Dear God

The morning sun filtered weakly through the dusty window, its rays barely warming the cold room. Akinyi lay in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling above. The alarm clock had rung three times already, each shrill sound an unwelcome reminder of the day ahead. She sighed deeply, rolling onto her side to silence it once more

What is it, Lord, to wake up each day,
With sadness that clouds the morning's ray?
Unsure of the steps I am called to take,
Dreams feel brittle, as if they’ll break.

Work awaited her—a mundane routine at the customer service desk of a company that barely paid her enough to survive. Yet, quitting wasn’t an option. The landlord didn’t care about passion or dreams, only rent. Her younger brother, still in school, relied on her for tuition and meals. And so, despite the loathing in her heart, Akinyi dragged herself from bed.

To walk these streets where hope feels thin,
Where many struggle, yet few win.
Corruption reigns, justice feels lost,
And dreams are traded at such a cost.

On the matatu to town, she stared out of the window, her thoughts distant. A street preacher stood on the corner, shouting about repentance and blessings. "God loves you!" he declared with fervor. Akinyi envied his conviction. She had prayed countless times for relief, for change, but the heavens seemed silent.

The job that drains, yet keeps me fed,
A roof above, a humble bed.
But oh, the weight, the weary grind,
My spirit aches, my soul confined.

At work, the hours crawled. She smiled at disgruntled customers, her rehearsed politeness masking the growing void inside. During lunch, she scrolled through her phone, pausing at a photo of James, the man she loved but couldn’t have. He was abroad now, chasing opportunities she could only dream of. Their messages had grown shorter, their calls less frequent.

To love someone from a distant shore,
A heart that aches but dares no more.
To hope for a future so shrouded in mist,
And fear that its promises may not exist.

Her best friend, Njeri, often told her to quit worrying about James and focus on herself. But how? Worry was as much a part of Akinyi’s life as breathing. She worried about her brother’s future, about her aging mother in the village, about herself—stuck in a job she hated with no clear way out.

Walking home that evening, Akinyi’s path took her past a small church. The doors were open, and the sound of singing spilled into the street. She hesitated, then stepped inside. The choir sang of hope, of burdens lifted, and tears wiped away. She sat in the back pew, her head bowed, tears spilling silently onto her lap.

“God are You there?” she whispered, the words trembling with years of pent-up frustration. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

In the silence that followed, she felt no thunderous voice, no miraculous sign. But a strange peace began to fill her heart. It wasn’t the answer she sought, but it was enough for that moment.

But You, O God, are my steadfast guide,
Through stormy seas, You're by my side.
Give me strength for each weary day,
To trust in Your plan, come what may.

The following day, the challenges were the same—the unkind customers, the heavy workload, the nagging worries. But Akinyi found herself humming a tune she couldn’t place, a melody that seemed to say, Keep going.

Days turned into weeks, and though her struggles didn’t vanish, she began to see small changes. She enrolled in a free online course during her lunch breaks, hoping to one day leave her job for something better. She visited her mother more often, sharing laughter instead of complaints.

Life hadn’t become perfect, but it had gained purpose. And every so often, when she passed that little church, she would step inside, light a candle, and remind herself that even when the future seemed bleak, she wasn’t alone.

For though life’s burdens feel so steep,
Your promises, Lord, I choose to keep.
Renew my heart, my joy restore,
And lead me to Your open door.

Because sometimes, faith wasn’t about having all the answers—it was about finding the strength to carry the questions.