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
12.7.25
“You do know we’re soulmates, right?” I asked.
“I do.”
It landed in my spirit.
No altar.
No ring.
Just truth.
A vow.
Recognition, not possession,
bound by light, not law.
We met ourselves in each other’s eyes
and felt, without question,
that we were home.
-Lele
13.7.25
“Oh, Jake” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”
“Yes.” Jake said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
I was Clementine when I kissed you too soon,
texted too much, and made you laugh.
I was Jane when I said nothing,
held my heart behind my back, and walked away softly.
I was Brett when I let you in carelessly,
wanting nothing more than to belong to you.
Clem erased Joel, and chose the ache all over
messy, but brave.
Jane returned to a humbled man when the fire burned out,
and they built from ash and grace.
Brett kept loving, though she left Jake in the taxi,
hollow and hopeless.
And us?
The dam of our story has just broken.
-Lele
19.7.25
You said you could not live
under duty again —
not to any woman,
not in love.
As if love were a weight,
As if love could bind.
You know as well as I
that love is rhythm.
A remembering.
I watched you remember
every day—
In how you fed the animals,
spoke to the flame,
carried silences,
answered your mother’s voice.
In how you held the past
without flinching.
In the way
you moved
as if everything
was sacred.
You live by ritual.
You live by duty.
Walking beside you,
I saw how much of you was already given,
And I saw duty in letting go.
-Lele
18.7.25
“I tell you what,” he said jokingly as he wiped his lip. “In my next life, I’m gonna be a cook.”
May the salt still leap to your fingers,
the flame still obey your breath,
and the cumin still bloom at your touch.
You always said you’d return as a cook—
knowing you were one in this life too,
as charming as you were exacting.
Experimental in love as in spice.
You honoured my ‘alien’ ways,
crafted meals like devotions,
each plate a vow
to make me feel you.
You fed with intention—
my longing to be tended to
gently, joyfully,
by one who delights in the offering.
If you return—
I’ll know you
by your hands,
your laughter,
and the way you make a kitchen
feel like home.
“And?” he asked through a smile with his eyebrows raised quizzically, already knowing the answer. “How’s your meal?”
She chewed the bite-full of the mushroom thoughtfully, also already knowing the answer but enjoying the game nonetheless. “Hm, I love this. It’s great!”
“No,” came his casually satisfied reply. “It’s fucking awesome.”
-Lele
Lele Muthali 