dirty laundry

Abba-Father,

I used to ask You,

Why?

Why does money leave my hands

before the month has learned my name?

Why does financial lack

keep following me

like a shadow I cannot outrun?

Why did You allow me

to fall so far?

Now I look backward

and I see something

I did not want to see.

Perhaps the question

was never only,

“Why are You allowing this?”

Perhaps I should have asked,

“What did I plant?”

I was paid thirty-five thousand shillings

and called it too little.

My heart was angry.

My mouth became sharp.

I was rude to the man

who signed my pay.

I believed my salary

was an insult.

I believed I deserved more.

I believed he owed me

a better number.

So pride sat in my chest

and spoke through my mouth.

Again.

And again.

Until September came.

And the job was gone.

He told me,

“If you want to come back,

write a letter.”

So I suffered.

I waited.

I swallowed my pride

and wrote that letter in November.

But the door did not open.

December came.

Then December 12.

And I lost my home.

I slept on streets

where dignity becomes

a luxury you cannot afford.

There are humiliations

you cannot explain

until you have lived them.

I had asked You

for financial breakthrough.

Instead,

I met financial barrenness.

I had asked You

to increase my income.

Instead,

You allowed me

to confront my character.

Then February came.

The door opened again.

But the salary was twenty-five thousand.

Twenty-five.

Less than before.

And I heard myself asking again:

“Abba, why?”

Three months,

I was told.

Remind me after three months

and perhaps your salary will rise.

So I waited.

I reminded.

Nothing changed.

Then came the explanation:

The company has loans.

There is no room for a raise.

And something inside me whispered,

Is that really true?

Maybe it is.

Maybe it isn't.

But I have learned something:

His money is his.

His company is his.

His decisions are his.

His promises are his.

His power is his.

I cannot build my peace

upon another man's willingness

to increase my salary.

And I cannot call

his refusal

a debt he owes me.

That is where pride

nearly deceived me again.

I wanted to believe

that because I work hard,

I must therefore be entitled

to whatever number

I have decided I deserve.

But work is not ownership.

Effort is not entitlement.

A salary is not a verdict

on my worth.

And a boss

does not owe me

the life I imagined.

Abba-Father,

I think I finally understand

the mirror You have placed before me.

The disgrace

is an output.

And pride

was one of my inputs.

I planted arrogance

and harvested humiliation.

I planted anger

and harvested consequences.

I planted disrespect

and lost an opportunity.

I thought I was fighting

for my worth,

when perhaps

I was destroying

my own position.

Proverbs 11:2, GNB, warned me.

“People who are proud will soon be disgraced.

It is wiser to be modest.”

I simply did not listen.

Pride promised me

a throne.

It gave me

the pavement.

Pride promised me

respect.

It gave me

disgrace.

Pride told me

to demand.

Wisdom would have told me

to learn.

Pride told me,

“You deserve more.”

Humility would have asked,

“What can I become

with what I have?”

Twenty-five thousand shillings

does not stretch far.

There are too many days

and too little money.

Too many needs.

Too many months

at the end of my money.

But perhaps this season

is teaching me something

money alone could never teach me.

Perhaps I am learning

that poverty of income

is painful,

but poverty of character

can be even more expensive.

So I will not blame You

for every consequence

of what I have planted.

I will not call

every painful harvest

an attack from Heaven.

Some consequences

are simply consequences.

And repentance means

having the courage

to say:

“I did this.”

Not everything.

But some of it.

My pride.

My mouth.

My anger.

My entitlement.

My refusal to be modest.

These things

were not harmless.

They cost me.

And Abba,

if You are using this season

to teach me humility,

then teach me.

If You are using lack

to expose my pride,

then expose it.

If You are stripping away

my sense of entitlement,

then let me learn

without becoming bitter.

But please,

do not let disgrace

be the only thing

I carry from this season.

Let me carry wisdom.

Let me carry humility.

Let me carry discipline.

Let me carry gratitude.

Let me learn

to receive correction

without rebellion.

Let me learn

to negotiate

without contempt.

Let me learn

to ask for more

without believing

that another person

owes me more.

Let me become

the kind of man

who can earn more money

without becoming

more arrogant.

Because I do not want

a larger salary

with the same heart.

I want a larger capacity.

A wiser mouth.

A quieter ego.

A teachable spirit.

A heart that can say,

“I may be wrong.”

A heart that can say,

“I do not know.”

A heart that can say,

“Thank you

for what you have given me.”

A heart that can say,

“I will work

with what is in my hands

while I prepare

for what is coming.”

Abba-Father,

I have spent so much time

asking You

to change my circumstances.

Today,

change me.

For if You give me

more money

but leave my pride untouched,

I may simply become

a more expensive fool.

So humble me

without destroying me.

Correct me

without allowing bitterness

to take root.

Teach me

without allowing shame

to become my identity.

I have been disgraced,

but I am not

the disgrace.

I have suffered lack,

but I am not

the lack.

I have made foolish choices,

but I am not

beyond wisdom.

And perhaps

the greatest harvest

this painful season

can produce

is not money.

It is humility.

Because pride

made me believe

I deserved more.

Wisdom

is teaching me

to become more.

And when the harvest

finally changes,

let it be said:

The man who once

stood too proudly

finally learned

to bow.

Not because

he was worthless,

but because

he finally understood

that humility

is wisdom.