Godly teens

(Image from Shutterstock) I'm at the fruit woman's burial. Everyone is dancing and singing. They are all in matching attires of white and they sing and clap as they dance after her coffin: "Ile l'onlo, tarrara. Ile l'onlo..." I can't feel the happiness that they feel. I just can't.  "She lived a good life," I hear a man say behind me to his friend.  "Yes. Very very good. She was so easy going, so gentle and nice." Tears are threatening to fall from my eyes as the Holy Spirit reminds me of one solemn truth. No matter how good a life was, if it wasn't surrendered to God, it was headed for Hell. But I can't tell them this. I can't ruin their celebration.  From a distance, I watch a Priest pray over the coffin. "May her soul rest in peace." He said. Again, torrents of tears fall from my eyes. If that woman had not given her life to Christ, her soul could never rest in peace.  It was a bitter pill to swallow. Even f

The rain is pelting down hard on the pavement outside. The colour of the sky matches my mood today as I seat on my bed staring out my bedroom window. The wind and rain bend the branches of the palm trees outside and it reminds me of why I'm here in the first place; why I'm not studying or scrolling through my phone, or at a sleepover in Kike's house.  Yesterday, a particular news knocked the life out of me and changed my mood from the colourful, rain-bowed sky it was, to one with different shades of gray.  The fruit woman down the street had died. Diabetes, they said. She was just a fruit seller to me, so I shouldn't be here grieving so hard. Not if I had obeyed the voice of God few weeks earlier. Maybe it was because she was so young, friendly and full of life, that I had delayed telling her about the burden in my heart. Five times, I had heard the Holy Spirit urge me to tell her about God and His Beloved Son, Jesus who died so that eternity in Heaven could be secured.