The jacaranda trees outside my Akasia window are shedding their purple confetti, a flamboyant farewell to another year. It's a fitting image, isn't it? This whole year, a vibrant explosion of life, culminating in a quiet, deliberate letting go. And that, my friends, is precisely what God calls us to do at year's end – a letting go. A release of the anxieties, the triumphs, the failures, the hopes, the disappointments; a conscious surrender to the rhythm of grace that governs the universe, and our lives within it.
Here in Pretoria, we’re used to the dramatic shifts – the blazing heat giving way to the gentle caress of a winter’s breeze. The landscape itself mirrors the spiritual journey, a constant ebb and flow between extremes. But the inner turmoil, the spiritual jacaranda-fall of anxieties and regrets… that’s a different story. That's a tempest that rages within, regardless of the season outside. This year, I felt like a character in one of those old Afrikaans films: racing against time, juggling a demanding job, family pressures, and the ever-present hum of societal expectations. The pressure mounted, the deadlines loomed, and the weight of responsibility felt crushing, like the weight of a thousand jacaranda blossoms on a single branch.
My heart, that metaphorical crowded taxi, was sputtering on fumes. The to-do list was longer than the N1 at rush hour, a seemingly endless scroll of tasks, appointments, and commitments, each one a tiny, insistent demand on my already stretched resources. The relentless pursuit of productivity had left me feeling depleted, hollowed out, a shell of the person I once was. The vibrant colours of life had been muted, replaced by a pervasive sense of exhaustion and despair.
Then, in the midst of this self-imposed chaos, I remembered the quiet power of stillness. Not the passive stillness of inertia, the kind that allows weeds to choke the garden and dust to settle undisturbed. No, this was a different kind of stillness, an active stillness – the stillness of surrender, of conscious yielding to a power greater than myself. It's the stillness born not from inactivity but from a deliberate choice to quiet the incessant chatter of the mind, to still the frantic beating of the heart, and to open myself to the gentle whisper of God's presence.
It's like that moment during a braai, after the initial frenzy of preparation, after the flames have reached their peak, and the sizzling meat fills the air with its delicious aroma. The fire, once a wild, untamed beast, now burns low, reduced to glowing embers. The atmosphere is transformed; the frenetic energy of the earlier hours gives way to a calm, contented warmth. People gather around, sharing stories and laughter, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the embers. That, my friends, is the stillness I crave – the quiet space where God's presence is felt, not as a distant, booming voice that demands obedience, but as a gentle whisper in the heart, a comforting warmth that soothes the soul.
Theologically, this “stillness” represents our conscious submission to God's sovereignty. It's not about ignoring our challenges, about burying our heads in the sand and pretending that the problems don't exist. It's not about passive resignation, but about active engagement with the divine, about allowing God to work *through* our struggles, not just *around* them. It's about reframing our perspective, shifting our focus from the relentless demands of the world to the unwavering love and grace of God.
Imagine the Israelites wandering in the desert – forty years of hardship! Forty years of scorching sun, thirst-quenching mirages, and the constant threat of starvation and attack. Forty years of seemingly unending struggle, of despair and doubt. Yet, within that seemingly endless expanse of sand and sky, God provided manna, guided them with a pillar of cloud and fire, and delivered them from their enemies. Their struggles weren't erased, they were not magically wished away; but their reliance on God's unwavering presence, their finding of stillness in the midst of chaos, defined their journey, shaping their character and strengthening their faith. Their stillness was not a passive acceptance of suffering but an active trust in God's plan.
My own "desert" this year was a period of intense self-doubt, a feeling of being perpetually "behind," of never quite measuring up to the expectations I'd set for myself, and the even more demanding expectations of others. I was clinging to the illusion of control, driving myself relentlessly, trying to micromanage every aspect of my life, trying to force the outcomes I desired. The result was a profound sense of exhaustion and a deep-seated anxiety that gnawed at my soul. I was, in essence, attempting to control the uncontrollable, a futile exercise that only served to drain my energy and diminish my joy.
But in the stillness, in prayer and quiet reflection – often amidst the humdrum of Akasia life, during stolen moments between meetings, while waiting for children to finish soccer practice, or even during the quiet hum of the washing machine – I began to see the grace in the imperfection, the beauty in the surrender. The cracks in the facade of perfection, the moments of vulnerability, the instances where I fell short of my own lofty expectations – these were not signs of failure but opportunities for growth, for deepening my relationship with God.
I realised that my worth isn't tied to my accomplishments, to my productivity, or to my external successes. My worth is inherent, intrinsic, grounded not in what I do, but in who I am – a child of God, loved unconditionally, embraced without reservation. This is where the confrontational element comes in: we need to challenge the worldly definitions of success, the often-shallow metrics of achievement that dominate our culture. We need to reject the insidious notion that our value is determined by our bank balance, our social media followers, or our professional accolades.
This isn't about abandoning responsibility; it’s about approaching it with a renewed sense of peace and purpose. It's about acknowledging that God is not a distant judge, a stern taskmaster who scrutinises our every action, waiting to mete out punishment for our failures. No, God is a loving Father, a shepherd who guides his flock, who carries our burdens, who celebrates our triumphs, and who comforts us in our times of sorrow. It's about finding the balance between accepting our limitations and striving for excellence, between embracing our human imperfections and working towards personal growth.
The stillness, therefore, isn't an escape from life's challenges; rather, it is a preparation for them, a source of strength and resilience. It's a space where we can connect with the divine, where we can find clarity and direction, where we can replenish our spiritual reserves, and emerge renewed and refreshed, ready to face whatever lies ahead.
As we step into the new year, let us trade the chaotic taxi ride for the serenity of God's embrace, remembering that even in the heart of Pretoria, even amidst the whirlwind of our lives, His presence is our constant companion, offering rest to the weary soul. The jacarandas may fall, their purple petals scattering on the wind, a symbolic letting go of the past. But His love remains, steadfast and eternal, a source of unwavering comfort and strength. The stillness, that quiet space of surrender, is not a retreat but a refuge, a place of renewal, a springboard for a life lived in the fullness of God's grace. And it is there, in that stillness, that we find true peace. The peace that surpasses all understanding. The peace that only God can give.
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