Anonymous asked: What inspired Write For Me?
Anonymous asked: What inspired Write For Me?
From tongues of old books
which tell the greatest story,
he heard the real truth.
The truth found its way
into a heart wide open.
It drums a new beat.
This beat is ancient,
danced to by many before
into peace and joy.
Now his arms and feet
are now free to be enslaved;
to move when truth drums.
Human beings will always be different from one another. If it isn’t skin color, it’s accents. If not accents, then philosophy or ideology. Whatever it is, we have a quick eye for spotting things about others that we’re not familiar with: whatever may raise some question about our very existence. Because of this, hatred’s seeds bud best in the soil of difference. Difference seems to always form the basis for hatred.
That’s why I thank God for the church as it was meant to be. Within the authentic church, difference becomes the basis for something else: something more beautiful and life-giving than hatred. In the Church, Christ is the basis for love, and there is neither Jew nor Gentile, man nor woman, Akan nor Ewe. Difference works differently. Difference becomes the basis to love and be loved. That’s a different kind of difference that I’m learning can exist only when people lay down their lives for each other.Tweet
I have to consider myself thankful, and privileged if you will, to have found my reality somehow interrupted by the The Community of Adsideo - a body of believers who fully celebrate God and live out their convictions in a way I often struggle to understand. Each time our lives intersect, I’m challenged further by their love for one another and their devotion to Christ to evaluate my own convictions and the fullness of what faith means.
I can’t help but be thankful for what surely must be a blessing.
I absolutely love music studios, especially the ‘Skillions lab’ in Accra. It’s quite the magical place, where I get to transform silence into music and sound waves into megabytes. Recording music is quite the cool craft, transforming a fluid & immaterial artform (music) into something still not tangible but more permanent (recorded music). I love love love recording music. The safety of the recording booth, and the convenience of the delete key make it a space the perfectionist in me feels most at home in.
The stage is this other very, very magical place. It’s where music comes alive. Music is a nomad. It’s home isn’t on CDs, iPods, stereos, etc. It’s home is the wind, the air, travelling between the instruments and vocal cords of the musicians into the ears and hearts of the listeners. While in the air, it gets blended and unified with the energy of both performer and listener, travels into the ears and hearts of the listeners, and circles back into the heart of the performer to continue this unearthly cycle. The stage is where I get to be part of this beautiful process called ‘Live music’. I prefer to call it ‘Alive music’.
Sadly, the journey from the studio to the stage stings, and sometimes stinks too. I’ve lost countless hours, calories and cedis in between these two magical places, and found frustration, exhaustion and disappointment. There is certainly a lot of joy in long rehearsals, numerous media appearances, writing press releases, designing tickets, etc. But those things matter the least to me in my life, or at least matter far less to me than recording and performing music do.
But you know what makes the sting worth it? You know why I bother with the stink of running all over the place? The same reason the chicken crossed the road - to get to the other side. To get from recording music all the way to performing it, there is a windy & bumpy road that must be crossed. For me to share all my gifts with others, to give my life away in the best way I know how, to honor the call that God has given me to share my faith, I need to be stung. I love the studio, I love the stage, and I need to love the sting in between.Tweet
plagued with doubt,
in a man unfamiliar with honesty,
a heart barely beating,
was long left by the man himself to bleed on the streets of faith
Lying on streets once brightly lit,
but now, paled.
This light is flawed,
for it has failed,
fallen far from the perfect light
that his heart just knows exists,
but has never truly known.
His heart lays there, shivering,
behind pretense and in fear of being trampled on
by the very people it beats for.
But the veil could and can’t stop the bleeding,
and never will,
and this man can no longer run
as fast, worn and torn
by and between
So this man will rest
and remove the veil
because his heart has met another,
also bleeding, yet without a veil
and more familiar with honesty.
This man will rest,
and be still,
and on bended knees he will go
praying for God to save his soul
Because the only thing that can stop the bleeding
is that Light,
the One he has never truly known,
but only knows that he truly needs it.