When I was a little girl, I had these hand-me-down shoes that I loved. I wore them everywhere. Anywhere, really. I don't think I cared whether they were appropriate for where I was going. If those were the shoes I wanted to wear, then those were the shoes I was wearing. And when they became too small, I still didn't want to let them go. I would squeeze my feet into them and somehow convince myself that they still fit. I imagine an adult looking at me and thinking, Child, these shoes are clearly too small. Please take them off. But I loved them. And I think about those shoes sometimes when I hear us talk about things like seasons, letting go, releasing, creating room, moving on. Usually, when we talk about letting go, there is something wrong with the thing we're letting go of. It has become toxic. It doesn't serve us anymore. It is holding us back. We have outgrown it. We need to make room for something better. And yes, sometimes that is exactly what letting go looks li...
“The best time to buy land in Kenya is during the rainy season.” That saying holds weight—not just literally but metaphorically too. Because only when the heavens open and the water flows do we truly see things for what they are. What looked like a decent, promising plot can turn into a swamp. What was once a trusted path home can vanish without a trace. This afternoon it rained. And as I walked home, I realized: the path I take every day isn’t really a path. It’s a suggestion—a possibility that only holds shape when it’s dry. When the rain came, it ceased to exist. Isn’t that how much of life is? The paths we swear by, the routines we follow, the beliefs we lean on—sometimes they only work when conditions are good. When the metaphorical rain comes, when life gets hard, what we thought was stable disappears. And suddenly we’re ankle-deep in questions we’ve avoided for years. In Kenya, rain is a test. It is both blessing and burden. It reveals the truth of our planning, our priorities, ...