In an age where nostalgia is served to us on cue, it’s easy for yesterday to become the judge and today to be found guilty. This post is a threshold reflection — leaving KZN, returning to Cape Town, and choosing presence over comparison.
Life leaves ashes: the metallic taste of trauma, crushed faith, dreams reduced to dust. When everything burns, what remains? This piece delves into finding divine purpose and unexpected beauty amidst the smoke, offering hope where ruin once stood.
Shame doesn't wait. It climbs into my bed before dawn, whispering the oldest lie: "You can't let them see." By breakfast, I've lost a battle no one else knows I'm fighting. The pillars I think hold me up—pride, control, image—are cages, not strength.
You were never meant to follow Jesus alone. But the kind of together we're speaking of isn't casual proximity—it's the deliberate weaving of lives that costs you everything. This shared pursuit requires patience, humility, and willingness to be shaped by others.
You scroll past a thousand voices daily. Each one subtly reshapes what feels true. The apostles warned of this—deception so compelling it could sway even the elect. In our algorithmic age, counterfeit truth is optimised for you. How do you know which voice to trust?
Every decision rests on how we know what we know. But what happens when the ground beneath our knowing shifts without our awareness? When speed replaces wisdom, we risk losing the very capacity to recognise truth—trading discernment for productivity.
When your choices feel free, a quiet weight may still tip the scale. Algorithms, old loyalties and tiny nudges shape what you trust. What if the scale you rely on was never level? Read on to learn how to spot the tilt—and reclaim the balance that makes belief real. Notice the hands that tilt truth!!
The gentle earthquake no algorithm can predict. What happens when a foundational belief cracks? I stayed; allowed scripture to read me. Did my faith survive?
You feel it: two minds at war. One defends, performs, controls. The other surrenders. One is fuelled by the feed. The other washed by the Word. This isn’t self-improvement. It’s replacement. One mind must die. The other leads to life. Step into the journey between them.
She hasn’t spoken to anyone in four days. Not really. But her dinner story got 87 views. In a world of constant contact and growing loneliness, are we becoming less human—and calling it freedom? What if the ache we feel isn’t failure, but formation into something less than whole?
You weren’t made to scroll past your own life. In a world numbing you into automation, the quiet ache you feel is the evidence you’re still human. Stay. Attend. Love with your presence. It’s not performance that changes you—it’s choosing to stay when it would be easier to ghost.
A friend sought God through pure reason, rejecting faith. I wrote him a letter about humanity's oldest temptation—now repackaged as algorithms promising instant answers. The serpent's whisper echoes: "Surely you can know God through data, not intimacy." But true knowing requires surrender.