17.10.25
She comes to the river,
when waters should swallow the banks.
And the Jordan opens
before her into the Pride of Canaan.
Each step is inheritance —
a girlhood stitched in Jordan’s hem,
a womanhood painted in Jordan’s hue,
In the promise she murmurs
Holy Holy Holy
for the river that stands in a heap,
and that salvation makes a way at all.
-Lele
17.10.25
Risen from exile,
not as a conqueror,
but as heir to a covenant.
The lion walking on holy ground.
The table abounds before enemies.
I do not rush to claim a seat.
I arrive last,
I steady my hands,
bowing low as I stand unshaken
to honour the Host who summoned me.
-Lele
17.10.25
If the court summoned me,
and the warrant laid bare my heart,
would the ledger of my life testify
to faith?
Would they count the mornings I linger in dew,
watching light spill over hills?
Could the rustle of leaves
be admitted as witnesses of awe?
Would they catalogue my sins—
the impatience, the small cruelties,
the selfish choices when no one watched,
the grudges nursed like secret debts?
Could I plead repentance,
or only offer trembling defense
in the court of my own conscience?
Would they examine my tattered mercy—
the bread shared, the hand offered,
the whispered forgiveness,
the acts no one knows?
Would the clerk of conscience record
my prayers, never perfect,
always returning?
Would routine stand on the stand—
my morning readings, my journaling,
my gratitude in tea brewed,
my reflection on unseen ways?
Could habits testify to devotion,
discipline born of love, not law?
Would they weigh grace itself—
my reliance on a mercy I do not earn,
my trust in a justice I cannot demand?
Would dependence be indictment,
or evidence of faith itself?
Could they subpoena my laughter,
my tears, my silence, my song,
my yearning for justice, my longing for peace,
my failures and my fear?
Would the court see me stumble toward Him,
even in resistance, even in doubt?
And if the prosecution rested,
I would call the Witness seated above:
the one whose justice bends like mercy,
whose gavel is tempered with love,
whose law is written on hearts.
I would lay my life on the table—
failures, gratitude, longing, obedience,
confessions whispered into wind,
small triumphs unnoticed.
Like Rahab at the gates,
I confess what I have seen and known:
that the Lord is God in heaven above
and on the earth beneath.
Though I am weak, though I falter,
I cannot deny His sovereignty.
Charge me if you must,
count the days, summon the witnesses—
but let the record show:
I stand before the Judge unafraid,
Faith attesting to the love I have lived,
Hope bearing witness to the steps I have faltered,
and Christ, my Advocate, declaring
that in all my imperfect striving,
I have sought, quietly and wholly,
to follow Him.
Joshua 2:11 “When we heard of it, our hearts melted in fear and everyone’s courage failed because of you, for the Lord your God is God in heaven above and on the earth below.”
– Lele
7.10.25
I choose Death, Lord—
and find joy in the dying.
The breaking is gentle,
Your hands are kind.
Where I end,
grace begins—
a stillness, a splendor.
In losing myself,
I meet You fully,
and it is beautiful to be nothing,
but Yours.
-Lele
10.9.25
Lord, grant me discipline
when my body tires,
Focus when my mind drifts,
And resolve when the path feels long.
Teach me to rise before dawn,
To labor when others rest,
To push further when others pause.
Let diligence be my companion,
Patience my shield,
Persistence my sword.
Give me the strength to out-work,
Not in pride, but in purpose,
To honor You in every effort,
To overcome every obstacle set before me.
Let my sweat, my hours, my quiet sacrifices
Speak louder than the boast of my opponents.
May every task done in faith,
Every effort poured with care,
Bring me closer to the victory You ordain.
-Lele
8.10.25
Of the tide—
moon-called, salt-shaped, sovereign.
The scales on my wrist are tempered gold,
symbols of balance, of justice remembered.
The language of currents,
and spells of silence
turning wounds into light.
Half water, half will—
whole Ocean.
The Empress of ebb and becoming.
Genesis 1:2 “Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.”
-Lele
30.7.25
What does it mean
to obey a God who calls for ruin?
What kind of justice
leaves no room for mercy?
What kind of love
levels walls and wombs alike?
Who is this Judge
so patient, so perfect,
so exacting?
Who balances the scale
with both blessing and blood?
Do I trust a God
who sees beyond sides?
Who destroys to rebuild?
Who acts not for our comfort,
but for His order?
13 Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, “Are you for us or for our enemies?”
14 “Neither,” he replied, “but as commander of the army of the Lord I have now come.”
-Lele
30.7.25
I built Jericho.
A proud city at the edge of a promise –
the last thing between exile and exhale.
I built because I learned that love can vanish mid-embrace.
That tenderness is weakness,
And that the Sacred draws
Both seekers and destroyers.
I built walls of flesh and pulses.
I built walls of mercenary silence.
I lit torches along the parapets.
I filled the moat with past versions of myself.
I did not know then
That Jericho must fall, as the Sun must rise.
And when Time comes, even silence shakes the ground.
And Jericho falls.
The echo of her collapse is a Psalm.
I walk now through the ruins
of an erstwhile prison and protection.
Praying for the wisdom of a prostitute,
who surrendered the fortress when the promise was near
And let the walls fall like the rain falls.
-Lele
Every test of patience asks “In whose time will this happen?”
Impatience says “In my time.”
In a previous season of my life, I learned that patience is not simply the act of waiting. Instead, patience is how one waits. Patience is the difference between waiting in anxious frustration, and waiting in calm equanimity.
In this season of my life, I’m learning to perfect my patience by not waiting at all. You need time? You’ve got it, but I’m not waiting. I’ll be moving ahead with something else. I surrender any expectations – a feat I owe to God’s grace. In this way, patience is an exercise in discipline.
Meanwhile, human beings are fallen and susceptible to hubris. We have desires, expectations and tend to want to control outcomes. This is why patience, which I understand as the discipline to detach from outcomes, challenges so many. Releasing control (or the illusion thereof) often means facing feelings of vulnerability, and requires courage. It is about cultivating the self-control required to surrender to the unknown.
Beyond courage, however, this manner of detachment requires faith. Faith is having such clarity about eternal truths that detachment from specific outcomes becomes possible: God is in charge; God is love; I am chosen; God is working things out for my good; etc. The question, therefore, is not just “In whose time will this happen?,” but “Who would presume to know better than the Creator?”
This understanding reveals why patience is such a powerful heart posture. The Word tells us that “without faith it is impossible to please God.” Patience, like the other fruits of the Spirit, is a posture of profound inner-strength. It is about trusting God’s Word – His love, grace, and timing. All is and will be exactly as it should be.
I know that my life unfolds in the hand of a Sovereign God and according to His perfect plan. From that perspective, impatience seems quite futile really. I don’t need to know or control everything, I only need to stay connected to the One who does.
– Lele M
The fall. A narrative as old as time, woven into the very fabric of creation.
Genesis 3 tells of a paradise shattered, of innocence lost, and of an intimacy with God interrupted by a single choice. “What is this you have done?” the Lord asks, His voice heavy with the weight of love betrayed. And in that moment, humanity’s relationship with God—and with one another—was forever changed.
I find myself reflecting on the fall, not in Eden, but in my own life. A public union of hearts and lives, shared and celebrated, has ended. The first partner I ever called home is now no longer mine. The mighty have fallen, the poets say. Though I am no king, my heart feels the weight of that phrase. How fragile the human spirit is, how vulnerable we are when we give ourselves to another, laying bare our hopes and fears, trusting they will be held with care.
In the aftermath, I have asked myself: Was it love that failed, or was it simply us? Is love eternal, as scripture teaches, or is it fractured by the very human vessels that attempt to carry it? Perhaps it is both. Perhaps love remains pure, even as we stumble under its weight.
“To love at all is to be vulnerable,” C.S. Lewis once wrote. “Love anything, and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” To love is to risk the fall, to step into the unknown with faith that the one you hold close will not let go. Yet, sometimes, they do. Or perhaps it is we who loosen our grip, weary from the journey, distracted by our own frailty.
The fall reminds me of surrender—not just to love, but to God, who is love itself. What does it mean to surrender when the heart is broken? It means to offer up the pieces, trusting that the hands that shaped the heavens can also reshape the human heart. It means to acknowledge that the fall is not the end of the story. Eden was lost, but grace abounds. The mighty fall, but the humble are lifted.
In this moment, I see the nature of man: fragile, flawed, often blind to the divine within one another. I see the nature of relationships: mirrors that reflect not only beauty but also brokenness. And I see the nature of love: a call to transcend the fall, to forgive as we are forgiven, to endure as God endures.
Perhaps this is the beginning of a new story—not one of perfect love but of perfecting love. For even in the fall, there is grace. And grace, I am learning, is where healing begins.
-Lele M
Lele Muthali 