Dear Diary
June 1st, 2025

It happened in a flash — the kind of flash that stills the whole room.

I was at the final stretch of my research. The part where references are trickier than the research itself. The pressure was real — a looming submission deadline and only seventy per cent done. I’d come home for clarity, for grounding, for that strange peace that only comes from hearing life around you. And it worked. I was making progress I hadn’t made in months.

There’s something about being near love that makes difficult things lighter.

And then came my five-year-old niece — the light of this home. The kind of child who kisses you for no reason, pats your back when you’ve sat too long, and tells you, “You’re strong,” without knowing how much you need to hear it. She is wild in the most beautiful way. But five-year-olds are not calm people.

She darted past me — too fast, too free — and her little foot caught the charger cord.

My laptop flew off the desk.

My laptop. My HP Envy. My thesis. My years of work.

It hit the floor with the kind of thud that sucks the air from a room.
My very core vibrated at the sound.

I froze.

My heart left my body. My deadline flashed through my mind. Everything blurred.

I didn’t even have the courage to pick it up. I couldn’t. The house help did.

I just sat there — hot, cold, angry, blank. And still, I didn’t shout. I didn’t thunder. I didn’t let my disappointment speak.

She already knew.

I simply, in my calmest state, sent her to do her homework. Then to eat. Then to bed.

Later, after I had checked my laptop — bruised, but still breathing — I went to find her.

She was lying on the bed. Small. Quiet. Still.

I sat beside her and said, “You know what you did was wrong, right?”

She nodded.

I asked, “Do you know why I didn’t shout at you?”

She looked up at me with those eyes children have when they’re searching for the right answer. Then she said softly, “Because you love me.”

I hadn’t expected that. But there it was — truth, naked and tender.

“Yes,” I said. “Because I love you. So much.”

And then I explained why I had asked her to be calm. I told her how important my laptop is to me — that it’s where my schoolwork lives, and that I’m trying to finish something big. She nodded again. Not because she fully understood, but because she wanted to show she cared. Gen Alpha knows what a laptop means.

Then I said gently, “If you were calm, this wouldn’t have happened. It could happen to anyone, yes. But being careful helps us avoid breaking the things we need.”

She hugged me again. Not because she had the words. But because love often doesn’t.

And as I held her, I realised this was more than a parenting moment.
It was a divine one.

Because this is how God deals with us.
When we ruin the thing He’s building in and through us — not out of hate, but out of haste — He doesn’t storm out.
He doesn’t embarrass us.
He speaks calmly.
He loves loudly.
He teaches quietly.

This reminded me of Hosea — the holiest simp you’ll ever meet.
His babe was a serial cheater, but he still chased her like a man under some form of divine spell.
Let’s be honest: any regular guy would’ve blocked such a cheating wife, deleted her name from the group chat, and posted a black-and-white Instagram story that says “Protect your peace.”
But not Hosea. Man was out there loving like his heart was sponsored by heaven. And it sure was.

Because Hosea had every reason to raise his voice. Instead, he raised the standard — to keep loving when others would walk away.
To mirror God’s relentless tenderness.
Anointed, devoted… and just a little bit insane.

That’s how God loves us.

And that’s the choice He gives us too — to love even when it’s hard.
To not let anger hijack the moment.
To choose not just what is right, but what is restorative.

Hosea was proof that even when we fail God,
He chooses not to break us with the sound of His anger —
but to remake us with the sound of His silence.

So now, in this mid-year month of June — a month of reset, of reflecting on the first half of the year, of fresh calendars — may we remember this:

The power to choose how we respond is the greatest gift God gave us.

We all carry the power to break or to bless.
To raise our voice, or to raise someone’s dignity.
To react in rage, or respond in love.

Even in your most angry state, you can choose to be the calmest person in the room.
You can choose, like God, to be kind.
To love — especially when it’s not the easiest choice.

Because the ones who hurt us most… might just be the ones who love us best.

And in that decision not to shout — you just might mirror the heart of the Father.

That’s the kind of love that doesn’t just protect.
It teaches.
It grows.
It covers.
It lasts.
It waits.

So, I ask you to join me:

Lord, teach me to be more like You —
slow to anger, rich in love (Psalm 103:8).
When our hearts rage, help us see beyond the crash, the mess, the fear.
When we want to bruise with words, help us choose stillness.
Help us cover with grace.

Let our restraint become worship.
Let our gentleness be strength.
Let our silence be filled with You.

Thank You for giving us the power to choose —
and for inviting us, even in anger, to still choose love.

Amen.

When I wrote this story, I wrote yours too.
For the parent holding back the shout.
For the leader breathing deeply before they speak.
For the friend choosing not to speak in haste.
For the one healing from things they didn’t mean to drop.
For the one standing at the edge of boiling, but choosing instead to bless.

Yours — calm in the chaos, and choosing love.

If this made you laugh (or think), wait till you read the last one. Go on, treat yourself.

The Wisest Fool

How Weak Can You Be? – Samson Had One Damn Job