Girl Kaleidoscope

Tag: Christianity

  • The Expiry Date

    The questions start early, and they never really stop.

    “When’s your turn?”
    “Haven’t you found someone yet?”
    “I’m praying for your future husband.”

    As if I had an expiry date stamped across my forehead. As if love were something to be scheduled, arranged, predicted—like a train running neatly on its tracks, pulling into the station on time.

    As if I hadn’t already lost a love I would have died for.

    But no one asks if you’re still grieving. They ask when you’ll be ready to move on. They ask if you’ve tried dating apps, if you’re “putting yourself out there,” if you’ve considered lowering your standards—because apparently, at some point, that’s the logical next step. They ask, and you smile, nod, sip your coffee, and resist the urge to throw it in their lap. Because no one really wants to hear that some love doesn’t fade. That some shadows don’t lift. That some wounds ache even after they’ve healed.

    And in Christian spaces, it is worse.

    Dating isn’t just about finding someone; it’s a witness. A public display of patience and propriety, a carefully choreographed courtship where doors are left open—metaphorically and literally—so the whole community can watch your unfolding love story like a Hallmark movie they personally commissioned.

    Older Christians become self-appointed matchmakers, introducing you to their sons, their nephews, the “wonderful young men” they just know you’d hit it off with. They pray over you—not for healing, not for peace, but for a husband. Because marriage is the ultimate win, and your singlehood is a problem to be solved.

    And so, like a good sport, you try.

    You meet the nephews. You say yes to the coffee dates. You log onto the apps.

    And there are nice enough men. Kind, polite, ticking all the right boxes. But there’s no fire, no knowing. Just awkward small talk and the gnawing sense that you are performing—trying to look accomplished, interesting, credible enough to be seen as a whole person rather than just a placeholder for someone’s future wife.

    You leave those dates feeling more alone than ever.

    Because once, you had something real. Once, love wasn’t a transaction, a series of checklists, a strategic endeavor. Once, it was raw and deep, a connection that didn’t need explaining. But that love is gone, and now you are left to play the game.

    And the rules have always been clear.

    Boy likes girl. Boy asks girl’s father for permission. Father says yes. And before you’ve even caught your breath, you are engaged, because that is the natural progression of things. That is the path. That is the plan.

    And if you once tried to follow it—if you once, as a barely-grown woman, found yourself betrothed because that’s just what you do—you carry that weight with you, too. The knowing. The loss. The quiet exhaustion of a life mapped out before you had time to choose it.

    They say, “God will bring the right person.”

    But what if He already did, and I lost him?

    What if the plan didn’t unfold the way they said it would?

    What if—just maybe—love is not a prize for obedience, but a fragile, fleeting thing that sometimes, no matter how tightly we hold it, still slips through our fingers?

    And what if—after all the questions, all the waiting, all the tired smiles—you simply give in?

    Not to love. Not to some grand divine romance.

    But to the weight of time, to the unspoken deadline. To the quiet, creeping fear that you are unfinished without someone beside you and a baby in your arms. And so, with a steadying breath and a prayer that this time, it might hurt less, you take the leap. Hoping. Wishing. Wondering.

    And finally, finally—at the ripe old age of middle adulthood—you are a proper grown-up.

    At least, that’s what they’ll say.

  • The Kindness He Kept

    He was a man who had every reason to turn bitter. I watched as the world demanded of him, took from him, misunderstood him. I watched them wound him with carelessness, with cruelty, with the sharp edge of their own relentless expectations. And yet, he remained kind. He carried his grief, his heartbreak, his exhaustion like a second skin—but never used it as a weapon.

    He loved and lost, and still, he was kind.

    I have never known a strength greater than that.

    It is easy to be gentle when life is soft, when love is returned in equal measure, when the road is smooth beneath your feet. But kindness in the midst of suffering, kindness when the world turns its back on you—that is something else entirely. That is defiant. That is holy.

    I loved him back with a fierceness that could split the heavens. And yet, the cruel hands of circumstance pried us apart—geography, grief, the weight of too many wounds. It was not a lack of love that separated us. It was the way life itself can bend two souls in opposite directions, despite their longing to stay entwined.

    And now, they tell me to let go. To move on. To unwrite the story that was carved into the marrow of my being.

    But how do you let go of the one who taught you how to love?

    What do I do with the unsent letters, ink blurred by tears? What do I do with the messages I never sent, the words that curled in my throat but never reached his ears? What do I do with the ache of knowing what I walked away from?

    He was the best of us. He didn’t measure kindness in worthiness. He gave it because it was who he was. Because love, real love, does not keep a tally.

    And in the end, when he thought himself unworthy of me, I made the hardest choice. I left. I chose myself.
    And I have been at war with that choice ever since.

    This is the conflict I carry—the unbearable paradox of walking away from my hero, from the one who showed me love in its purest form. I do not regret loving him. I only regret that love alone was not enough to keep us in the same place.

    And yet, even now, I know what he would say. He would tell me to be kind—to myself, to the world, to the pain that still lingers.

    And so I try. Because he loved and lost and was still kind. And maybe, just maybe, I can be too.

  • Judgemental Healing

    There is a painful irony in how suffering is often treated in Christian circles. Instead of being met with compassion, many who endure deep wounds are met with judgment, rushed expectations, and an almost casual dismissal of their grief. Rather than acknowledging the depths of someone’s pain, the response is often, “You just need to trust God more,” or, “You need to let go and move on.”

    As if I—or you—chose this suffering.

    As if we inflicted these wounds upon ourselves.

    But we didn’t. These wounds were inflicted upon us. Someone else took away the future we were meant to step into, leaving behind grief and devastation. And yet, the responsibility to heal, to “overcome,” is placed squarely on our shoulders. We are told that our lingering pain is a sign of weak faith, that our sorrow is an indication of spiritual failure.

    This is not just frustrating—it is harmful. It is a deep betrayal by those who should know better.

    Imagine a person who has been physically injured by another. The wounds are not self-inflicted. They were harmed, perhaps violently, by someone else’s actions. No one would expect such a person to leap to their feet and walk without a limp. No one would shame them for needing crutches. And yet, when it comes to emotional and spiritual wounds, this is exactly what happens. Instead of being offered a place to rest and recover, we are pushed forward, expected to act as if the injury never happened.

    The Bible does not teach this kind of cold dismissal. Jesus Himself did not treat suffering this way. He was moved by compassion when He saw the brokenhearted. He did not say to the weeping, “Ye of little faith.” Instead, He wept with them. He did not tell the suffering to “get over it.” He sat with them, touched them, healed them in His time. Even after His resurrection, His wounds remained visible. He carried the scars of suffering with Him—proof that healing does not mean erasing what has happened.

    So why do so many Christians behave otherwise? Why do they turn a blind eye to pain, assuming that if time has passed, healing should be complete? Why is it easier to tell someone to suppress their grief than to sit with them in it? Why is it so difficult for people to admit that some pain will always linger, that faith does not erase suffering, but rather sustains us through it?

    I have struggled with this deeply. I have wanted to cry out my innocence, to prove my suffering, to explain in painstaking detail why I am not at fault. I have wanted to defend myself against those who assume that if I am still hurting, it must be my own doing. I have wanted to shout from the rooftops that I did not choose this, that this pain was not my doing, that I did not invite it into my life. And yet, I have been met with silence, or worse—accusations.

    For all the talk of grace in Christian communities, there is often so little grace for those who suffer in a way that makes others uncomfortable. Grief is untidy. Trauma does not adhere to socially acceptable timeframes. Some wounds will never fully close, and that does not mean we lack faith—it means we are human. And if our faith is to mean anything, it must be one that allows for the fullness of our humanity, not just the palatable parts.

    Perhaps it is time for a shift. Perhaps instead of judging how long it takes someone to heal, we should offer the space to grieve. Perhaps instead of demanding someone “move on,” we should sit beside them and ask, “What do you need today?” Perhaps instead of weaponizing faith as a tool to silence pain, we should embody the very compassion of Christ, who never turned away from the brokenhearted.

    To those who have been told to “just get over it,” I see you. I hear you. You are not alone. And your suffering does not make you weak—it makes you real. And that is something even Jesus Himself understood.

  • Becoming Strangers

    We spoke in whispers, soft and low,
    In laughter’s light, in embers’ glow.
    In quiet prayers and silver streams,
    We wove our hearts, we built our dreams.

    You knew my fears, my weary sighs,
    The light that danced behind my eyes.
    You held my hope, you knew my name,
    Before the silence, before it changed.

    I did not choose to walk away,
    But winds arose, I could not stay.
    The tether snapped, the distance grew,
    And love turned ghostly, pale and blue.

    I knocked, I called, I sent my plea,
    But doors don’t open without a key.
    And echoes fade behind cold walls,
    No matter how a heartbeat calls.

    Yet if I spoke, it would be low,
    A whisper soft, a sorrowed glow.
    If I could see you, just once more,
    I’d smile like I had done before.

    Not for the ache, not for the pain,
    But for the love that still remains.

  • When Prayers Feel Like Echoes

    I have been prayed over more times than I can count. Hands resting on my shoulders, voices lifting like incense, curling into the air, into the restless hours of the night. I was sent to sleep with ardent prayers for my settling, for peace to take root in my spirit. But I did not settle. I unraveled. I shattered.

    I prayed in desperation, in the rawness of exhaustion and sorrow. I prayed that what I clung to by my fingernails would not slip, would not crash to the ground and shatter beyond repair. I begged for time to rewind, for the future I had built in my heart to remain intact. But time is merciless, and prayers do not always hold back the tide.

    And then, when I realized I was asking too much, I stopped praying for rescue and only pleaded for the pain to end. For sleep to come. For my gut not to twist each morning as I woke up to the nightmare I was living. I prayed for numbness, for silence, for a reprieve from the endless ache.

    God sent me lifeboats and I turned each one away. They were not what I wanted. I did not want friendship; I wanted love. I did not want an offer of a job; I wanted my old life. I did not want questions from nosey family members; I wanted answers for why this was happening to me. I did not want a diagnosis; I wanted healing. I did not want consolations; I wanted the prize I had spent years nurturing for a future I had already seen. I did not want their prayers; I wanted his whispers pouring over me as I fell asleep. I wanted what had been mine, whole and unbroken.

    In the bleakest nights, I called home. My family’s voices, steady and sure, became my lifeline. Across the miles, they prayed for me—words spilling over crackling phone lines, reaching into the ache I could not name. They believed when I could not. They called on hope when I had none. And yet, even after I returned home, I prayed for things to be made right. I prayed for restoration, for justice, for a reversal of what had been taken from me.

    Some prayers do not get answered. At least, not in the way we expect. At least, not yet.

    My faith was shaken. My despair was deep. A curse had been spoken over my life, and I felt its weight pressing down, unseen but inescapable. I carried it, even as I whispered prayers into the quiet, wondering if they rose beyond the ceiling, if they faded before they reached the heavens. I searched for signs, for something that might tell me I had not been forgotten.

    And yet—somewhere in the long unraveling of time—light seeped in. A different path emerged, soft-footed, unexpected. It was not the answer I had begged for, not the restoration I had envisioned. But it was something. A quiet shift, a tender mercy. Maybe prayers are answered in ways we do not recognize at first. Maybe hope, slow as the tide, is still coming for me.

    And maybe, just maybe, the lifeboat I had once turned away has circled back—no longer the vessel I fought for, but one I can finally step into, weary, but willing, at last.

  • The Weight of Community

    Missionary work is often spoken of in terms of sacrifice—leaving behind the familiar, stepping into the unknown, giving of oneself for a higher purpose. What is less discussed is the complexity of the community itself—the way relationships are not only formed but also scrutinized, the way expectations press in from all sides, and the way personal lives can become the subject of unwanted discussion.

    I arrived open-hearted, eager to contribute, ready to learn. But I quickly discovered that life among missionaries was not just about the work; it was about navigating an intricate web of expectations, where personal boundaries were often blurred. Questions came freely, sometimes under the guise of concern, other times with a quiet insistence that made it clear they were not really questions at all. Where was I headed? What were my long-term plans? Was I committed to staying? These were not simple curiosities—they carried weight, an unspoken pressure to declare intentions before I had even found my footing.

    My relationships, too, became a subject of discussion beyond my control. Conversations I had not yet had for myself were already being speculated on in forums where I was unprepared to address them. Older missionaries—some with good intentions, others with a sense of authority—pried into matters I would have preferred to keep private. They dissected my choices, offered unsolicited advice, and sometimes spoke as though they had a stake in decisions that belonged to me alone.

    I wanted to be helpful, to contribute, to prove that I belonged. But my efforts were not always met with encouragement. At times, my willingness to step in and assist was seen not as a strength but as something to be tempered—as if I needed to be reminded of my place. I learned that offering help did not always mean being welcomed. Sometimes, it was taken as a challenge, as if my presence unsettled the unspoken order of things.

    And yet, even in the midst of these challenges, there were those who brought light. Kind souls—often from outside the circles I was part of—offered gentle conversations, safe places where I could be honest about my struggles without fear of judgment. They checked in, brought quiet understanding, and reminded me that not everyone operated by the same unspoken rules. When the weight of expectations became too much, they provided sanctuary. They were the ones who saw me not as a project to be managed, but as a person to be cared for.

    Looking back, I do not fault those who asked too much of me, who pried where they shouldn’t have, who unknowingly added to my burdens. They were part of a system that had shaped them, just as it had begun to shape me. But I see now that support is not just about expectation—it is about presence. It is about listening without demanding answers, offering guidance without insisting on control, and creating space for growth rather than forcing a path.

    And for those who did that—for those who simply sat with me, walked alongside me, and reminded me that I was not alone—I will always be grateful.

  • The Fairytale

    In the mission field, love was never a quiet thing. It had to be declared, announced, and sanctioned by the watching world. You couldn’t simply love someone in peace. No, in the Christian bubble, every courtship came with rules: doors left ajar, group dates, older, married Christians serving as chaperones, and the constant hum of approval—or disapproval—from the community.

    When a couple decided to date, it wasn’t a private exchange of words. It was an official proclamation, a declaration of intent that wasn’t just about getting to know each other but about preparing for marriage. The announcement turned heads and opened conversations. It solidified their relationship as a public venture, a parade of certainty. From that moment, everyone understood their trajectory: this wasn’t casual. They were moving toward a wedding, and everyone was invited to watch the show.

    I remember my friends’ glowing faces as they stepped into this process, radiating joy as their paths unfolded neatly before them. Their happiness was splashed across international publications, love stories chronicled with photographs against tropical backdrops, smiles brighter than the midday sun. I wanted to be happy for them—truly, I did—but every congratulations felt like a weight pressing down on my chest. Because after the applause for them came the sideways glance at me, and the question I grew to dread: When is it your turn?

    Their love stories were so… tidy. So precise. I envied their certainty. They moved with an intentionality I craved, a decisiveness that eluded me. My own love felt like a tangle of roots—deep and unyielding, but always caught on something unseen. I scoffed at the open doors and group dates, the announcements and the ceremonies of approval. But inside, I was unraveling. I wanted what they had.

    I had my wedding planned, of course. Not in reality, but in the soft corners of my mind, where the months of the year stretch and shrink and my future looped around itself like an infinite thread. I knew the names of my children, their personalities already alive in my imagination. I had my guest list drafted, the speeches half-written. I wasn’t just in love; I was living our future before it could take shape.

    But we were two worlds trying to find a middle ground. His love was rooted in this place—its harsh roads, its endless needs, its deep calls for his presence. My love was a yearning to be chosen above all of that, to be the one thing he couldn’t live without. Each day felt like a balancing act, an attempt to bridge the gap between us while the land itself seemed to widen it.

    And then came the moment I gave him an ultimatum: me or PNG. I thought I was drawing a line that would bring clarity, but instead, I drew a line that broke us apart. He chose PNG.

    It’s a strange thing, heartbreak. It doesn’t just pierce you once; it echoes. It reverberates. For years, I sent messages into the void, desperate to reach across the chasm I had created. Each day of silence was another crack in the foundation of my heart. I never blamed him—how could I? He was perfect. But I resented the world that had made me feel so small, the people who watched and judged, the women who followed the rules and got their perfect endings.

    Looking back, I see how much I was shaped by purity culture, by the relentless pressure to conform, to be good enough, to fit into a mold that wasn’t made for me. The open-door fairytales were beautiful, but they were also stifling, their perfection a knife to my gut.

    The lesson? Perhaps it’s that love, real love, doesn’t need an audience. It doesn’t need announcements or approval. And yet, it’s also not enough to ignore the differences that divide us. Sometimes, love burns brightly in the tension between two worlds, but it can’t always survive the heat.I still hold onto those dreams— the reminders of a future that could have been, a love that once was. And maybe, just maybe, they’re proof that even in the messiness, even in the heartbreak, the story was worth living.

  • Mail Order Bride

    At first glance, it seemed like a story of purpose and calling—a young woman, eager to serve, stepping into the mission field with hopes of making a difference. But beneath the surface, there was a far more painful truth: she wasn’t chosen for her creativity, her passion, or her ability to connect with others. She was chosen because of what someone else imagined her to be, not for who she truly was. She was recruited because she was single and someone saw her as a match for another missionary already in the field.

    From the start, something didn’t sit right. There was an unspoken tension in the air that she couldn’t quite place. People told her, with confident smiles, that she was needed, that she would make a difference, but her instincts told her otherwise. Still, against her better judgment, she agreed, believing she was called for her own gifts, her own heart, her own purpose.

    When she arrived, everything felt out of place. The land itself—raw, untamed—seemed to press against her, every sound and smell, every sight, unfamiliar and abrasive. And the people? Well, some were kind, but many others turned away from her, making her feel like an outsider in the very place she was supposed to call home. The weight of judgment was unrelenting, and the sense of isolation clung to her like a shadow.

    But then, there was love. A love so deep, so intoxicating, that it pulled her in, despite her misgivings. He was steady, grounded in the land that felt foreign to her. She was restless, free-spirited, yearning for something beyond the confines of this harsh reality. Together, they created a world in the cracks of time—moments stolen under the stars, laughter shared in secret places. She felt seen, truly seen, and in those moments, she became someone more than she ever thought possible. The creativity that flowed through her was like a river, untouched and pure, brought to life by the way he loved her. It was as if the world fell away, and she was finally home, at least for a moment.

    But love, as all-consuming as it was, couldn’t undo the reality that they were two people bound to different worlds. She couldn’t stay in a place that felt suffocating, where every part of her soul screamed to escape. He couldn’t leave behind the life he had built, the land that had shaped him. No matter how deeply they loved each other, no matter how desperately they tried to make it work, the divide between them was too wide to bridge.

    And then, the truth—the truth she hadn’t known, or refused to see—came crashing down. She wasn’t there for her gifts or her talents. She wasn’t there to serve, to contribute, to make a difference. She had been brought there because someone saw her as a partner, a potential wife for someone else. Her hesitations had been brushed off, her doubts dismissed. She had been cast into a role that was never hers to play.

    The weight of that betrayal broke her, and the loss of the love they had built only made the wound deeper. She had trusted, had poured herself into something that was never meant to be hers. Her creativity, her passion, her desire to make a difference—all of it had been secondary to someone else’s plan.

    Even now, years later, she still feels the sting of that realization. She can’t escape the bitterness, the knowledge that she was never valued for who she truly was. She was never given the chance to shine on her own terms. The love they shared, as beautiful and as transformative as it was, will always be tainted by the deceit that led her to that place in the first place.

    For those who support missionaries, there is a lesson in her story. Don’t play matchmaker. Don’t reduce someone to a pawn in your idea of what their life should be. Don’t let your desire for control overshadow their individuality, their agency. The damage this kind of manipulation causes isn’t just a matter of broken relationships—it’s a matter of shattered dreams, of people left questioning their worth, wondering if they were ever truly seen.

    Her heart still carries the weight of what could have been, the love that might have been enough if only the world had been kinder. She is grateful for the love they shared, for the way it made her feel alive, but the wound of betrayal will always remain, a scar she will carry for the rest of her life. Her story is one of loss—not just of love, but of the parts of herself that were never allowed to flourish.

    For anyone sending people into the mission field, remember this: they are not mere instruments to fill roles or meet expectations. They are people with their own passions, their own purposes, and their own worth. Don’t try to control their story. Let them write it for themselves, because the cost of doing otherwise is far too high.

  • When the story must be told

    “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’” â€” C.S. Lewis

    I still hesitate before pressing “publish.”

    Even after all this time, after all these words spilled across pages and screens, the act of telling my story still catches in my throat. I hesitate—not because I don’t want to tell it, but because I know what happens when I do.

    I know the quiet messages that will slip into my inbox, the ones that say, â€œI saw myself in your words.” I know the relief, the resonance, the unexpected companionship that comes from someone else recognising their own battle scars in my own. And I know the ones who will say nothing, but will sit with my words in their hands, weighing them carefully, deciding what to do with them.

    And I know the ones who will turn away.

    I have lost friendships to my honesty. And I have kept friendships by withholding it. By making my stories palatable, neat enough to be consumed without discomfort. I have shaped my words to be just raw enough to be heard, but not so raw that they wound.

    Because what happens when you tell the truth?

    What happens when you stop only speaking of the sunsets over the valley, the church choirs harmonising under the trees, the joy of seeing light dawn in someone’s eyes? When you stop telling only the beautiful parts of mission life and begin to talk about the fractures beneath?

    What happens when you say: It was not always good. It was not always safe. And sometimes, the wounds came from the very people who should have held me close.

    What happens when you admit that you are still carrying bruises from the hands of people who called you sister? When you say that you loved deeply, but you were not always loved well? That you wanted to believe in your calling, but the weight of it sometimes crushed you? That you believed in sacrifice, but you didn’t know it would be your own heart on the altar?

    The risk of speaking is the risk of being unheard.

    And yet, I keep speaking.

    Because I am still waiting for the one voice that matters most to say, â€œI see you. I hear you. I’m sorry.”

    Because I am still waiting for the redemption of these stories.

    Or perhaps, I am still raging, and I am not quite redeemed yet.

    But maybe that is part of it, too. Maybe not every story is wrapped up in a tidy bow, ready to be tied off with a quiet, holy conclusion. Maybe some stories are still burning. Maybe some stories are still being written in the ashes.

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Because in the telling, there is movement. And in the movement, there is healing. And in the healing—slow, unsteady, incomplete—there is hope.

    So I will press “publish” again.

    And I will trust that somewhere, someone will read these words and whisper, â€œWhat! You too?”And in that moment, neither of us will be alone.

  • The light that calls me back

    It is easy, sometimes, to be swallowed by the dark. To let the weight of what was painful drown out the echoes of joy. But someone reminded me recently: do not forget the light. Do not forget the reason your heart still aches for the place you left behind, why you dream in the colors of the highlands, why you still whisper the names of friends into the quiet spaces of your prayers.

    PNG changes you. It does not leave you untouched. It presses into your spirit like rain into dry earth, reshaping you, flooding the cracks, making something new. And for all the hardship, for all the things that hurt, there was so much light.

    I remember the friendships that bloomed in that rugged, untamed land. The faces that met mine with warmth, with laughter, with hands that offered fruit and flowers and welcome. I remember stepping into homes made of woven walls and thatched roofs, where I was given the best seat, the first plate, the widest smile. Where hospitality was not measured by riches, but by the open-hearted way love was given, freely and without condition.

    And I remember God—how near He felt. How the mountains seemed to hum with His presence, how the rivers carried His voice, how the sunsets painted the sky with a glory too breathtaking to be coincidence.

    The work was hard, and the challenges relentless, but in the midst of it all, I felt held. Because what we did mattered. Because lives were being changed. Because in the eyes of the people we served, I saw something holy—something raw and real and closer to the heart of God than any church building could contain.

    I miss it. I miss the sky so wide it felt like eternity stretching open. I miss the dirt roads and the scent of burning wood and the way the rain came in sheets so thick the world disappeared. I miss the way creativity poured out of me there, how my soul felt awakened in a way I have never quite been able to replicate.

    PNG is not just a place. It is a transformation. It strips you down and builds you anew. It is where I was challenged and broken, but also where I was found. And though I left, though I had to walk away, it still calls me. The friendships, the beauty, the sense of purpose—I carry them with me, woven into the fabric of who I am.

    I will not forget the hard things. But neither will I forget the light. Because the light is what calls me back.