Pray for the Girls. Pray for Boko Haram…
Let’s pray. Dear Lord, please…
Sunday is the holy day. The day when Christians are supposed to give Almighty God extra attention because He knows when the week starts — He will be the last thing on our minds.
My relationship with God has always been a respectful one. I feel as though He knows me way better than I know myself.
This assumption isn’t based on biblical rhetoric or an upbringing that was immersed in fanatical adherence. Although we were required to attend the occasional bible study sessions and Sunday School was part of my itinerary until I matured out of it.
I have always been wary of the seducing qualities that catapult reasonable minded folks into questionable shepherds of the word.
Speaking in tongues at the behest of the Holy Spirit while thrashing around in response to the force of what cannot be seen was fascinating but also creepy.
I understood my limits and quietly noted those moments while accepting that my approach would be far more applicable and within the grasp of reason.
My reasoning. Certainly not based on the fury of The Book of Revelations or the promise that hell will scorch the evil ones for eternity as the good ones enjoy the manna from heaven.
I thoroughly appreciate the dedication to The Old Testament and the avid reshaping of The New Testament but when it comes to reaping the benefits of The Lord’s Prayer and countless other verses of praise and worship — my way is stylized and non-transferable.
I believe that we are all equal because that is obviously the truth.
I don’t believe in heaven and hell because that is clearly not a possible scenario.
I believe in good and evil and the fact that when they converge natural disasters and incurable diseases are the crippling results.
I used to pray out of desperation and solitude. I needed the perfect job, the man, the baby, the proof that my conception wasn’t just a random occurrence of cells lost in a vacuum.
I cursed God when my prayers were discarded and praised Him when He gave me what I wanted.
But, with age comes the effortless ability to be humble and grateful. No matter what.
I know for sure that asking God to honor your request is like looking up at the sky and wishing upon a star.
It’s adorable and hopeful but what happens when the starry night gives way to a bright blue wash that brightens up the day you were planning to avoid?
The true mark of survival is owning the course of life as the meal of our existence that empties with each ordained event.
We were never destined to achieve the symbiotic nutrients of perfection until kingdom come.
The meek weren’t born to inherit the earth and the rich and powerful will always win. Always.
Not because God said so but because that’s how life works. God didn’t allow this reality.
He is able to move mountains and order His son to rise from dead. He is a force that flows through the veins of believers and unbelievers. He can make the blind suddenly see again. He can destroy the world and build it back at will.
He can do all these things. So, of course He can bring back the girls that were stolen in the blinding darkness of the night.
All we have to do is pray.
Not that we haven’t been praying all along, since the day the news broke and the wilting hashtag was birthed.
We’ve been praying like crazy! Butwe have to pray even harder!
We have to recall the methods of old and implement them with each salutation to the gods of your choice.
It’s not too late to recover the dusty disposition attached to the mind in a state of peaceful submission.
We can believe that a miracle can still manifest in the name of all that is just and holy. And impossible.
It’s impossible that the kidnapped Chibok Girls you prayed for back in 2014 and stopped praying for in 2015 will be rescued by the current regime leading Nigeria
But we can still pray anyway. And we must pray for their tainted captors.
For they know not what they do.
Actually, they are fully aware of what they’ve done. It’s all a sick and disgustingly rewarding venture for Boko Haram.
Using Islam as the ticket to violence and destruction and terrorizing not just adults but young innocent girls — who have no choice but to receive the penance for being born in a place that dutifully endorses their pain and suffering.
It’s all too much. Crazy and seriously messed up. I want to use the F-word but I’m praying.
I’m praying for the girls. I’m praying for Boko Haram. I’m on my knees on behalf of Nigeria.
My hands are in the air and my eyes closed as I blurt out words to sustain President Buhari.
I’m praying that you are also praying. If you have never indulged — try it. It’s so much more than the radicalized versions that dominate the social landscape.
It’s you. Just you. Acknowledging the interference of a spiritual bond uplifting the hopes and stifling the fears.
The treatment is quick and effective. But the after effects can be threatening.
Nothing changes and in fact things get remarkably worse.
But that’s why we keep praying.
Prayers. And more prayers.