Tag Archives: Father

#358 ~ Father’s Child

My father often joked with me. He told me I messed up his grand numerological plan, the mathematical design he had constructed over time. Loving order, all my Father’s children have gone girl boy girl boy, up until me, where it went girl, boy, girl, girl. Yet, even though the chromosomes were slightly mixed up – I am my Father’s Child. I have his spirit, his stubborn nature. I have his laugh, we choke and cough whilst we wheeze out jokes. I have his disposition and quiet anger. I hope one day to have his wisdom and grace. His chin is mine and his smile flashes when I smile. There is so much of me that is in the mix as well, but though I am not a boy, I am so proud to be his child as well. 

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#346 ~ I Made this For YOU….with love

I have never desired to be a culinary goddess. In fact, I remember at the ripe old age of nine, my father calling me to help my Mum in the kitchen. I wasn’t averse to helping her, but wondered why he hadn’t asked my brother, who was older and probably closer to hand. In a benign manner he, I can now see in retrospect, replied:

“Ah-ah, who will marry you if you can’t cook?”

Indignation flared instantaneously and my stubborn nature shot back, quick as:

“Well fine. I won’t get married then. Why shouldn’t my husband cook for me?”

Suffice to say I spent a good seven years refusing to help in the kitchen. I didn’t mind washing up, and of course I watched how my mother was cooking and more importantly what, but I didn’t offer my services. When I was roped in as part of my familial duty I did it, but I didn’t love it, like my sister. My culinary standard became – is it edible? Yes? Then that’s fine. And edible can have a range of qualities…

However now at University, without a microwave and a finite budget it is suprising how expensive food is. A loaf of bread, which I could easily devour in three days, sells for £1 or so, whilst plain white flour is only 69p. So, I decided to turn my hand to some culinary delights.

Now whilst my African dishes are way below par, and I have sadly been forced to feed some friends some poorly cooked jollof rice (I blame the basmati), i’ve learnt that what makes Mama’s dishes so sweet isn’t really the scotch bonnet or caramelised onions, but it’s that she cooks with love. Sure, sometimes it’s a duty and a hassle, but it’s something she does for her family out of love.

Being now a near expert bread maker, i’ve made two perfect loaves of white bread and a loaf of wholemeal brown for a friend in just over 72 hour; and trust me they are gooood, I’m currently sitting whilst I make chicken, mushroom and potato soup, for myself and anyone who wants to come by and get blessed. And I’ve realised, cooking can be such an act of love, joy and service.

I absolutely expect my husband to cook for me and our family, just as I absolutely (she says tihs now whilst unmarried and highly romantic), will cook for my family, but not because i’m a woman, but because when I make things, I want to make them for you, with love.

So go, be adventurous and try your hand at making something. Maybe you’ll never get your dough to rise, but you could be an incredible pastry maker.

Be blessed.

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#317 ~ Psalm Series. No. 21

How can a young man keep his way pure?

By living according to your word.

By not falling into the foul and filthy cess-pools of the world’s view of masculinity

By not being deceived that purity is found between sheets

drenched in sweat and brokeness

Rather that purity, wholesomeness and masculinity

are found in the identity of the perfect Father

the loving brother

The sacrificial Son

all described in one


Psalm 119 vs 9: How can a young man keep his way pure? By living according to your word.



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#204 ~ One Hundred Words and a Photo: 14

Ice shot through worn jeans leaving a vicious imprint on the shivering flesh of an infant’s bottom. Small lips puckered like the red ringed mouth of an expectant maggot, into a howl. David smiled easily. He looked like the inversion of a dog dressed in human clothes, the Dalmatian coat reflecting the sapphire aura that shone beneath the vein laced knit-work of frozen water. Acutely aware of the deceptive fragility, blades gouged themselves into the seemingly impenetrable surface. David bent, grasping hold of childlike wrists in his thick gloved hands. “It’s just part of growing up son, that’s all.”

Copyright: Victoria. O

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#175 ~ Home Sour Home

We like to paint an idyllic scene of family life. Mother is in the kitchen, father in the garden, the children are in their rooms building imaginary castles. A combination of umbilical cords, heart-strings and wedding rings bind the family together into a cohesive unit of wholesomeness. A sweetness, like the nectar that drips from Keat’s tautologically over-ripe flowers, drools it’s sucrose body over the tantalising image of family.

Yet family, the idea of strangers who may even share genetically different blood types, living together due to a fusion of a nucleic acid called DNA, is not a sweet, saccharine infused construct. It is sour, bitter, tangy, zesty, repugnant and sensual. It elicits a range of responses that, in the moment, may seem wholesome and appetising, just as teeth do when they graze into a lemon curd pie, yet as it slips down the back of the throat, twists the lips into a pleasant grimace. Family evokes a response. The frictions that rail at the boarders, within the heart, over the dinner table, are the same frictions that define the overarching presence of unity, one-ness. A wise man once said, “the members of one’s own household are their greatest enemy’; yet, they are also their greatest friends, lovers, protectors.

Returning to the familial embrace, one does not rub up against the smooth, oil of Olay soaked skin of a Lothario, a debonair or even a baby’s bottom, but the weathered, grizzled jaw line of a Father, a menopausal mother, pubescent brother or even, hormonally imbalanced sister. The irritations, grazes, and frustrations however, are the most authentic kisses your cheeks will ever incur.

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#168 ~ There’s Something About the Darkness

My Father drilled certain principles into us from a young age. The first was whistling. One did not, on any account, whistle after sunset. His mother had told him it aroused ghouls and bad spirits, so night-time whistling was contraband. The next was that one should always be in their own home by sunset. This rule didn’t budge even in the winter months. That’s not to say we were locked up once 4pm came round, but my Dad always give the slight, downturned lips, head shake and sigh, before returning to his prayers.

To a degree, my Father’s views on nighttime antics didn’t only seem outdated but almost  farcical. A military man my Dad doesn’t do, or at least explicitly show, fear. But there’s something about the night-time that draws out that poison. Suburban streets, become desolate ghost towns. Luscious foliage and manicured bushes turn in to Fangorn Forest as it awaits the Urukhai from Helm’s Deep. The gentle caress of a summer breeze becomes the cloying hand that reeks with the scent of the deceased. There’s something about nighttime that ignites our creative minds, but, rather than drawing poison from a wound, infects it.

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