I Shredded Her Clothes (Then Folded Them Neatly)!!

 Most people marvel at my level of tolerance, especially when it comes to triggers around me. Very few of my family members or friends have ever seen me truly angry or lose my cool.

I often get questions like, "Do you even get angry at all?" or remarks such as, "All my years working with you, Sese, I have never seen you angry! I will try my best to ensure I see it!"

Those comments always make me laugh because if they had known me as a child, they definitely would not think that way. Looking back now, I realize I had very vengeful tendencies growing up.

So what changed me?

Well... this is the story.

And for those of you who read my blog "The Teacher Who Changed Me," this story is about someone else entirely.

Maria was one of the many nannies we had while growing up and the first one we encountered after returning to Nigeria. She was small in stature and almost my height even though she was much older than me.

We often played together and, with the same level of intensity, we fought too.

Most times, our fights started because Maria laughed at the worst possible moments. For example, I could trip while playing and badly hurt my foot, and instead of saying "sorry" or showing concern, she would burst out laughing.

That infuriated me.

With my injured foot, I would then make sure she suffered the same fate. Sadly, that was our normal routine.

But the incident that completely changed the trajectory of my life happened differently.

It was a Sunday, and for some reason, we were unable to attend church as a family. My grandmother, Amma Shatu, was around, and we were all seated at the dining table chatting and laughing together — something that was not always common because, somehow, I had a special gift for getting on her nerves.

Everything was going well until Maria stepped out dressed for church and asked to borrow my precious Bible.

Now, this was not just any Bible.

It was the Bible my Sunday school teacher had given me — the one I cherished more than life itself. (If you have not read "The Teacher Who Changed Me," you should for proper context. https://lessonsfromnailah.blogspot.com/2020/05/the-teacher-who-changed-me.html)

Everyone in the family knew how sacred that Bible was to me, so to even think she could ask for it felt absolutely appalling to my 9 or 10-year-old self.

Before she even finished her sentence, my answer was already waiting:

"No!"

My grandmother was horrified.

She looked at me like I was a tiny demon. Who refuses to give someone a Bible to attend church?

She immediately scolded me, and if you know me well, you know I absolutely hate harsh words and yelling. So naturally, I became furious. In my mind, Maria had done it intentionally just to get me into trouble.

After she left for church, I stormed straight into our room, boiling with anger.

I sat on the bed replaying everything in my mind when suddenly I looked around and realized... the stage had been perfectly set for me.

Beside me were:

·         a razor blade,

·         Maria's clothes,

·         nail polish,

·         and lipstick.

I did not even give myself time to think.

My hands simply began to work.

Yes. I did it.

I removed all her clothes from her bag and shredded them with the razor blade. I shredded those clothes better than any machine I knew. Then, for extra effect, I artistically decorated her purse and other belongings with nail polish and lipstick.

And because excellence matters, I even folded the shredded clothes neatly back into her bag afterward.

The funny thing is that our house was always busy with people constantly moving in and out. To get to the rooms, you had to pass through a small hallway.

Yet somehow, on that particular day, nobody passed through those doors while I carried out my masterpiece. I did not even lock the room.

As a master craftsman, my work was complete.

The moment I finished, it felt like a rushing wind left my body, and instantly, I felt better.

So I got up and continued my day, playing and having fun as though nothing had happened.

It was not until Maria returned from church and went to change before helping with lunch that reality came rushing back.

She was definitely not prepared for the surprise waiting for her.

As soon as she saw the destruction, she ran straight to my mother. Everyone was confused, and because I was already known as an extremely daring child, I immediately became the prime suspect.

I was summoned at once.

My mother asked if I knew anything about it.

I lied immediately.

"No, Mummy. I do not know anything about it."

Now let me explain something: my mother hated lies.

In fact, she had made us a promise growing up that no matter how terrible the offense was, if we told the truth, she would not beat us. But if we lied? Ah... that was where the real trouble began.

I had just broken that promise.

Thankfully for me, there was little evidence, so I was temporarily released.

But unfortunately, I had an extremely weak conscience.

After some time, I quietly confessed to my Auntie Jummy and begged her not to tell anyone.

She snitched immediately.

The moment I heard my name being called again, I knew I was finished.

I was already used to being beaten, so I mentally prepared myself for what was coming. I knew I deserved it — especially because I had lied to my mother.

As I walked into the courtyard, I saw all their faces.

My father looked shocked and deeply disappointed, probably wondering what kind of possessed child this was.

My mother looked completely exhausted.

My grandmother wasted no time. She gave me one sharp smack, and I braced myself for the rest to follow.

(Except from my dad — he never hit us.)

Then suddenly, I heard my aunt's voice cut through the crowd.

"Stop it," she said to my grandma. "You people beat her too much. That is why she is becoming more stubborn."

Let me introduce this aunt properly.

Her name was Princess Rahila Bulus Kinging (aka Baby) — may her soul continue to rest in peace. She was my father's immediate younger sister, the first daughter and second child in a family of ten. She was also one of my mother's closest friends from secondary school.

Though she was physically small, her words carried enormous weight in the family.

The moment she spoke, every hand went down (sort of like Jesus and the adulterous woman).

Then she turned to me and said:

"Go and wear your shoes. You are coming with me”.

She wanted to visit my maternal grandmother and needed me to show her the way.

She did not need to repeat herself.

I disappeared immediately and was already waiting inside the car.

On the drive there, I was unusually quiet. Normally, I could be chatty, but this time, I sat silently waiting for the lecture or scolding I knew I deserved.

But she said nothing about the incident.

Instead, she spoke to me normally.

On our way back, we stopped at Monak Stores to buy a few things, and she asked me to pick whatever I wanted.

I stared longingly at the chocolate bars — usually my absolute favorites — but respectfully declined.

She noticed my hesitation anyway and quietly bought some for me before we left.

I thanked her, but I still could not eat them.

I kept waiting for punishment. Or at least a serious lecture. Or something.

That night, I slept with one eye open because surely, they would eventually come for me. Such an atrocity could not possibly go unpunished.

But nobody came.

The next day passed.

Then another.

Still nothing.

I could not believe it.

How had they simply let me go?

Safe to say, after that day, I never allowed anger to control me in that manner again.

At such a young age, I realized how dangerous my anger could become if I did not deal with it quickly. That day, Maria's clothes took the hit, but it could easily have been a human being.

That realization frightened me.

So I began to pray earnestly that God would help me control my anger and never let it control me. I genuinely loved people and never wanted to hurt anyone, but I knew that if I did not work on myself, I eventually would.

One day, while reading my Bible — one of my favorite hobbies at the time — I came across a verse that deeply stayed with me:

"A gentle answer turns away wrath, but harsh words stir up anger." — Proverbs 15:1

I held tightly to that verse.

I asked God to teach me how to use gentle answers instead of destructive actions whenever anger arose. Slowly, I began to work on my words, my reactions, and my responses.

Over time, I realized something powerful:

When anger approaches, I help determine the outcome.

I can either allow it to consume me or choose to redirect it by the way I respond.

The choice is mine.

Over the years, I also learned something important about anger: it is often pent-up energy seeking expression. That is why people react differently when they are upset.

Some people hit things. Throw objects. Wash clothes aggressively. Jog. Clean. Cry. Walk around. They do anything just to release what they are feeling inside.

For me, depending on the situation, I write.

I write exactly what I am feeling in that moment — every painful thought, every harsh response, every word I wish I could say to the person. Then, instead of sending it to them, I send it to myself through WhatsApp or email and let it sit there.

Writing gives me a safe space to express my emotions on paper rather than pouring them onto another human being who may never forget the words I said. Physical wounds may heal, but certain words can scar people for life.

By the next day, I usually reread the message and ask myself if it is still worth sending.

Most times, I am incredibly grateful I did not.

Because honestly, those words written in anger are usually horrid. And by the next day, the situation often no longer feels as terrible as it did in the heat of the moment. I can then express myself more calmly, more clearly, and far more graciously.

So there you have it.

My aunt showed me mercy when I deserved punishment — and even bought me gifts on top of it.

That unexpected kindness was enough to make me rethink my behavior completely.

Not everything requires shouting, punishment, endless lectures, or quarrels. Sometimes, genuine love and mercy can create deeper and more lasting transformation in people.

And for those of you wondering what happened to Maria — do not worry, she benefited from the situation too. My parents replaced her entire wardrobe with brand-new clothes.

Maria never mentioned the incident again. She also stopped laughing when I got hurt.

So honestly... she probably owes me a thank you. (Shhh.)

In conclusion, anger itself is not a bad thing. It is simply an emotion, just like sadness, joy, fear, or disgust.

God gave us emotions for a reason.

What matters is not whether we feel anger, but how we respond when we do.

Who is in control at that moment?

The anger?

Or us?

Self-control is our ability to govern ourselves despite the triggers around us. It is part of the fruit of the Spirit, and the Holy Spirit can do incredible work within us if we allow Him.

So there you have it, people — my journey with anger and the aunt who showed up for me when I least deserved it.

Have you ever struggled with anger issues before, or am I alone in this?

If you have, what helped you overcome it?

Please spill the tea in the comments. I would genuinely love to hear your stories.

 P.S. This is a memoir to my aunt, Princess Rahila Bulus Kinging, who went to be with the Lord  April, 2008. I wrote this in her honor.

 

Before the Loyola Exam, God Examined Me!

 

The time had finally come. The long-awaited, dreaded, or anticipated Loyola Jesuit entrance exam had arrived.

Like most parents, I kept wondering if Nailah was prepared enough. Although we had been working on it since last year, her last term's report had discouraged me because rather than improving, she seemed to be moving backward.

I had been praying for her, but somewhere at the back of my mind, I had little faith.

I had spoken to her several times and tried so many methods to get her to focus on what was at hand, but she would focus a little and then go back to her usual ways.

Although Nailah is extremely intelligent, her greatest issue was focusing on and prioritizing things she had little or no interest in. When notes were piled up, she almost zoned out. But if it was something she liked, she needed very little encouragement, reminders, or a push to get her reading. She would do it by herself.

While her mouth always spoke about Loyola—her older cousin was there, and her other cousins were all vying to attend—I felt her actions and efforts were not commensurate. Nailah would fast about the matter on her own, but when it came to doing the needful, I saw little effort. I would often tell her that the Bible says, "Faith without works is useless." As you pray and fast, you must read as much.

After I had gotten tired of talking, I just let it be.

One evening, after our family devotion where the issue came up in prayers, I went to my room to sleep and started pouring my heart out to God on the matter. I was lamenting to Him about Nailah's behavior and how I had lost hope in her passing the exam. If I had not already bought the form, I am not sure I would have let her attempt the exam at all. While I was pouring my heart to God, He asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks. He said, "Serah, if you do not have hope, then why are you praying to Me? Why are you asking for My help concerning her and the exam if you lack hope?" I kept quiet and felt a bit bad. I went to sleep quietly without saying anything more.

The next day, when I got to work, I brought a prayer book/devotional called *The Warrior Mom* by Tomi Adisa, which my husband had bought for me as a gift at church. I often use it when praying for the kids and our home. I had been using it more frequently and picked the pages that dealt with excellence, laziness, zeal, and so much more. Just before I started praying, a colleague and friend came in and made the mistake of asking about our preparations for the exams—her son was a student at Loyola.

I told her the challenges I had been facing with Nailah, what God had told me, and the prayers I had been praying. She listened patiently and then laughed. She said Nailah reminded her of her son. But then she added, "I think you should pray for her to be more careful and diligent in her exams rather than all the other issues you have been bringing up. If she is diligent and careful, she will take her time to answer and crosscheck her work before submitting." That was one of Nailah's greatest issues. She told me how her son was the same—brilliant, but rushed. He'd solve a whole complex problem and then make a silly mistake in the final addition. It was the exact issue I had with Nailah, the one I had been framing as a lack of effort but was really just a desperate need for diligence and patience. Once she gets it wrong and I call her back to look at it, she quickly tells me what she had done wrong: "Ooo, I did not do..." and I would tell her, "If you had only calmed down and taken your time to crosscheck, you would have gotten it correctly. Exams do not give you a second chance to crosscheck, Nai!" But again and again and again, that was the issue.

After our pep talk, I got the book out to pray and add my new prayer points. God led me to look at a different page, which dealt with favour. As I opened it, one thing caught my attention. She wrote, "Favour brings you into harvest where you have not labored." I stopped right there, and God said, "The race is not for the swift, Serah. It is to Me that willeth!"

There and then, I got it. I had been studying the book of Esther at Bible Study Fellowship and had enjoyed it, but I had not seen it through this lens. Almost everything going through my mind had been: you need to work hard to get it.

So in the few days leading to the exam, I prayed for favour, diligence, and an excellent spirit for her and her cousins. I tried not to speak negatively, though Nailah's confessions were crazy. Somewhere in her mind, she was convinced she would pass. She kept speaking it and asking me what reward and treat would come when she did. She believed without a doubt that she would pass. I admired her courage.

A day before the exam, I was driving and praying, and I told God, "Father, my greatest desire for Nailah is what You desire for her. When You made Your perfect and beautiful plan concerning her, which You spoke about in Jeremiah 29:11, I want what is on Your blueprint for her life—not what I want for her or what I think is right and best for her."

God told me that some children will not pass, not because they are not smart enough, but simply because God will use that to help parents eliminate some choices and lead them the right way for their kids. Some of the "undeserving and most seemingly unserious children" will pass simply because that is where God has designed for them to be in accordance with His plan.

To conclude this discussion, I remembered a statement a friend made when we were in our final year, praying for a first-class or a second-class upper. While we were praying vehemently, she said, "God, please give me what You know I need to succeed in this life. If I do not need a first class or a 2.1, do not give it. But if You know I need it, then give me."

I opened my eyes when she said that. I could not believe a human could actually say such a thing. But when I pondered on that statement over time, I understood what she was saying, and so I replicated the prayer for Nailah.

If she needs to be in that school to meet certain people, make networks, or have experiences that will shape her for good—and if it is in God's plan for her life—then let her have it. If the networks she needs to succeed and make it are not there but elsewhere, then please send her there.

So, dear Loyola Jesuit aspiring parents and parents of all kids writing common entrance exams, may this prayer resonate with you. May God give us all peace and His perfect will and plan for His children. We are only stewards and custodians. You would be upset if you instructed your child's guardian to do something concerning the child, and they insisted on doing it their own way. So let go, and let God.

Parenting by Blueprint: Not by Pressure

 A few weeks ago, I walked into a colleague’s office, and our chat naturally drifted to parenting and school decisions. She mentioned how her son had recently taken the common entrance exam into secondary school—not because he was due for it, but as a mock trial.

To her surprise, he did well, and now people around her were suggesting that she allow him to move ahead to JSS1 (7th grade), even though he was just ten. “He’s bigger than most kids his age,” they argued. “He’s mature for his age.” She was torn—and I could relate.

That conversation reminded me of something personal. I told her about a call I’d received just weeks before from my mom. As is her custom, my mom had spent the day praying for her grandchildren, but this time, she focused specifically on Nailah and the high school she would attend. Nailah would soon be turning ten, and my mom felt it was time to pray intentionally.

As she shared some of the schools on her heart—some we’d discussed, others I hadn’t even considered—I realized I had become relaxed in that area of prayer. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. I had prayed about Nailah’s education for years. In fact, I’ve prayed about her future since the day she was born—teachers, classmates, friends, even her future in-laws.

But in that moment, God gently nudged me through my mom. Don’t become complacent, He reminded me. Keep praying intentionally.

That’s when I shared a deeply personal story with my colleague. One that had shaped how I see God’s plans and how I steward what He gives me.

Growing up, my mom discovered a Christian school in Jos—Bethany Academy. It was everything I wanted. Small class sizes. Hot meals. Hot water baths. Balance. Soft life. When she showed me, I fell in love instantly. My dad promised me that if I passed the entrance exam, he’d send me there.

I worked hard and passed all seven entrance exams I sat for, including Bethany’s. At one interview, I honestly told them I had passed multiple exams but preferred Bethany Academy. Even though I was the second-best candidate they had interviewed, another school placed me on a waiting list—just because I wasn’t enthusiastic about attending them.

I was overjoyed when Bethany offered me admission. But then, tragedy struck. During the Abacha regime, my dad was imprisoned over a false coup. With him gone, no one could pay my fees. My mom had just started working, and her salary could barely cover even half of Bethany’s fees.

My aunt Rahila (of blessed memory) offered to pay, but my mom, thinking long term, declined. She didn’t want to risk pulling me out halfway if my aunt couldn’t keep up. I was devastated—angry at my mom, angrier at God. Why show me a dream and help me pass, only to shut the door?

I ended up at Baptist High School— my personal hell—and I was determined to escape.
I pulled every dramatic stunt imaginable—even some not in the books.
Fake spiritual attacks? Check.
Threatening letters to myself in a different handwriting? Done.
Anything to convince my mom to set me free.

She never budged. Every plea—tears, financial logic (“Send me to SLOGA, it’s cheaper!”), even a sudden hike in school fees that I thought would be my escape route—met a brick wall.

Then came Uncle Abba Kyari (The late Chief of Staff, RIP). My dad’s old high school friend stepped in and paid the school fees for all of us until I graduated. Just like that, my last loophole vanished. I had no choice but to stay.

And then came the final blow from my mother:
“Before I put you in that school, I prayed. God said that’s where you should be. So if you’re going to die, you’ll die there. I’ve sacrificed you like Isaac.”

Game over. I surrendered. Quietly. Waiting for my sweet, soft-hearted dad to return and rescue me—because if anyone would understand me, it would be him—because he was the soft one, the pushover. My mom? The disciplinarian.

During this time, my mom told my dad that I needed serious prayers because of all the ‘spiritual attacks’ she believed I was facing. His response: “Don’t bother, she’s fine. What she’s displaying is psychological. She just hates the school and is doing whatever she can to get out.” When I heard that, my heart skipped a beat. This man had seen right through me. But I was also comforted—my father understood me better than I had given him credit for

When my father was eventually released, I thought, “Now, I’ll finally leave.” But he looked at me and said I was going nowhere.
I surrendered. I stopped fighting and endured.

Years later, I now see the bigger picture. That school grounded me. I met people who shaped me. I grew spiritually in ways I wouldn’t have in a more permissive environment. God had known what I needed—better than I did.

I then told my colleague about my BSF leader’s son. Like me, her son had passed his entrance exams, and she needed to choose between two schools. Each required a non-refundable deposit, and she could only afford one.

Realizing time was running out and she hadn’t prayed properly, she spent the night in prayer, asking God for direction. In response, God gave her a dream.

She saw her son graduating from one of the schools but noticed a dent on his face. She asked him what had happened, and he replied, “It was because of the school you sent me to.”

The dream revealed that although he would make it through, something would dent his life—bad friends, bad habits, or negative influences. She woke up, thanked God for the warning, and enrolled him in the other school immediately.

What a powerful reminder that one decision can shape the course of a life. One wrong influence can change everything. Just one voice. One friend. One piece of bad advice.

That reminded me of Farouk Abdulmutallab—the young Nigerian who tried to bomb a plane. He had originally been seeking spiritual growth in Islam but crossed paths with the wrong guide. What if he had met the right mentor instead?

That’s why my prayers for my children go beyond school admissions. I pray that God Himself will:

- Reveal their blueprint to us, like He did with Samson’s parents.
- Make His voice real to them, like He did with Samuel.
- Protect their destinies from derailment, like Joash’s was—because the godly uncle who guided him died and he fell under bad counsel.
- Place the right people on their paths, because Naaman was healed only because his servants convinced him to listen to Elisha.
- Shield them from evil influences, because Abdulmutalab just needed the right person to redirect his genuine search.

And I pray this with holy fear and with hope because even the best builders can construct something utterly misaligned—if they never consult the Architect’s blueprint. Without God’s design, we risk making decisions—especially for our children—that look successful on the outside but may ultimately fall short of His purpose. That’s why we must ask Him for His plan and build according to His vision, not ours.

An architect designs for the Owner—and in our lives, God is both. He holds the vision and the deed to every life He creates, including the children He entrusts to us. As parents, we’re the builders, not the designers. Our job isn’t to improvise, but to seek His plan—then build with confidence, knowing the outcome will fulfill His purpose.

As the Bible reminds us:
'For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future and a hope.’ (Jeremiah 29:11

That conversation in my colleague’s office settled it for me: parenting is not passive. It’s an act of stewardship—and stewards don’t move unless they know the Master’s plan.
So I pray constantly—for the blueprint, for wisdom, for divine voices, and for the courage to follow God’s path, even when it’s nothing like I imagined.

And when you see my mom, please thank her—for standing her ground and being the faithful steward God ordained her to be. May we all learn to trust the Architect like she did.

Doing it Wrong!

Toward the end of last year, I began to feel a gentle but persistent prompting from the Holy Spirit: “Worship Me more.” So, I leaned in. I started playing more praise and worship music, singing as often as I could—on my way to work, at home, whenever I had a free moment. It became my rhythm and heartbeat in that season.

About a month in, I had a dream.

In the dream, I saw a group of people watching something on television with intense focus. Curious, I stopped to see what had captured their attention. It was a preacher, and he looked exactly like Apostle Michael Orokpo—one of my personal favorites. As I watched, he leaned closer to the screen and looked straight at me:

“You—why are you not doing what God asked you to do?”

Shocked, I replied, “Hian! (Nigerian exclamation for goodness) What has God asked me to do that I haven’t done? Except I didn’t hear Him or I misunderstood, but if I hear God clearly, I obey! The only instruction I know He gave me was to worship Him—and I’ve been doing my best!”

He didn’t argue. He simply repeated: “Go and do what God has asked you to do.”

I woke up, disturbed. It was Sunday morning, and the dream deeply unsettled me. I know how my dreams speak to me, and this one was vivid—too direct to ignore.

At church that day, the sermon was—guess what? —about worship and praise, as we were preparing for our end-of-year Thanksgiving. I listened even more intently, wondering what God was trying to tell me.

After the service, I talked with my friend Boma and her husband. I shared the dream and how it bothered me, how I was unsure what I was missing or doing wrong. I was flying out for a training later that day, and I told them, “You know what? While I’m away and alone, I’ll spend even more time in worship.”

And I did. I worshipped with sincerity. During the Thanksgiving service, I joined online and gave my best dance moves. But even then, deep in my spirit, something still felt off. Incomplete. Like I was obeying—but not quite hitting the mark.

When I returned home, the sermons kept pointing in the same direction—worship and praise. Even in the new year, during our fasting and prayer period, Saturdays were specifically dedicated to worship. I stayed committed. But the question lingered: “God, what am I missing?”

That’s when I began asking deeper questions about what worship really is.

One day at work, I had a chat with a young contractor helping us renovate the office. We started talking about God, and he shared that worship was his greatest strength. I lit up and said, “Ah! I need help with that. I’m doing what I believe is worship, but something doesn’t feel right.” We talked for a while, but I still didn’t walk away with a clear answer. I was still searching.

Then came Monday—Bible Study Fellowship (BSF). It’s one of my favorite parts of the week. We’d been studying the Book of Revelation since the previous year, and that particular day we were in Revelation 13.

And then, it happened.

As we read verse 12, the Holy Spirit stopped me in my tracks:

“He exercised all the authority of the first beast. And he required all the earth and its people to worship the first beast, whose fatal wound had been healed.”

Right there, the lightbulb went on.

Worship wasn’t just about singing or dancing. It was about what I was giving my full attention, allegiance, and heart to.

And suddenly, I saw it clearly:
I had been bowing—unconsciously—to things that weren’t God.
Anxiety over delays.
Worry about not making mistakes.
Concern over the kids.
Stress about the property and whether we’d get it.

Yes, I thought I was looking to God, but my heart posture was tilted toward fear and control. I was worshipping my worries—showering them with attention and energy. And God didn’t like that.

Then the Holy Spirit took it deeper and gave me this analogy:

“Imagine you’ve dressed up beautifully to attend an event with your husband. But when you arrive, he showers all his attention on another woman—someone you know you outshine in every way. You’d be hurt, right? Now imagine he even seeks her help or advice in areas where you’re clearly more experienced. You’d be thinking, ‘What in the world is going on?’

Now flip the script. What if it were your wife (question for guys) giving another man all her attention—one who’s always competed with you for no reason—and she’s full of admiration and praise for him all evening, barely looking your way? How would that feel?”

I laughed, but I got the message.

That’s exactly how God feels when we give our affection, focus, and trust to other things—especially things that have nothing to offer us—while He, the source of everything we need, waits for our gaze.

That’s why Scripture says in Isaiah 42:8:

“I am the Lord, that is my name! I will not give my glory to anyone else, nor share my praise with carved idols.”

And that’s why the first two commandments are so clear (Exodus 20:3–5):

“You shall have no other gods before me… You must not bow down to them or worship them, for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God…”

By the time God was done with me, I understood exactly what He meant when He said, “Worship Me.”

It wasn’t about the songs or the music. It was about my heart. My attention. My focus. My surrender.

He wanted to be my priority, not my background soundtrack.

That’s why He says in Matthew 6:33:

“Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you.”

God doesn’t want to be second to anything—not even good things like family, work, a hobby, or ministry. I don’t like it when my husband gives more attention to anything else at the expense of our relationship. And God, as our divine Lover, feels the same. He created those emotions in us—they’re part of His nature too.

So now, when I say I’m worshipping, it’s not just with my voice—it’s with my eyes, my mind, my trust, and my time.

Have a worship-filled April. Make God your focus. Your first. Your everything. 💛