HAROLD MAWELA

  The sun beats down on Akasia, Pretoria, a familiar warmth that mirrors the overwhelming grace I’ve come to experience. From my stoep, looking out at the sprawling city, I often ponder the vastness of God’s love, a love that feels both impossibly big and intimately personal. It's a love that, frankly, can sometimes feel a bit… mischievous. Like a divine prankster, He keeps throwing curveballs, testing our faith with trials that leave us wondering, "Is this really *His* plan?" Hebrews 13:8 – *Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever* – that verse, etched into my soul, is the anchor that keeps me from drifting. It’s the bedrock of this unwavering grace, this persistent outpouring of love that’s not contingent on our performance, our piety, or even our understanding. Think of it like this: God's grace isn't some fickle, seasonal rain shower. It's the mighty Limpopo River, a constant, powerful flow, carving its path through millennia, sustaining lif...

 Akasia, Pretoria. The sun beats down on the red dust, a familiar heat that mirrors the fire sometimes burning in my soul. Last week, doubt, that tenacious opponent, had me pinned down, wrestling me into the mud of despair. Proverbs 4:18 – “shining brighter and brighter until the full light of day” – felt like a cruel joke. My dawn felt more like a perpetual twilight. We South Africans are a resilient people. We’ve endured storms – political, economic, personal – that would break lesser nations. But sometimes, even the strongest among us feel the weight of the world pressing down, silencing that inner song. My struggle wasn't about grand theological debates; it was the quiet, gnawing doubt whispering insidious lies: "You're not good enough," "God has forgotten you," "This pain will never end." This reminded me of my grandmother, a woman whose faith was as unwavering as Table Mountain, showing me her beadwork. Each tiny bead, insignificant on its ...

The dusty, dry air hangs heavy outside my Akasia window, a fitting backdrop to the sometimes-arid landscape of my soul. You see, I've been wrestling with this idea of being perpetually halfway to the Promised Land. Hebrews 6:12 hits hard, that "faith and patience inherit the promises" bit. It’s easy to preach it from my pulpit in Pretoria, but living it? That's a different story. I remember, a few years back, I felt like I was scaling Table Mountain barefoot, just like that passage says. I'd poured my heart and soul into a ministry project, a vision God had whispered to me, clear as a spring day in the Waterberg. I pushed, I hustled, I practically ran myself ragged. But the results? Sparse, like the veld after a drought. Doubt, that sneaky jackal, started nipping at my heels, whispering insidious lies about my worthiness, my calling, my God. And then, I remembered the tortoise. Not the flashy, Instagram-worthy hare, but the slow, steady, persistent tortoise. ...

Hey fam! From my little corner of Akasia, Pretoria, I’ve been wrestling with this Psalm lately. It’s not just some dusty old verse; it’s a battle plan for the soul, a blueprint for navigating the modern chaos. Think of your mind, your inner world, as a vibrant Pretoria township – a microcosm of life itself. There’s the bustling energy of Hatfield, the intellectual buzz of the University, the quiet serenity of a suburban garden – all within your head. But there are also the shadows, the dodgy corners where negativity and doubt fester. This isn't a simplistic "avoid bad things" message. It's a deep dive into the spiritual hygiene of our minds. David, that savvy king, understood the power of intentionality. He knew what we consume – visually, aurally, even through conversation – shapes our character just as much as the biltong and pap we consume shapes our bodies. So, what's on the menu of your mind? Are you feasting on the nourishing fruits of the Spirit, or ar...

Amagugu, my friends. From my little patch of Akasia, nestled amongst the ever-present dust of Pretoria, I see the truth of Exodus 14:14 played out daily. The stillness isn't a passive resignation; it's a ferocious act of faith. It’s a battle fought not with fists, but with the quiet strength of knowing God’s got this. Last year, a neighbour, a bitter man fuelled by years of perceived injustice, started a vicious whispering campaign against me. His words, poisoned darts aimed at my reputation, stung. The urge to retaliate, to defend myself tooth and nail, was a wild beast clawing at my throat. My first instinct, born of years of self-reliance in this city, was to fight fire with fire – to set the record straight, to expose his lies.   But then, sitting on my stoep under the Pretoria sun, the baobab in my neighbour's yard caught my eye. It stood tall, weathered and wise, unmoved by the wind's relentless assault. It didn’t argue, it just *was*. It struck me that rea...

The sun beat down on the Pretoria streets, a familiar, almost oppressive heat. The concrete shimmered, reflecting the harsh light. A few weeks ago, I found myself in a state of restless ambition, caught in a whirlwind of desires. I was at a market – not a physical one, but the marketplace of my own life, brimming with the allure of success, the comfort of security, the enticing whispers of power. Matthew 6:24, that familiar verse, echoed in my mind. "No one can serve two masters." But I clung to the delusion that I could juggle both: God and...well, me. I volunteered, I attended church, I donated. I felt like I was doing the right things, but something felt hollow, disconnected. My heart was divided. I was constructing a house of aspirations on shifting sand. Each accomplishment felt fragile, threatening to collapse beneath the weight of unfulfilled desires. Then, a quiet, unexpected nudge. A friend, struggling with a difficult personal challenge, needed help. It was...

This morning, as I watered my small vegetable patch – a ridiculously ambitious undertaking in this Pretoria heat – I thought of the unseen gardener. My little patch is tucked away at the back of my yard, a far cry from the manicured lawns that seem to dominate Akasia. Nobody admires my struggling tomatoes or my slightly pathetic lettuce. They're not Instagram-worthy, certainly not the kind of thing that would earn me likes or follows. But here's the thing: I don’t garden for likes. I garden because I find a profound satisfaction in nurturing life, in seeing something grow from nothing. It's a quiet act of creation, a tiny reflection of God's own creative power. And in that quiet tending, I feel a connection to something larger than myself, a deep sense of purpose that transcends the superficial validation of the outside world. It’s a principle that applies to more than just gardening. There's a temptation in our society, particularly here in Pretoria, to chas...

The sun beats down on Akasia, Pretoria, another scorcher. Beautiful, in its own harsh way. But even amidst this intense beauty, fear can creep in, like a sneaky neighbour slipping through a fence. Just last week, a looming deadline at work had me wrestling with anxiety. That familiar salesman, Fear, was at my door, whispering scenarios of failure, job loss, the whole shebang. His voice was loud, insistent, painting a picture so bleak it almost sucked the colour from the sky itself. But then, I remembered the verse from Philippians: *“Do not be anxious about anything…”* It’s a simple sentence, yet it holds a universe of power. It’s not about ignoring the reality of the deadline, the pressure, the potential pitfalls. It's about choosing a different lens, a different perspective. It's about shifting from a place of fear to a place of faith. Think of it like this: God’s promises are the foundation stones of a magnificent cathedral. Each one – His unwavering love, His provi...

  Right, so picture this: A lekker braai in Akasia, the sun dipping below the koppies, painting the sky in hues of apricot and burnt orange. Boerewors is singing its sizzling song, kids are shrieking with laughter, the air thick with the smell of braaivleis and good times. Classic Pretoria scene, ja? Then, Uncle Piet, bless his cotton socks, launches into one of his legendary stories – a tale so tall, it practically needs a crane to lift it. We all know it's a fib, a magnificent work of fiction disguised as a true confession. But the mood shifts, doesn’t it? That delicious harmony is suddenly a bit… off-key. That, my friends, is the power of the Word – not just God's Word, but *our* words. They're like seeds, aren't they? Planted in the fertile ground of our hearts, they sprout into actions, relationships, even whole realities. Some seeds yield a sweet harvest – love, forgiveness, understanding. Others… well, others bring thorns and thistles. Uncle Piet's ya...

The sun beats down on the Akasia streets, the heat shimmering above the tarmac. It’s a typical Pretoria day, but even in this ordinary setting, there’s a shadow. It’s the shadow of a "biscuit moment," a small, seemingly insignificant act that’s been nagging at me for weeks. It involved a client, a crucial contract, and a… slight… exaggeration on my part about the capabilities of our team. Not a blatant lie, more of a carefully-crafted embellishment. Nobody found out, the contract was signed, and the champagne corks popped. Success! Or so it seemed. The truth is, that little embellishment has become a persistent, buzzing fly in the ointment of my soul. It’s like carrying a secret weight, a dull ache that overshadows the joy of achievement. This isn’t about the legal ramifications or potential consequences; it’s about integrity, about the dissonance between the image I project to the world and the truth of my actions. The Bible speaks often of the inward transformation, the cl...

The sun beat down on my stoep in Akasia, Pretoria. The heat was oppressive, a physical manifestation of the pressure I felt. Deadlines loomed, anxieties about the future choked me, and regrets about past mistakes clawed at my peace. I was a little boat tossed about, completely missing the breathtaking beauty surrounding me. I’m a writer, and the pressure to produce, to create something meaningful, felt overwhelming. I chased after the elusive "perfect" words, the impactful story, forgetting the simple truth: the grace of God is not a future reward; it's the very air I breathe, the sun on my skin, the vibrant life teeming around me. The other day, I sat there, overwhelmed by a particular writing challenge. My mind was a chaotic mess, a frantic scramble to anticipate every possible criticism. Then, a little bird landed on the railing, chirping a simple tune. Suddenly, everything stilled. In that moment, the sun warmed my face, the gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the ne...

 The sun beats down on the Pretoria sky, a relentless heat that mirrors the intensity of my own inner struggle. Here I am, sitting in my Akasia home, a self-proclaimed intellectual, a man who likes to think he understands things. I've read theological texts, debated doctrines, even taught Sunday school. Yet, the more I learn, the more I realize how little I truly understand about God. It’s like that ant trying to dissect a cellphone, except my "cellphone" is the entire universe, and my tiny ant-like mind is struggling to make sense of it all. This realization hit me hard a few years ago, during a particularly difficult time. My business was struggling, my marriage was strained, and I felt utterly lost. I clung to familiar theological concepts, hoping they’d provide answers, a life raft in a storm. But the answers didn't come easily. The familiar doctrines felt like flimsy life vests in a churning ocean of doubt. One scorching afternoon, sitting under the shade of a ...

Yoh, fam! The other day, I was walking through Akasia, minding my own business, when I saw this…thing. A discarded plastic chair, broken, sun-bleached, practically disintegrating. It hit me hard. That chair, tossed aside like yesterday's news, is a lot like how we sometimes treat each other, isn’t it? We see someone cracked, weary, “used up,” and we just…walk on by. But that's not how God sees things. He doesn’t see a broken plastic chair. He sees potential. He sees worth. He sees *us*. Even when we feel like that broken, discarded chair, He doesn't write us off. He sees us as far more valuable than a whole flock of…well, you know the story. Sparrows. Remember that old saying, "A broken clock is right twice a day"? We are more than a broken clock. We are not defined by our failures, our cracks, our "used-up" feelings. God's love doesn't just patch us up; it *redeems* us. It’s not some cheap, quick fix; it’s a costly, extravagant, brea...

 From my little corner of Akasia, Pretoria, I’ve watched the city unfold around me, a vibrant tapestry woven with threads of both beauty and harsh reality. I've seen the stark inequalities, the gleaming malls juxtaposed against the desperate faces in the streets. And it’s in that contrast that the meaning of *Ubuntu* – and the overflowing cup – hits me with a force that leaves me breathless. *Ubuntu*. "I am because we are." It's more than a phrase; it's a way of life woven into the very fabric of our being, a challenge and a promise. It’s the woman selling vetkoek outside my local Spar, her smile brighter than the morning sun, despite the obvious struggles etched on her face. It's the neighbour who brings over koeksisters after a tough week, a silent offering of solidarity. It’s the community pulling together after a storm, sharing what little they have, restoring what was lost. But *Ubuntu* is also a confrontation. It challenges my comfortable existence ...

  Here in Akasia, Pretoria, the sun beats down relentlessly. Life here, like life anywhere, can feel like a relentless *umkhonto* fight. One minute you're basking in the warmth, the next you're dodging potholes and loadshedding. The other day, my car broke down – right in the middle of a busy intersection. My initial reaction? A furious, frustrated outburst. The *umkhonto* felt like it was pointed directly at my chest. This was hardship, raw and undeniable. But then, slowly, a different thought pricked my conscience. This spear, this frustrating situation, wasn’t inherently evil. It was just… *a situation*. My *attitude* determined whether it would wound me or become a catalyst for something better. I remember my *ouma*’s potjiekos. She always said the secret wasn’t just the meat, but the balance of spices. Too much salt, and the whole thing was ruined. Too much chilli, and your mouth was on fire, but not in a good way. My life, my faith, feels much the same. I can...

From my window in Akasia, I often watch the sun rise over the city of Pretoria. It’s a breathtaking spectacle, a vibrant tapestry of colours painted across the canvas of the morning sky – oranges, pinks, and fiery reds bleeding into the soft blues and purples of the awakening day. But there are times, just like the changing seasons, when the beauty outside mirrors a turmoil within. Times when I feel myself shedding, not just layers of clothing against the morning chill, but something far deeper – layers of expectation, of carefully constructed plans, of the illusion of control. Doubt, anxiety, and that nagging feeling that I’m somehow off-course, adrift in the vast, shimmering ocean of life, wash over me. I’ve always been a planner. A list-maker. A control freak, if I’m honest. My life has often felt like a meticulously crafted spreadsheet, each cell neatly filled with meticulously planned outcomes. My idea of "God's plan" used to involve a meticulously charted cou...

From my veranda in Akasia, Tshwane, the trees explode in a riot of beauty, a breathtaking display that mirrors, in its fleeting beauty, the unpredictable nature of life. It’s a life I’ve learned, much like an orchard. Sometimes, during those harsh Pretoria winters of the soul – those times when the burdens feel heavier than a winter’s koppie dam – it’s hard to see what kind of tree I am. Am I an apple tree, heavy with the sweet fruit of kindness, or a prickly pear, quick to prick with a barbed word? The question hangs heavy, a familiar refrain echoing the uncertainties inherent in the human condition. We all grapple with this internal struggle, this constant self-assessment, this yearning to understand the true nature of our inner selves. Are we bearing the fruits of righteousness, or are we entangled in the thorns of self-destruction? The answer, I’ve come to realize, isn’t found in fleeting moments of self-congratulation or despair, but in the consistent, unwavering examination of...

From my window in Akasia, the Pretoria sun rises majestically over the Magaliesberg range. Each morning, this breathtaking panorama serves as a potent metaphor for my life, a constant reminder of both the immense beauty and the challenging realities of existence. It mirrors my own spiritual journey, a pilgrimage that has been far from a smooth, predictable ascent. Rather, it’s been a rugged climb, fraught with unexpected twists, treacherous terrains, and moments of profound self-doubt. The journey has taught me that the Christian faith is not about escaping the mountains of life, but about learning to navigate them with grace, resilience, and a profound trust in the divine. The familiar analogy of faith as "climbing boots," sturdy and reliable, rings true. These boots provide the necessary grip and stability to traverse the uneven paths. Yet, there are times when even the most robust footwear feels inadequate, the weight of the climb becoming almost unbearable. As South...

The flowers are in full bloom here in Akasia, Pretoria – a riot of colors against the clear blue sky. Beautiful, isn’t it? A breathtaking spectacle that momentarily stills the soul, offering a respite from the relentless churn of daily life. Yet, even amidst this vibrant beauty, the shadows of imperfection and struggle persist, reminding us that even in paradise, life throws its curveballs. This morning, as I sat contemplating the colorful cascade, I found myself wrestling with Romans 13, that often-misunderstood passage about submitting to authority, and the flowers became a potent metaphor for my own ongoing struggle with faith and politics in the South African context. My grandparents, stalwarts of the anti-apartheid movement, lived and breathed this tension. They understood submission not as passive acquiescence but as active engagement. Their faith wasn’t a shield against the world; it *was* the world, a world infused with a fierce, unwavering commitment to justice. Their praye...

From my Akasia home, the city lights of Pretoria shimmer – a beautiful, yet often brutal, tapestry woven from threads of wealth and want, of gleaming skyscrapers and shadowed alleyways. This isn't some distant, theological debate for me; it’s the reality that crashes against my windowpanes every morning, a relentless reminder of the stark contrasts that define this city I call home. Matthew 25:31-46, the parable of the sheep and the goats, isn't some dusty old scripture gathering dust on a shelf; it's the street I drive down, the faces I see at the traffic light, the silent stories etched on the weathered faces of those who walk amongst us, often unseen, often unheard. I remember Ouma Agnes, a woman I met volunteering at a soup kitchen near the city centre. The memory of her is still vivid, etched deep within the chambers of my heart. Wrinkled hands, gnarled by time and hardship, yet surprisingly gentle; a smile that could melt the coldest heart, a smile that transcended...

Here, nestled in the heart of Tshwane, loadshedding is a constant companion, a rhythmic interruption to the flow of life. We are, after all, South Africans, masters of improvisation, experts in adapting to the unpredictable rhythms of our land. But spiritual waiting? That’s a different beast altogether. It’s a terrain that often feels barren, a spiritual desert where the sun beats down relentlessly on parched hopes and dreams. For many, the concept of waiting is anathema. We are a society obsessed with speed and efficiency, with instant gratification. We want answers now, solutions immediately, and results yesterday. We've been conditioned to believe that productivity equals worth, that busyness is a measure of success. In this relentless pursuit of achievement, the quiet spaces, the moments of stillness, the very act of waiting, feel like a profound failure. We fidget, we fret, we fill the void with incessant activity, anything to avoid confronting the unsettling silence. Yet,...