Held

heartaches, reflections and Jesus

Thoughts about love and the lack there of….

I dated a spirituality mogul once.

It was life-changing.

I also, almost lost my faith, but he was an unforgettable kind of experience which I have vowed to never allow myself to re-live.

I am a Jesus girlie to the core, I cannot picture my life without Him even if I tried, I would die, literally. So it follows that in 2023, I almost died and well, the internal auditor said if Jesus resurrected, so would I.

But I didn’t die, I had another chance to give my heart out, this time, to a church bloke, alright. I’d began my dating experiences on a very wild note, it was now time to settle down and pick somebody who God would nod in approval, even if god was me—my subconscious desires and childhood traumas wrapped up in a ball of fantasy. This was about to be a lifetime with him.

Like the man that I was, I led the conversation and before he knew it, there was no possible chance for him to say no. It was too easy. He was marked and targeted this boy. I knew the plans I had for him.

Avoidant ni avoidant. It automatically goes, that a long distance relationship would serve my abstinence journey quite well. I hated the idea of having a man so close that he’d know exactly where to find me, at whatever time of day. We must make a man look for us, the man must not tire, and when he least expects it—show up, tease and flee yet again. The push and pull, unpredictability, all of it was fun for me. I am not a dam. I am an ocean, deep and shallow, salty and blue, calm and raging—I cannot be contained. No. In my mind, I was his future wife. It didn’t matter who he was, it mattered who I made him to be. I wanted him to take a little bit of that ocean, bottle it up and carry me wherever he went. Even if it meant him pouring a fraction of me into a 500ml fanta orange bottle, it at least embodied my earthly vessel you see.

Six months passed, we hadn’t ever gotten to see each other. It was long distance right? Long distance in the same country. Kenya is so big, we’ve all seen the map. He wasn’t coming to see me, so I must have found a way to go to him. A certain night in November, I asked him if he wanted to see me. I didn’t wait for a response. The following morning, I was on my way to the city! I did not care if he didn’t want to see me, I wanted to see him and I was going to see my man. No he wasn’t excited, and if he was, he didn’t show it. No he didn’t talk to me on my way there. If fact, he only texted at 7:30 p.m. after I told him I had arrived safely. We were going for intervarsity that night, Zoravo was going to be there, I love Zoravo and his music alright. I traveled the whole day, to be awake the whole night with him, in the house of God. I was happy.

My intensity is intense. It was quite foolish to have expected to hold it with his learning hands. I loved his fingers and the nails on them that stood out like detailed embroidery on mom’s sweaters. He had beautiful hands. They reminded me of my dad and the handiwork of God. As the sting of the break up dulls away into a distant familiar longing, I remember just how much I actually did love him—imperfectly, demandingly too. He loved Jesus, I loved that he did even though eventually we stopped talking about Him with each other. It killed me. I hope that he still loves Him. I see now that the depths of intimacy I tried to harness out of him wasn’t for him to give. No. How unfair of me to have expected him to satisfy that longing, the need was all too deep. I’ve held my guitar hours on end how I’d have wanted him to hold me. I’ve nudged, pulled and plucked on Wonder’s strings. She’s known my fingerprint better than any phone sensor would because she’s erased them—replaced them with smooth familiar calluses. I got them first last year when I discovered my love for the making of sounds on instruments.

I’ve seen Wonder respond to me in chords, strums and messy finger-picking flicks. How she responds is how I needed him to, all the time. Its not like a human being to function like Wonder, and now I see it clearly. I can tune Wonder to whatever I want her to sound like. How I wished I could do the same for him, you know? I have played with her, even when my fingers tingled and ached from the pressing and gliding on the brutal bronze.

My intensity demands. Yes, it swells and spreads out. It engulfs and almost drowns. It wasn’t for learning hands to firmly yet softly hold. I needed those hands to be the ones that held me, fully and that’s what hurt most about parting ways. I wanted his hands.

Looking inwards must be a continuous process. It is easy for lots of things to grow in the hidden pockets of our psyches, oblivious to ourselves when we fail to do an inner audit. The gentle wind of realization brushes against my face and makes me smile. I was held all along by hands that never failed.

Steffany Gretzinger said once that the only man who loved a desperate woman was Jesus. I know how I perceive myself, desperate isn’t one word I’d ever have plastered to my identity, never. Introspection is painful, especially when life experiences condition you to beat yourself harder than anybody ever could so when the hit comes, it doesn’t hurt so bad. I was 19 and searching. Maybe for meaning. Maybe for belonging. Maybe for answers. I was desperate for an inner brimming fullness.

I wasn’t too much—far from it. I just asked a lot of what wasn’t his to give. Its such a calming realization, to know that my unbridled desire now sits in secure palms, nurtured with dexterous fingers and crafted with purposeful hands. Jesus holds me together, He holds me so well and its a little scary for me to now allow myself be held, in safe hands. But oh what peace I’ve had the past few weeks. Oh what love that has wrapped around me, and expressed itself to me, openly, boldly. The hands that hold me hold others too who care deeply about me, what a gift to have that in my life.

I love that I am held with hands that form me, continually. In this space, becoming is inevitable.

I love it here.

I have a love so different. I long not for any other.

If in my lifetime this is the last love I ever get to experience, it will have been the fullest and most fulfilling.

My love for you, Jesus.