Dedicated to my best friends, Damilola and Olawunmi. ❤❤

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For we are His workmanship [His own master work, a work of art], created in Christ Jesus [reborn from above—spiritually transformed, renewed, ready to be used] for good works, which God prepared [for us] beforehand [taking paths which He set], so that we would walk in them [living the good life which He prearranged and made ready for us].
--Ephesians 2:10 (AMP)

Nothing is impossible by Planetshakers rung out loudly causing Tayo to jerk into a sitting position. He had had yet another night filled with fitful sleep. He had only been able to sleep when it was about 3am. And that morning marked the seventh time he would wake up feeling like he had a heavy load on his head.

Forcing himself to stand from his bed, he turned to turn off the alarm on his phone which made his eyes land on his Bible and devotional guide. He looked away quickly like he had been caught cheating.

It had been difficult to read his Bible and praying was now a chore. His altar was as cold as the freezer part of his Scanfrost refrigerator. It had started with praying for one minute and rushing off to work to blaming himself, the hospital and then God for Doubra's death to finally just shutting his bible and keeping his lips together. His daily "I can" pep talks were just due to years of habit. He was sure his faith wasn't even a mustard seed anymore. It had faded into nothingness.

He knew God wanted him to hear Him speaking to him but he just couldn't find the strength to do the things of his Heavenly Father anymore. When did it turn to this? He had had one of the most spectacular encounters one could ever have. It was the encounter that had spurred him into surrendering to the Lordship of Jesus and he could still remember how it happened.

His fellowship with God really needed a revival. He would have spoken to his pastor, if he could even call him that anymore, but it had been a while since he'd gone to church or even spoken to him. After Doubra died, his pastor had reached out to him but he had been too lost in his grief to acknowledge any of the calls or visits.

His family had tried to help too, but there was nothing they could do especially since he kept insisting that he was fine. Godspower, his friend, had called to tell him that he was coming over and he knew he had to brace up for the heavy conversation that was bound to happen.

Maybe I'd try going to church sometime.

Just not today.

Sighing, he turned away and padded barefoot into the bathroom to prepare for his day. His day in his sitting room.

*******

As he sat in his living room, he flipped through the stations and all that was showing were various church services.

Well, what did I expect? Today is Sunday.

It was like God was doing everything to reach him because all the messages being preached had titles like "Fellowship with God", "Serving God through the Pain", "Staying in His Presence" and so on. It was like his attention was being drawn.

But he still fought it and finally turned off the TV set.

Yes, he had had a spectacular encounter with God and he had enjoyed one of the best relationships with God. But at a point, especially after being married to Doubra, he had just settled into a rut; a sort of plateau where he was okay with the status quo.

He had no issues or challenges per se. Everything was alright with his world as far as he was concerned and he had just lost that fire.

He would have loved to say his walk with God had been awesome and that it was Doubra's death that made him lose his faith. But that would have been a lie.

He had been steadily growing cold way before then. He was first lukewarm, and then cold. Just the customary prayer, steady church-going and giving offerings, which he seemed to think were amazing replacements for a fervent relationship with his Father. Doubra's faith and walk was very strong; and she also did her best to get him back to that fiery place.

It worked for sometime, because his zeal would shoot so high up for a season and then just come crashing down after a few weeks. He was like a wave, with sometimes high tide and then low. He was tossed about, undulating in his faith and didn't put in the necessary work. Yeah, he loved the idea of being a believer and being on fire; but his desire wasn't just burning. It was more a flicker. On and off. Off and then on again.

And then his "anchor" died. First, he blamed the hospital for being careless with his wife and child. He even went as far as attempting to sue the hospital for negligence. But there had been no evidence. He had been so distraught that he was on the verge of being diagnosed with depression. And he had acted out severally. He was sure this was the rumour the journalist had been referring to. That was a moment he was not proud of and any reminders of it rubbed him the wrong way. It was why he had reacted that way to the journalist's question and ended the interview.

Next, he blamed God. For taking away his wife and best friend. And his child. He was All-Powerful, wasn't He? So, why hadn't He sent Doubra back from the Pearly Gate? Weren't the angels and twenty-four elders enough for Him? Why did He have to take his own? These and many more were the questions he asked and battled with.

Finally, when he had no answers, he blamed himself. His thoughts were that if his faith had been strong, she would have still been alive. If his relationship with God had been deep, he would have "seen" their deaths and prevented it. It was a struggle to come to terms with. Even now, he still blamed himself.

She was gone; asleep like Christians liked to call it. And he was still here, battling with the pain and loss. He couldn't go on like this. He needed help and fast.

And he needed strength to receive the help when it comes.

*******

Posi sat in her room as she worked on her abandoned drawings while a movie played know her TV screen. She really couldn't explain how she could watch a movie and draw at the same time. It just seemed to happen.

Drawing made her feel in control and not in control, at the same time. In control because she could sometimes dictate the route she wanted the drawing to go and not in control because the drawings sometimes looked better than she had envisioned.

It was awesome to just lift her brush and pencil, make a few swipes here and there and create a masterpiece.

Like I created you.

She looked around to check what had made the sound and stared at her TV like it was an U.F.O. What was that?

You're beginning to hear voices now. Masterpieces are unbroken, whole, and appreciated. You are definitely not.

Yes, I am not. I'm too lost and low to be a masterpiece. Too wounded and scarred.

Broken. Unwholesome. Low. Not enough.

That's it. And nobody wants broken things. Nobody wants me.

Dropping her pen as her tears made splatter marks on her drawing pad, she withdrew into herself, even without anyone with her. She could hear a still voice trying to speak to her, but years of listening to that other voice had her succumbing to her feelings of doubt, fear and insecurity. Her mother had called her that. Heck, she had called herself that. And even God had thought she wasn't worth it.

At least, she could try and focus on her work and create something she wasn't. A masterpiece. She had that, even if she had no one. Wiping her tears, she concentrated the more on her work and lost herself in the world of colours and curves and lines.

(In a particular church that same morning.)

"Before we close service, let's raise up our voices and pray for the hurting, ashamed and lost. That God will mend their hearts and envelope them with His love. That we are made more sensitive to our environment and the people in it, to spread His love to them through the gospel. Let's pray in Jesus name," a minister said as he led the congregation in heartfelt prayer.

Prayers continue and service brought to an end.

**********************************

You're a masterpiece, a work of art.

Love and Light. ❤☀