 51.5 kg. My final weight the week before my graduation was 54kg, a whooping ten kilos less than what I had weighed at the beginning of the year. I’m not sure how much inches I lost off my waist – I never got round to buying that tape measure from Amazon – but I know certainly stopped looking pregnant (!).

I lost weight through REGULAR exercise six times a week & an overhaul of my diet. There’s a lot of info, tips & tricks online on how people lost weight (some of which are great, read them). Here’s my spiel on what I did that changed it all for me i.e. moving from I want to lose weight to actually losing weight.

1.  I set a goal – set a goal of how much you want to lose e.g. I want to lose 10kg or 1kg. It’s not enough to say you want to lose weight. It’s like that SMART acronym they tell you during motivational speeches. Let your goal be specific, measurable, action-oriented, realistic and time-based. I aimed to lose 13kg in 4 months i.e. roughly the rate of 3.5kg a month or 7-8 pounds a month. That meant I wanted to lose almost a kilo a week. A kilo is roughly two pounds, and a pound is about 3,500 calories, which means I wanted to reduce my caloric intake by 7,000 calories in a week – both through exercise and my diet. That’s about 1,000 calories a day, and you can do half & half – 500 calories from your diet and 500 from your exercise. 
2. I educated myself – The Bible says, “My people perish for lack of knowledge.” And the same is true when it comes to losing weight. I gained extra weight out of ignorance. Exercising irregularly for only 20 minutes at little resistance will not make you lose weight. It’s a question of simple system dynamics. If you burn more than you take in, you will lose weight. Otherwise, the scale will never move. I googled for tips. I calculated my BMI and BMR i.e. how much calories you burn at rest. Mostly though, I relied on the advice of my good friend Shefali, who introduced me to Blogilates. I modified many of Cassey Ho’s workouts so that I could do them at the gym. I heard cardio is the only thing that burns fat, so I did cardio for 30 minutes six times a week – running, walking, sprinting, staircase-ing. Whatever it takes to get your heart thumping. I got rid of my main snacks (cheesecake, kimchi rice & mozzarella sticks), replaced whole milk with fat free milk or almond milk, regular yogurt with fat free yogurt or greek yogurt. I had mostly salads for lunch. I don’t take sugar usually so that helped. I researched on calories and knew the basics e.g. one egg is 70 calories. You don’t have to use this method (counting calories) but whatever you do, educate yourself. 
3. I motivated myself – I was sharing with my best friend recently that we have to have learnt by now how to encourage ourselves – intrinsic motivation! The same applies to all that comes with attempting to lose weight. You have to learn to motivate yourself. Do whatever it takes. I went to the gym first through the motivation of two friends (bless your souls), but I eventually realized that their stamina could not sustain me. I had to own the process. You have to own the process and you can’t do it until you decide to get up and go to the gym, do twenty push-ups instead of ten, run at 6mph instead of walking 4mph. I would motivate myself by imagining that I had become so fit I would instruct the older women in my church on how to lose weight. Yes, dream! :-)
4.  I allowed myself to fail (but not too often and don’t compare yourself and get back up ASAP) – In April, I didn’t lose any weight. I knew I had eaten dessert a lot and failed to watch my calories. I cheated on too many days. I was saddened until I realized that the process had consumed me. I was weighing myself every other day waiting for the scale to move. I was looking at myself in the mirror too much. I was testing my core for strength too much. I had increased my cardio to 45 minutes and had begun running for an hour every Monday. I thought I had reached a plateau until I realized that I had overdone the process. Yes, I had cheated, but more importantly, I had let losing weight become an ingredient to my happiness. You don’t want to become obsessed with your weight. You don’t want to think your world will end because you gained kilos. Throughout my weight loss journey, I reminded myself that I was out to achieve not just a healthy body, but also a healthy mind, heart and soul. Never ever bash yourself. You are not your weight. You are not your weight. 

I have retired from my weight loss journey and I am now on a toning and lifestyle fitness journey (one day I will write about that journey). To read the only two posts I wrote about losing weight (I was too busy losing weight to write), click here.

Resources for you (in their order importance to my weight loss journey)

FRIENDS (!) - Neil who first motivated me to be serious about the gym, Tamu who joked about the gym but is a serious gym superstar, and Shefali who taught me more effective cardio and stopped me from harming my joints (ouch)- she knew everything I didn't know. A friend who knows her stuff is invaluable. 

BLOGILATES BLOG & YOUTUBE – A woman you will say you hate but you will love her deeply when you can do ten burpees without straining (too much). I used printouts of her videos in the gym and modified her meal plans. 

SHAUN T’s FOCUS T-25 - Fast 25 minute workouts for the days you can't make it to the gym

BMI/BMR CALCULATOR - Get to know your stats

He calls me Jero

He starts calling me “Jero” right from the start
I tell him my name is Miriam Jerotich and I emphasize the “J” the way I like to 

so that no one misspells it. But he still pronounces it the right way:

The “J” melts into a “Ch” and I become “Cherotich” and then “Jero”.
And when he calls me Jero it sounds almost like the way Tai used to call me,
“Chero”
When he asks where I’m from the anger doesn’t burn in me like it did at 

Malindi Airport when the security guard asked me where I come from, the way 

Kenyans ask you where you come from so that they fit you onto their 

ethnic map
It doesn’t hurt when I tell him where shags is
It doesn’t hurt when I let him call me Jero.

Sometimes,
it’s okay to break the rules.

#CantSayGoodbye

It’s one of those nights that I stay awake past 1 a.m. Not because I am expecting a call from you but because my heart is aching. The kind of nights when tears will come to my eyes and I will realize that the answer will be to write, and I will write a stream of words and sounds, the balm for my heart, the price for not journaling enough or not writing at all and realizing that the pain of not connecting with you is a night when I stay awake past 1 am with a heart that’s beating too fast and a runny nose and tears that weld dark mascara lines down my face.

They lied when they said we never say goodbye. Because we do, everyday, like the blue flame of a dying gas burner. The moments when we are not breathing the same air, and I am remembering how right now I would be trying to sleep over in your apartment instead of going back to my own room, moments when I wish that I were fighting sleep so that we could stay up till 1 am, together. The coffee talks when we drank tea instead and you asked me, “How was your week? How can I be praying for you?” It’s the night when I realize that living out this 'goodbye' is a process that one holiday will not complete. I will not realize that I am performing goodbye when I am finally stepping out of the house, and a new life comes to me unbidden, crystallizing in your place, black and white faces in a new congregation, old old friends. Why is my heart aching, then? Why do I feel like I’m tearing you out of my heart so that I can make a place for them? Why do I think before I speak like I am striking out the thoughts that coursed through me when I was still with you?

This is not heartbreak because it was never love. It was life. It was too many its, too much for words to fathom into meaning. So it comes like too many sentences that mean #cantsaygoodbye #imissyou #ILoveYou. Like an aching heart and a night when sleep won’t come.  

Dedicated to my Dartmouth family. I miss you my friends. #livingoutagoodbyefrompeopleyoulovesomuchishard

The Stories I Tell about Myself

We lunge back to those memories one day and begin to trace connections about our lives. We see the recurring themes and tropes, the narratives we tell ourselves about ourselves, the stories we tell others about ourselves. They become such an inherent part of us that the stories become a life unto themselves, till we can’t recognize the stories we tell about ourselves. We don’t realize until we have told it enough times and it hits us that we are saying the same thing over and over again, feeling the same emotions, pursuing different dreams with the same motives, that the doorways keep opening through the stories we cannot stop telling about ourselves. And our lives becomes projects that stretch across decades, processes of investigating more about the stories we tell about ourselves, the facts, the evidence, the theories. We seek to understand the stories so that we can understand ourselves, comprehend your humanity. Our purpose for living.

I have two stories that I tell about myself. The first is the story of my mother, the second the story of Kenya's 2007/2008 post-election violence. When I look back at my college career, how it began and ended, I see how the stories I tell about myself carried me through. In these stories my life became encapsulated in a way that I do not yet fully comprehend, that I only slowly discover as each year folds away.

When I tell of my mother I tell of the courage that she has taught me. You must remember that I grew up with my mother, so I took it for granted that women could do anything. I say that she taught us English by reading the Bible with us every morning. I tell of how I cried when she travelled to Kisumu - I was just a few months old and longed for the warmth of her bosom. I tell of how I am like her, because I can out-speak everyone but she’s the only one who can out-speak me. Mostly though, I say of how she ran away from being circumcised, how she gave up the traditions and mysteries and belonging that would come out of that because she yearned for something more, a future that she could not yet see, a dream beyond the valley she was born into.

When I speak of the post-election violence, I tell of the fracture of ethnic identities. The shapes of the violence feel like blocks in my head, a myriad colors that I do not fully understand, why I would hurt so much from something I never directly experienced, why I feel it to the core of my soul, why identity matters so much and I begin to notice the little ways that we set up boundaries between us and them, between me and you. It becomes a question that keeps me up at night, and when I write research papers in college, I draw from the shapes and colors and begin to explore the webs of meaning, the clouded confusion. I want to make it all black and white, to say, “This is the way you should live,” and yet the more I search the less I find. It becomes like water slipping through my hands.

We tell stories about ourselves because we are searching for meaning in our lives. And we recount them because we are seeking for purpose.

I have two stories that I tell about myself. But greatest story I want to tell about myself is the story about You, this unchanging love that I am still comprehending. This overwhelming sense that I cannot bear to fear for the future if the story will end the way it started. With You. When You formed me in my mother’s womb, when I will see You after I have finished telling the stories that I tell about myself. I want Your story to be the best story I could ever tell, the way that the ache in my heart dissolves because I have One in whom I can place my trust. I want to tell the story of how You loved us so much that You let Your Own Son redeem us, how He died a shameful death and even in that promised to never leave us alone. 

I want Your story to be my story.

On Turning 23

God blesses those who mourn for they will be comforted (Matthew 5:4, NLT)

It’s 1 a.m. when Papa phones me and everyone on the floor is asleep. His voice sounds just like it did when I was 12, and Mama fell out of the sky. He tells me you are gone. Gone? I ask how. He tells me you were sick. I ask him why he never told me you were sick. He forgot. He forgot to tell me that your stomach kept hurting when they came to visit you in hospital. He forgot to tell me that you had fainted on Christmas day, when you saw Jesus, when you tasted heaven before you came back and it was only three weeks and then you were gone home for good. I don’t feel when the tears start to burn the hollows and I forget to breath. I am remembering the unwritten email. I am thinking about the girl next door. Was it yesterday that she found out her dad had leukemia and she stayed awake crying? I had sat next to her. Quiet. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t know what to say, but here I am too, crying. I claw the carpet. I scratch my leg, my nails drawing along the scars I had etched on myself when I was younger and I had the tantrum. I ask God why. I call the boy. I want him to tell me why. I call the teacher and he tells me that I shouldn’t ask God questions because I might not like the answers He gives me.

So I write. I write to you. A poem. A letter. A song. A tribute. A stream of consciousness. Metaphors no one will understand, memories no one will decipher. An email you will never reply to. I make a video. I write a devotional. I fill a journal. I wear a red scarf and I write about being in the presence of your Great Absence. I write for three years. I write from all the angles I can imagine. I create characters, I set the scenes, I paint the sky grey. I am the doctor who sees you on your last day, I am Mama who washes you, I am the employee who works in the building next door. I am you. I want to take your place. Like the day Mama fell out of the sky, and I asked God to take her broken vertebrae and fuse it with my bones. Is this what they call love? Is this obsession? Pretense? I am in your memories, and yet I am not there? Mama visits me and tells me I am like you, but is this true? Did they see me when I was walking with you, after I hurt myself, after you tell me about God and I had not opened my Bible in weeks, after I mourn about the boy I love who doesn’t love me? Did they see me? Did they see me when I thought to myself that I would always believe in your God, that I would try to live like you if only to see you when I am gone too?

They say my hair is wild so Mama offers to braid it, but the braids unfurl in my dreams, untamed. My hair looks like it did when we were four or five, and I wore that checkered skirt and rainbow shirt. Did you know I wore the same clothes when we had taken a photo that Sunday before in front of Barclays bank? Did you know that a bicycle ripped my ankle and I had to get a dressing every week? Tradition says that I should forget those who are gone, so I remember them when no one is looking. I think about them when I am in the matatu in Eldoret and we are driving from Oasis down Nandi road and I begin counting all the hospitals I have visited. I think about my grandfather when he killed the rabbit and roasted it. I think about my grandmother and the voice that I never heard. I think about my cousins. The car accidents. The strokes. The gunshot wounds. I think about my teacher from primary school and the day I visited him in hospital before the cancer ate up his liver. He had been my favorite teacher. I think about people I do not know. Mostly, I think about you. How I stayed close to you in that photo. How we were two or three when we cheered for those kids who had graduated from Bunny’s Kindergarten. Did you know that after I joined Bunny’s (and you went to Lion’s) we visited a Hindu temple and I bowed before god Shiva? Did you know that after I joined Makini I asked the students if they knew you? I did not remember your first name, so I said,“Tai. Her name is Tai.”

I have a photo of your photo and it sits on my desk. I look at it when I wear red lipstick, and I remember it as I am cutting my birthday cake today. It doesn’t fit into the six by four frame I have bought, so I wedge it next to the bookmark I have not yet addressed to myself. The one that declares, “Be still and know that I am God.” I bought the frame because of the Bible verse lining the edges, infamous make-you-feel-good Jeremiah 29:11, “For I know the plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.” This is the verse to tell you not to be scared because someone somewhere has your hope and your future. I have already been told that it has been taken out of context, used to pamper dreams that do not match the original intentions. I never quote the verse. I have replacements. Replacements when I think about the context plans and out-of-context plans. The unfinished book. The story that’s taking me one year to write. The “feminist” essay. The memories that only come to me at 1 a.m. The things I can only write after I have cried. This pina colada cake on turning 23. I will give away the photo frame when I graduate. I no longer want reminders of what was, what got broken, what got lost, what got wasted.[1] Yet I know I will carry the photo of your photo with me, because I think finally this is what they call love: That day when we are two or three, and the ground is a dusty white, and we are thinking about a hope and a future. That day when I don’t create characters or set scenes or paint the sky grey. I am in God’s Great Story. At last, every chapter is better than the one before.[2]

If DEATH my friend and me divide,

thou dost not, Lord my sorrow chide,

or frown my tears to see;

restrained from passionate excess

thou bidst me mourn in calm distress

for them that rest in thee.

I feel a strong immortal hope,

which bears my mournful spirit up

beneath its mountain load;

redeemed from death, and grief, and pain,

I soon shall find my friend again

within the arms of God.

Pass a few fleeting moments more

and death the blessing shall restore

which death has snatched away;

for me thou wilt the summons send,

and give me back my parted friend

in that eternal day.

-Charles Wesley, 1762

The photo of your photo

[1] Joan Didion, Blue Nights
[2] C.S. Lewis, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle

That time

I didn't know what love is until he was gone
Until we stood holding hands whispering our prayers to the
God you loved
Until I saw you and crumpled to the ground in fear of
the future that my eyes could no longer see
Until I spooned with you through the night listening for
the nightmares that keep you awake
Longing for a morning
When you will wake up and sing your Methodist hymn
"It is well with my soul".
I ache for you
Because you loved him
And I love you.

An odic essay for my Father

I will buy you shirts and cologne and ties and cuffs over the years, walk with you into the sunset days. But I know that the best gift of I can give, is this, I hope. My offering of love in the art that you so encouraged me to take up. You have covered me in your prayers each day, I know, since my first breaths in half-caste skin and baby hair. You have called to check up on me each week. And even as I pursue my dreams, the ones I am too scared to even mouth, I am surrounded with comfort, because there's the beauty to having a father like you, someone who runs alongside me and makes sure that all the doors are open, all the paths stripped bare for my feet to graze, who believes in my unending strength to give life to those dreams, who forgives. I have never known a love like yours, and in the silence of my days, I pray that I don’t, so that the taste of your love will hover over me all my life, and I will sing today and everyday like Miriam did when they crossed the Red Sea. And I will call myself blessed. Because I know you, and I am yours. The man who loves God so wholly, so perfectly. When I curl into sleep I pray that I grow into your kind of faith, your stillness in the turbulence of life, your assurance that no matter what, God will provide. I remember praying once that God would make me fifty-years-old, your age then, when I first realized that your kind of faith was something I did not have. And on that day, more than anything, I wanted to be you. I can't wait to see you again, to be swept up in the embrace of your arms, to know how I am always home in your presence. In the man who has given me a Father's love, and more. I often write how I live my life through Mum's eyes and love, but I do so, I know, because she chose well, because I have this great foundation in you. You have made it possible for me to be me. And I call myself blessed because I am your daughter.

Happy Father’s Day everyone!

My favorite songs about fathers: Luther Vandross, Dance with my father, and Steven Curtis Chapman, Cinderella

Want to read more about fathers? Click here :-) 

Burdens We Were Never Meant to Carry

It seems trivial at first because it’s become a part of you. It sticks to you like a second skin, clawing at your body and your nerves. It breathes to seize your breath, take over your waking moments, till all you want to do is look over your shoulder and wonder; wonder who’s watching, who’s judging, who’s applauding your performance.

Today I walked down an icy road with the past staring like a hollowed tunnel before me, and I heard your voice, felt it settle on my heart like a warm touch on winter's night, like the first sign of rain in drought.

You said you carried the cross for me. You hung forsaken, your body torn, laden with enough burdens for eternity. 

I’m sorry for the burdens I keep taking up, sorry that it took me this long to obey. I’ll shed my skin for you, run my race for you, take your light burden and your easy yoke upon me. Because I’m done with this burden I was never meant to carry. 

All I want is to be with You.

Missing You...

When I dance under the watch of winter
Among the crystal snowflakes upon a white earth
I dream of the ones with whom I once walked under a fiery sun
Among stony crevasses along a thousand-year old valley
The ones who seal the symphony of my life
Who author the song that guides me home.

When I will feel wrinkles mutilate the contours on my face
And time ravage my bones and my brain
My heart will yet beat with joy
Knowing full well that the best of my days
Was spent loving you
And being loved by you.

Glinda

The voices in my head began shouting louder as soon as I stepped out of the taxi and rolled my luggage into Boston Logan Airport. I know the voices well; they often come to plague me when I travel around, when I need a passport, and I cringe when I think of how weak my Kenyan passport is; how I am allowed to travel to relatively fewer countries. This time, the voice began scowling about what I considered inequality of the highest level: I need a visa to go to South Africa but South Africans don’t need a visa to come to Kenya. Kenyan government, why?

The voice visited me last three months ago, before I met her. Glinda.

By the time she walked up to me, I had already been daydreaming about angels—perhaps a young swanky man or woman professional (sex didn’t really matter) who would walk up to me and swipe a credit card. Or maybe an older citizen, more likely a greying old lady with a walking stick who would take pity on me, and grant me a portion of her inheritance upon seeing my tears. I never imagined the angel as Glinda — big-boned, bob-cut permed hair, traces of a grey testosterone-induced beard, and a drawling Jamaican accent, the kind that makes you daydream about eating banana fritters and sipping on coconut juice under the shade of a palm in a Kingston beach, the kind that makes you lull about as if to a reggae beat by Gramps Morgan, a tune like Wash Away the Tears, a voice to still your soul.

“May I sit here?” she asked me, training her gaze to the seat next to me. “Of-course, I answered quickly.”

And when she had sat down, she began.

-Are you African?-

-Yes-

-Where from?-

-Kenya-

-You live in Nairobi-

-Yes, I do-

-Do you like it there?-

-No I don’t. I prefer the countryside but my parents work there-

-I’ve come today to make reservations to go to Ghana-

-Oh wow, what are you doing there?-

-Art. I’m going for the artwork-

-Wonderful, so you’re an artist?-

-Yes, I am-

The conversation went along as she told me about her own Jamaican background, how she came to the US to study but ended up staying, working, starting a family, befriending Africans, and teaching high school English. She talked unceasingly, and with each word, I began thinking less about my predicament, the fact that I needed $1000 for a ticket change as a result of missing one of my connecting flights due to weather conditions. We walked over to the ticketing counter at four o’clock, as soon as the British airways counter opened up for business. An Indian man went before us, and we remained second in line, behind the same cart, like mother and daughter. But the Indian man took an insanely long time, and patience began to wane. Glinda began tapping her foot, looking right and left for other attendants who might rescue us from the three-hour wait for the counter to open, and then the arduous wait for service.

“This is the worst service ever,” she said to me.

“Mmmh...” I muttered under my breath. At high-pressure times like those, I often resort to my best behaviour, my sweet voice, and humility at its best. Surely, if someone sees tears tracing my eyelids, they’d be more merciful, right?

“Excuse me lady, we be waiting here a long time with nobody to help us!” she accused the manager overseeing the operations. I was shocked, betrayed, Glinda had messed up the plan, the one where we look helpless and offer the agents a chance to redeem themselves through us.

But Glinda seemed to have instituted a paradigm shift. Visibly shaken, the manager found another agent to cater to us. I chuckled under my breath as I imagined the manager interpreting Glinda’s words as, “I’ll rearrange your face if you make us wait a minute longer”.

Then the new lady handed me my ticket home, no questions asked, no eyebrows raised, no money solicited. My heart swelled with joy, and the voices left. In between muttering, “You are truly God, You are God”, I braked the cart and looked over at Glinda. She wasn’t just an older caring woman, she was loud. She complained for about the long lines. She set a precedent for me. For those who know me well, you will know that I am non-confrontational, and where possible, I like to keep my peace (unless of course, we are competing, which becomes a different story.) Glinda had stood by me on the line like a mother protecting her young, shouting at the attendants for the worst and most incompetent service she had ever seen. And they were scared.

So when the voices revisit, I remember Glinda. Angel.

Not because I forgot to bring tea from home for her, or that I’m not sure if I’ll ever see her again. Remembering Glinda reminds me that the voices are subject to God, reminds me to be thankful because I’m never alone, even in the midst of my most dramatic travel experiences. (Sigh with me if you know all I'm talking about)

God is truly God over everything, even the little things, like thirty-two pages of an embossed travel document.

Love Letter To A Saviour

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I read that story over and over again, reliving the horror, the pain that will be the recurring trope forever. We will laugh and we will rejoice, and maybe for a time, we will forget, but then we remember that you left a hole in our world, a heart-shaped love hole of the beauty that you were, that you still are.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I reach to the depth of my heart and I seek that God-man, the one I learnt to hold on to when I was in my teens, when I thought that love could only be achieved through proving who I was to society, showing them that I could be as they want me to be, and I remember your own struggles, and how I wish, deeply wish that I had known you, walked with you some more.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I revisit the memories, the recordings, the videos and the stories, I remember the walk when you reached to hold my hand and hug me to your heart, to remind me that we can walk with humans only so far, but that there’s one who can take us even farther, through the valley of the shadow of death, to a plain of peace, where streams make glad the city of God.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I know that I am but a fickle light, blurring slowly against the vastness of eternity, where sometimes my strength fails, and the desire to join you grows stronger, yet the call doesn’t come, and his strength innervates me, pushing me to keep moving forward, to know that my task is not yet done, that my journey is still on, and he still walks with me.

When I remember you, I begin to tear up. I begin to write because I know no one will understand, perhaps a few, but even then it will not matter, because this is a love letter to you, because when the ink ends and the tears dry up, when the wind stops whistling and the rain falling, when I smell color and dance under the shadow of your wings, then I will be finally home, and I will see you again.

Interlude

God
I now know more than ever that there is a family of believers around the world. I thought I had known this, more like a truth resting at the back of my mind, but again, something happens when you meet someone who goes through the same challenges as you, and they look up to God with such fervency that you are blown away by your little faith. I am overjoyed to know that despite how much this world constantly changes, how young people continue to wallow in godlessness, that some will still stand strong and represent You in this life. And this indeed is my prayer. Of course I know it’s not easy, but You would never give us more than we can handle, and after all, Your strength is made perfect in our weakness. Thank You for all that You have been to me all these years, to have come this far again, it’s only been by Your Grace. I am indebted to You.

Oh How He Loves Us!

On a trip to Washington DC in the past few weeks, I met the most wonderful 7-year old girl. I stayed with her family for the night that I was in DC. Upon arriving there, I found a card addressed to me. What touched me the most was the excitement with which she had looked forward to my arrival, and the love that she poured on me…Check out the card below:

Gloria reminded me of Christ, and why he must have said that the kingdom belongs to these little ones. If we want to be like him, we should be like them, like Gloria. Loving without inhibitions, without expectation, without knowing the person we should love. It’s the same way Christ loves us, loving us before we were born, loving us DESPITE our imperfections. I pray that Gloria grows up into a powerful woman of God, while still holding on a child’s attitude.

On an entirely different note, I have reposted here something I read from a blog I follow called "John Green's notes from Kenya". Mr Green, as I used to call him, was the principal of Testimony Primary School, one of the schools I’ve attended in my life.


“ONLY that the One Who first Thought of me, designed and created me, has faithfully WATCHED over my life every second until now! As I look back, I only see proof of His Care, the Truth of His Word and Promises, and a PATIENCE with me that puts all my own relationships to shame. Thank you Father, for giving me opportunity to live, time to find our why, and love that has continually found ways to save and deliver me from all my errors, doubts, and anxieties. Let it be known that I was not brought up or TAUGHT this. I was SHOWN this, and now I BELIEVE in God Almighty, and in JESUS CHRIST His Son, without Whom nothing (including you and me) could have been Created or have Existance; by Whom I am Forgiven, Cleansed, and still patently being prepared to BE in Eternity with Him. I look forward with anticipation to Everlasting LIFE, and the commencement of THE Great Adventure........."



I thought the message is very powerful, and I wanted to share it on this blog. How exciting it is to walk this life with the Lord!” Be blessed!

Because You Live

Lord,
When I was younger,
My Mama taught me to sing:
 "Because He lives, I can face tomorrow"
As I grow older Lord, please
Cause me to remember—
Beyond learning not to panic,
Over sticking to my own race,
More than choosing to wait,
Or writing for Your glory—
That I live, move and have my being,
Because You live!

**HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE.** 

Baby Sister

When I was four years old, my youngest sister was born. I was so excited by the newest addition, that I exclaimed "Mtoto wetu ni mbrown na mzungu!" before I even saw her. I'm not really sure how to express this phrase in English, so I will let it stay like that. I have tried to rephrase it in the poem below (I wrote it for my creative writing class), but if you understand Kiswahili, then you are sure to enjoy the poem even more. The poem is dedicated to my lovely sister, who blessed my life when she was born, and continues to do so right to this very moment. I love you Precious!

I dreamed of you:
brown skin—
almost white.
A baby sister.

I waited for you
My ear on mama’s stomach
Feeling for a kick
And if I was lucky
maybe your heartbeat.

I saw you:
mama in the old creamy Opel
you on her lap.
Beautiful brown skin—
almost white!

Now 17 years old...but still my baby sister!

How I learnt to ice skate

A few months ago, I recorded my futile attempts at ice-skating here on some outdoor ice skating rink in Germany. Today, I can happily say that I have learnt how to ice-skate! Praise the Lord. It was fun, hard work, some missed classes, and a lot of singing Philippians 4:13..Yes, we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us. And I can ice-skate! Check out the video below:

Of Scholarship, First Ladies, and God

I am tired of thinking. I am tired of rediscovering new knowledge, coming up with new theories that defy my previously held notions. That’s the problem with scholarship, with academia. You think, you come up with something, but then after some time, it doesn’t hold anymore, and you have to think of something new. After some time, it gets tiring, and you realize that your life is made up of contradictions, of more grey area than black and white. And gradually, all the thinking tires you out, because deep in your heart you knew the answer all along.

Seven months ago, standing in front of her grave, I had the crystal clear understanding of what my life should entail. All the questions of life seem answered in that moment, the moment of bowing down and laying a love wreath of red roses upon her resting place; the moment of burying my last letter into the dark unforgiving earth, a promise to God and to the friend I would never come to know in my adulthood. I looked up to God as a tear dropped down my cheeks, and I knew then that as always, He should remain the center of my life if ever I am to experience peace in my often-tumultuous life.

Fast forward to 2012, and Ida Odinga asks the ICC cases to be held in Kenya. Finally, I thought, someone has thought of the other side; the side that haunts me as a child, a scholar, and an individual who hopes not to judge others. She’ll make a good first lady, someone comments. It’s all about the balance, I say, the balance to empathize with both sides. But not everyone strives to strike this balance, to empathize with everyone. And those who do, end up with an eternal headache, scorn from others, and the curse of being misunderstood, misidentified, and stereotyped.

I’m tired of thinking, of remembering, of wondering. There comes a time in life, when the burdens become too much. But we have a hope, because He said that His yoke is easy, and His burden is light. And so I walk in academia, in scholarship, in the realm of first ladies, and I look to the author and the finisher of my faith. He will bring me safely to the end, I remember. He will never leave me nor forsake me. I remember the peace He has often filled in my heart, and I know that all the questions in life will crystallize in one answer—the answer of His Lordship, of His Son Jesus, and of His Holy Spirit.

I love you Lord, and I ask that your peace that surpasses all understanding guard my HEART and my MIND in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:7)

212012

Happy New Year! It’s 212012 for me. I’ve just turned 21 and it’s almost 2012 and I’ve been toying with the idea of writing two posts, one inspired by my friend Brenda and the other by my 21st birthday, and since I’ve not gotten to writing any of them yet, I have decided to combine both posts into one reflective post about the coming year and turning 21. So here’s my 212012.

Turning 21 really shouldn’t be a big deal, but since it’s a life-altering moment where I school, I might as well make a big deal about it. It’s my birthday, I’m turning 21 years old, though most people claim that I’m more mature than my years, and I get asked a lot these days about where I work, how it feels almost being 30 etc. (I’ve now resolved to laugh very loudly at this or take it as a complement, though I’m not sure my family thinks I am that mature, but that’s not the story here…)

So I’m turning 21, and it’s turning 2012. It’s my 212012. What do I hope for? I’m not one to make New Year’s resolutions. I make so many that I either never keep or always forget, and I hence end up making resolutions throughout the whole year. But since ni mwaka mpya, mwamko mpya, mambo mapya, umri mpya, I might as well get on with it.

1. Here’s to continue being my BEST.

Last week, my friend Brenda mentioned how her children would be lucky because she was going to be the BEST mother. I couldn’t agree more. Brenda’s children are going to be one lucky bunch! Incidentally, Brenda reminded me what it means to be one’s best. Like her, I have always believed in being my best at all times, but mostly just in school. Brenda has challenged me to aspire to be my best, the BEST in all other aspects of my life. So here’s to working on being the best sister, daughter, friend, student, Sunday school teacher, colleague, employee, child of God. Here’s to being the BEST Miriam.

2. Here’s to submitting my WRITING to get published.

The first person to encourage me to write was my father…then my professors…then my younger sister…and now my friends. I started this blog to try and make some baby steps into the world of writing, and now, I hope to start crawling in 212012!

3. Here’s to ENJOYING EACH DAY. No more postponing fun!

Mr. Ayiro told me this past holiday to enjoy each day and not to postpone my fun. So here’s to not mourning my childhood or dreaming up my future too much. Here’s to not complaining about my current stage in life. Here’s to living each day, enjoying each day, and rocking my life!

4. Here’s to learning how to WAIT.

Thank you my amazing friends and family who continually keep up with the super impatient crazy me, answer my late night phone and skype calls and give me not very good advice, sometimes…hehe. But you’ll be happy to learn that I am now new and improved like the Harpic Suzanne Owiyo is advertising…LOL…yes, email or call for more details. :)

5. Finally, here’s to faithfully RUNNING MY RACE.

Rant alert! I get this a lot from society, that since I was good at high school, I should be studying something novel, like computational physics I suppose. I’m studying anthropology society, because I want to understand social problems and I want to come up with my own God-inspired innovative ways of tackling them. I’m NOT sorry if you think I’m not putting my brain to good use (maybe I just want to sleep), or not doing something useful for Africa. (God knows many of your doctors, engineers, and economists are holed up in this diaspora). Anyway, I got good grades in those ‘hard’ sciency subjects only because I ALWAYS put in my BEST effort, and my best just turned out to be one of the best. I don’t enjoy, still don’t, maths, physics and chemistry. But I’m being my best every day, and I’m doing it for God, sorry not you, it’s all about my Maker. I’m running the race He’s set out for ME. This time 212012, and for all time, I’m working not to compare myself, I’m not looking out to see who’s in the next lane, who’s doing A or B or C. Some run fast, some run slow…but we all get to our OWN prize at the end, and I personally just want God to be my great reward, not some earthly legacy that moths can destroy. Raundi hii, I’m running my race. And that’s it.

As usual, the overall resolution of my life and motto of this blog, thanks to Peter Ayiro, remains kwa hii life, usikawai panic!

Have a Happy New Year everyone and may God richly bless you!

Walking in a dark world…

Walking into Heathrow Airport, I was faced once again with one of my least favorite developments in airport security: the seemingly numerous full body security checks. This now normal routine, a result of the increased terrorist activities in this world, also reflected the current happenings back home in Kenya—the now normal security checks before getting into malls, buildings, and now even churches. After getting myself checked and while walking into the transit area, one thought came to my mind to reassure me.

Even as the days of this world grow darker, His grace grows even stronger, His light ever more guiding. 

Just as David must have felt writing the 23rd psalm, echoing how his Lord walked with him in the shadow of the valley of the dead, I experienced the same calm assurance; the same unwavering conviction. In that short walk, I knew that even as before, I never walk alone. I have a wandering heart, and often, the feet of my heart yearn to walk. Even then, I am hidden under the shadow of God’s wings, enveloped in the arms of Christ, and guided by His Holy Spirit. Resting in Him, even as the days of this earth grow ever darker, I know I will walk with Him even to the end of the age. But in the mean time, I will face whatever the world throws at me, using each opportunity to cause God’s name to be glorified, be it through co-operating, smiling at the security officers, saying ‘how do you do?’, you name it. Let your light shine before men, even and especially, when walking in a dark world.

I’ll wait for you? Or not...

I quickly rub my palms against my shirt in a bid to dry my sweating hands, a testimony to the anxiety that had broiled within me from the beginning of the day. The feeling intensifies as I hurriedly walk into Jomo Kenyatta International Airport’s international arrival terminus. Having failed to curse the adrenalin rush within me, I opt for those fake breathing exercises that never work for me. After I confirm that they would be of no use, again, I begin looking for any distraction to bide away time as I wait for her plane to arrive.

The crowd is your usual airport bustle: an older man in a stripped black suit and red tie, probably waiting to be reunited with his now grown up-child; a group of women adorned in the customary blue “Woman’s Guild” PCEA turbans, loudly practising Kikuyu worship songs with my favourite Ngai wakwa ne munene ringing from their throats; and of course, taxi men as I like to call them, lined up in all corners of the terminus while holding various shields with hotel names, surnames, and names of tour companies. And of course, I could easily single out those who fit my stereotypical descripton—thirty-six year old single Kenyan male, fast receding hairline, seeking companionship in a stable woman aged 18-30 leading to marriage.

“Ndege aina ya KQ 778 kutoka Heathrow London imewasili…Flight KQ…” The mechanical female voice tears into my thoughts, bringing me back to the altar of anxiety on which I relented in my self-sacrifice. It’s 9.12pm. Finally, this is it.

***********

I tried writing this story to give to my friend Dush to critic before submitting to Story Moja, but for various reasons, I never finished writing it. However, I read a German book this past month that had the most wonderful quote about waiting, and I would like to share that. The name of the book, authored by Bertolt Brecht, is Der Kaukasische Kreidekreis or The Chalk Circle in English. Here it is:

Ich werde warten auf dich unter der grünen Ulme
Ich werde warten auf dich unter der kalen Ulme
Ich werde warten, bis der Letzte zurückgekehrt ist
Und danach.

In English:

I will wait for you under the green elms
I will wait for you under the bare elms
I will wait until the last one has come back
And thereafter.

So whether you are waiting on the Lord, on someone, on hope, on love, on peace, on the beautification of all things, hold on. Wait. But only wait if God wills it. Otherwise, move on.