**A Fresh Start: Leaving the Old Behind**

 Right, so here's the thing about fresh starts. We South Africans, we’re masters of the *braai*, aren't we? We know the satisfaction of perfectly grilled boerewors, the aroma of the coals whispering promises of good times, the camaraderie around the fire, the slow burn of conversation under the Milky Way. But sometimes, the braai gets a bit… neglected. The ashes pile up, a grey monument to feasts past, the grid gets rusty, choked with remnants of charred dreams and half-hearted attempts. We’re left staring at the remnants, clinging to the familiar chill of the coals, unwilling to embrace the heat of a new fire, the promise of a fresh start. The past, it seems, is a comfortable prison, even if the bars are made of regret.

That's how it felt for me, back in my Akasia days. Things weren't exactly a disaster; more like a slowly simmering pot of lukewarm disappointment. My business, a small design firm, had plateaued. I’d envisioned vibrant growth, a creative explosion, but instead found myself trapped in a cycle of repetitive projects, each one a slightly different shade of beige. Relationships felt strained, frayed at the edges like an old, beloved rugby jersey after one too many games. The “hustle” I’d been preaching – that relentless pursuit of success – felt more like a hamster wheel, spinning furiously but going nowhere. I felt stuck, like a fly in a sticky marmalade jar – my own making, no less. The past, *my* past, felt like a heavy, damp blanket weighing me down, stifling the spark of ambition, the yearning for something more.

I knew the Bible spoke of leaving the old behind, of looking to the new, of a future washed clean by God’s grace. I’d heard the sermons, read the scriptures, felt the comforting weight of those familiar words, yet I clung to the familiar discomfort. It felt safer than the unknown, the terrifying, exhilarating prospect of letting go. The thought of abandoning the carefully constructed walls of my self-imposed prison felt like leaping into a chasm. The comfort of mediocrity, however unsatisfying, was a known quantity; the unknown felt like a vast, unpredictable ocean.

But then, something shifted. It wasn't a sudden, dramatic conversion, a blinding flash of divine insight. It wasn't a dramatic moment of epiphany, a thunderous voice booming from the heavens. It was more subtle, more insidious in its power: a gentle nudge, a persistent whisper in the quiet moments, a persistent, insistent calling to something more. I felt it in the weariness of my soul, in the quiet desperation that clung to me like the Pretoria summer humidity. It was, dare I say it, a nudge from the Divine Braai Master himself.

I stumbled across Isaiah 43:18-19, that passage about forgetting the past and embracing the new thing. The words jumped out at me, not as a theoretical concept but as a personal directive, a direct intervention in my soul's quiet crisis. "Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the desert.” And it hit me with the force of a well-aimed rugby tackle – a jarring, beautiful awakening. I was stuck, not in the literal dirt of Akasia, but in the mire of my own mind, my own self-imposed purgatory of regret and self-doubt.

The imagery of the desert blooming – that resonated deep down, a visceral understanding that transcended mere intellectual comprehension. My "desert" wasn't some literal wasteland, some barren expanse of sand and scrub. It was the parched landscape of my own limiting beliefs, the arid terrain of my fear of failure, the unforgiving rock of my reluctance to let go of the ashes of the past. Yet, the verse spoke of God making a way – a river in the desert! A miraculous transformation, not through erasure, but through transformation. It wasn't magic; it was grace, the active intervention of a God who’s not content with leaving us floundering in our own mess.

Think about the symbolism, *ja*? God doesn't just *remove* the desert; He *transforms* it. He doesn't erase our past mistakes, our failures, our regrets; He uses them. He takes the burnt offerings, the cold ashes of our disappointments, and uses them to fertilize something new, something more beautiful, something more resilient. It’s like taking the remnants of a less-than-perfect braai – the slightly burnt boerewors, the unevenly cooked mielies – incorporating the lessons learned, analyzing the mistakes, and using that knowledge to create a feast even more magnificent the next time around. It’s about taking the bitter and making it sweet, transforming the ashes into something beautiful.

This isn't some abstract theological concept; this is the core of the Christian gospel, a message of redemption, transformation, and hope. It's about understanding God's relentless grace, His unwavering commitment to His creation, His ability to see potential even where we only see failure. It's a message that echoes throughout the scriptures, from the Exodus story, where God leads his people out of slavery into the promised land, to the parable of the prodigal son, where a loving father welcomes his errant child back with open arms. It's a message of hope, even in despair, of transformation, even in the darkest of times.

So, I decided to clean the grid. Figuratively, that meant honestly acknowledging my failures, my shortcomings, without dwelling on them, without letting them define me. It meant admitting my mistakes, not as a means of self-flagellation, but as a step towards understanding and growth. It meant forgiving myself, releasing the burden of self-condemnation, the relentless pressure to constantly prove my worth. It involved confronting the challenges in my business head-on, seeking counsel and support, rather than hiding from them, burying my head in the sand like an ostrich. It meant reaching out to those I had hurt, seeking reconciliation, repairing the frayed edges of damaged relationships.

This cleaning of the grid was not a single act, a singular event, but a gradual, ongoing process, a continuous commitment to self-awareness and growth. It required honest self-reflection, a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, and a persistent reliance on God's grace. It wasn't easy; it was messy, frustrating, and often painful. But it was also liberating, empowering, and deeply rewarding.

This isn't about ignoring our past; it's about integrating its lessons without being defined by it. It's about acknowledging that, yes, we might make mistakes, even big ones, catastrophic ones, but it’s our response to those mistakes that truly shapes us. It's the choices we make *after* the fall that truly reveal our character. It’s about learning from our errors, accepting our flaws, and moving forward with renewed purpose and determination.

It is about God's relentless grace that offers a clean slate, a new beginning, a fresh start. It's the understanding that He doesn't simply erase our past; He redeems it, He transforms it, He uses it to shape us into something better, something stronger, something more beautiful. He doesn't discard the broken pieces; He uses them to build something magnificent.

This “new thing,” it’s not a neat and tidy package with a bow on top. It's not a pre-packaged solution, a guaranteed formula for success. It's a messy, unpredictable, and thrilling adventure. It's a journey of faith, a leap into the unknown, a trust in God's plan, even when it's unclear, even when it's terrifying. It's trusting that even in the most barren landscapes, even in the most desolate deserts, God can bring forth life and abundance beyond our wildest expectations. It’s about embracing the unexpected, the unplanned, the divine surprises that life throws our way.

So, let's flip that braai grid, Pretoria. Let's clean off the old, the rusty, the remnants of past disappointments. Let's gather new wood, ignite the coals, and embrace the exciting possibilities of the new, knowing the Divine Braai Master has already prepared the most incredible feast. Let's invite our friends, our family, those we've hurt and those who've hurt us, and share in the joy of a new beginning. The question is, are we ready to partake? Are we ready to embrace the heat, the challenge, the incredible, unpredictable joy of a fresh start? Because the Divine Braai Master is ready. He’s been waiting, patiently, for us to join Him around the fire. The feast is ready. Are we?