AND THE STORM CAME: Triumphing Over Trying Times - Softcover

Mudiaga, Kikelomo

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1481719947 ISBN 13: 9781481719940

Publisher: AuthorHouse, 2013

Synopsis

The darkest of nights and the fiercest storms only come to make us stronger. Often times the gravity of our trials attempt to eclipse our faith and shake the foundations of our greatest belief. The trauma of tragedy can be devastating but as with every storm, if our anchor holds in Christ, the tomb stone will turn out to be a stepping stone to many victories. Some of the highlights in this life changing book are: ~Surviving the Storm ~Healing for the hurting ~Getting past the past ~A fresh start ~The pain produces power ~The victorious life We sometimes question the ways and acts of God because of the limitations of our finite minds. However, we are assured that the All-powerful God is able to works all things together for our good. For everyone who has ever been or is experiencing a stormy season, the message of encouragement and hope in this book will keep you steady and strong till the storm calms.

About this title

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

And The Storm Came

Triumphing Over Trying Times

By Kikelomo Mudiaga

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2013 Kikelomo Mudiaga
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4817-1994-0

CHAPTER 1

The Storm

`A voice is heard in Ramah,mourning and great weeping,Rachel weeping for her childrenand refusing to be comforted,because her children are no more'.

Jeremiah 31:15 (NLT)

Thumping.... running, fast, faster and faster still. Eachfoot hit the cold coal-tar of Bourdillon Boulevard. Harder,faster, faster still, every muscle responding in sync withstrides of this sprint. The road was long and curvy. It wasa dark, chilly night. Cars sped past. Bright headlightsflashed, blinding her eyes, blurring her vision of everythingand yet nothing.

She was still running, gasping for breath but continuingto run, mustering all the strength in her already weak andtired frame. Fast ... not so fast ... slower ... slow ...Suddenly she let go. Her body came crashing to the groundlike a felled tree trunk.

There she lay, helplessly heaving with sobs by the roadside. A shrill scream from the pit of her belly rent the silentair of the night. It sounded like the wrenching howl of awounded hound. Nothing could stop the tears now. Theyflowed down like the waters of a broken dam; in no time,from nowhere.

People began to gather. Concerned and inquisitiveneighbours came around; faces twisted in wonder andbewilderment.

`Who is this insane girl?'

`Who or what could be chasing her at this hour?'

She just kept on wailing with all her might, and betweenher cries, they could hear her mutter.

`My mother, ... She's gone?' she asked herself, asthough in doubt of her words or, more likely, in denial ofthe shocking reality.

`No ... Help me, please'.

Onlookers murmured. Some were moved to tears,though uncertain of what had happened.

Her father's elderly driver had run after her, buthis bones were creaky and not as agile. She lay by theroadside, still moaning and lamenting. Pushing throughthe thronging crowd, he made his way to where she lay.Quickly, he knelt beside her; speaking words of comfortand gently pleading with her, `Let us go home. Please,come with me. Daddy awaits your return, and your sistersand brothers all need you. Please, my child, come with me.We must go now'.

Taking her by the hand, he raised her up while a kindlady wiped the tears off her face, and dusted her clothes.They both started off towards home. It was quite a tediouswalk because she was weak from crying and still veryconfused.

Searching for clues, she lifted her teary brown eyes tojet black skies. There were no stars that night. The moonstood still; dull and solitary. Dogs howled, owls hootedincessantly. Something mysterious had happened thatnight. Heaven and earth questioned, yet the only one whoknew the answers sat silently; looking on in His omniscientmajesty.

Her entire world was in a state of total chaos. She couldstill hear the reverberations of the very words that sent herracing down the road barefooted, like a mad woman.

`Your mother is dead!' Those four words had causedmore damage than the waves of a tsunami, crashingthrough the walls of her faith, emotions and psychologicaldefence. No straps could hold her mind now; she wasbeginning to lose it.

Suddenly, she jerked back. She remembered her youngersister was travelling with her mother, and they had beentogether in the car. Grabbing the old driver by the arm, sheasked him about her sister.

`Where is she? She's okay, right? Tell me she's all right;tell me where she is'. Slowly, as though in fear of herreaction, he hesitatingly let out the words,

`She's gone, too; both of them and their driver too.Nobody survived'. That was the last straw. What could beworse?

Gathering her skirt, she started to race, charging home.Bawling, hot tears cascading down her face, she dashed inthrough the brown iron-gate, across the garden, and intothe fluorescent-lit living room. The first people she sawwere her two brothers. Her immediate older brother hadpassed on in a similar way four years earlier.

The youngsters looked as though they had just seena ghost; too overwhelmed to shed tears. What could youreally expect from ten and twelve-year-olds? She fell to herknees and embraced them as tightly as her strength wouldallow, thinking perhaps she could feel and share theirunexpressed grief which had been dumped on them at suchtender ages. It was then that they began to cry. But it wasalmost as if they were doing so simply because she was. Ittook a while to comfort them. Eventually they lay snifflingon the sofa. After a while, the younger drifted off to sleep.

Her older sisters were upstairs. One was due to bemarried in a few days' time. How would she handle this?You could hear her bitter screams fill the entire compound.Step-by-step, she made her way up the wooden stairs,absolutely terrified. Seeing her father crying would literallytear her apart. The ascent was slow, but eventually, thereshe stood before the dreaded door behind which were hersisters and father.

She pulled herself together and hesitatingly turned thedoor knob, stepping into a silence so thick, you could cutthrough it with a knife. Nobody moved or said anything. Shestood transfixed in the doorway and stared into her father'seyes, frozen momentarily. Finally, her feet carried her tofather's side, where a fresh fountain of tears broke forth.

`Daddy! Oh, Dad!' Her father sat motionless andspeechless. He just kept staring into space. After about aminute or so, he turned to her. `What have I done to deservethis?' he asked, his eyes red as hot coals. Looking up asthough he could see God, he questioned, `And you sayyou're God. How could you just sit and watch this happen?I can't bear this pain. I just cannot go through it. You mightas well take me too. There's nothing more to live for'.

With his face buried in his chest and without any reserveor restraint, he broke down.

With her eyes fixed on him, she wondered what wouldhappen if her father left too. A fresh bout of pain hit hersoul. It was like being thrown off by an extremely highvoltage of electricity. The surge of this, coupled with allthat had happened tonight, threw her into a state of shock.In a single moment, something went out like a light bulb inher head. She had slowly begun losing her mind.

At first she started smiling. Then gradually went on tolittle chuckles. Soon, her insane laughter enveloped the room.It sounded ludicrous at first, laughing at such a time. Quickly,her father began to call her name. She didn't respond, so hebegan shaking her vigorously, trying to bring her to order.Her speech was gradually losing coherence.

A thin line, they say, lies between sanity and insanity. Itlooked like she was gradually crossing that borderline. Shecould hear a million voices screaming in her head. The onlything that triggered any reaction from her was the sharp andpainful jab of the doctor's needle. Soon the sedatives tookeffect, leaving her feeling drowsy as her father laid her on hisbed. A queer smile played upon her face, accompanied by acontradictory tear tumbling down her left cheek. Lights out!

Sleep.... sleep.... sleep ... It was the longest nightever. It was as though I would never wake up. A familiarvoice gradually led me out of sleep. It was Dad's. At first, Iwondered what I was doing sleeping on that particular bed;then I wondered why Dad was crying.

I shut my eyes again. `It's only a bad dream'. I triedconvincing myself, but ended up confused. Suddenlyflash-backs hit my mind. It all became clear as realitydawned ever so rudely. Opening my eyes again, I couldliterally feel my heart palpitating so hard I feared it wouldjump out of my chest.

Never in my life had I seen my father that vulnerable.All the manliness in him could not change his situationor turn this tide around. He knew he had to face the bittertruth. Bracing myself up, I wiped my own tears and movedover, trying to calm him down. But he would not stopcrying. So I rose up and went to fetch my sister.

She came into his room with me, in a hurry. Kneelingdown in front of him, she spoke ever so gently, `Daddy,if you keep crying this way, what do you expect us to do?Please, try to be strong. We need you now. You're all we'vegot'. After a long while, Dad calmed down and pulledhimself together.

Thereafter, I went in search of a vacant room andthere, falling to my knees, I prayed to God. It was a cryof desperation from a hurting heart. After a long while ofgroaning, I felt a heavy weight gradually lift off my head.Then I rose up. My prayer was not in eloquent words; itwas with sighs and mumbled tongues from quivering lips.

CHAPTER 2

The Crashing Waves

`From the ends of the earth,I will cry to you for help,For when my heart is overwhelmed, lead me tothe rock that is higher than I'.

Psalm 61:2 (NLT)

All I did was cry. God must have read my sobs andtranscribed my tears. Almost immediately, just two daysafter the incidence, I felt a dew of joy and peace rest on me.The joy of His presence gave me strength, and His peacecomforted me.

It seemed like every hour tripled, with time movingslowly and dragging on. But I could tell I was muchstronger. Although we had to put all hands on deck andwork tirelessly to put things in place for the wake-keepingservice, I was strong. I began experiencing that portion ofscripture that says, `The joy of the Lord is my strength' Neh8:10 (NLT).

Hundreds of friends and well-wishers trooped into thehouse by the hour. I knew my parents had friends; butnever had I imagined they would be that many. Most ofthem came to offer their condolences, but ended up beingconsoled. Many—friends and relatives—were still in a stateof shock. The compound was streaming with visitors—grownmen and women weeping, some just clasping theirbreasts in utter disbelief.

One thing I remember vividly from that particular day,is the wellspring of joy that kept surging through me. Evenas I write, it is almost impossible to articulate or describeit. It was as though God himself was rocking me in Hisarms and singing me a sweet lullaby. A childlike peaceoverwhelmed me. I felt as though I was walking on clouds.It must have seemed like I was a bit out of my mind,probably silly; smiling infectiously with everyone I came incontact with.

Despite my running around and the cumbersomeactivities I was involved in, my energy level was veryhigh. I wasn't even aware of my needs; that had becomeabsolutely irrelevant.

The Service of Songs was set to take place the followingday. It was a glorious time. Everyone was present: family,friends, people I hadn't seen in ages, relatives who nevercame around, well-wishers, and everybody who had heard.my father was overwhelmed at the turnout. Hymns ofpraise rang through the air, with tear drops falling like rainfrom people's faces.

While the crowd in the compound that day wasunbelievable, one person I could not forget was my pastor,Paul Adefarasin of House On The Rock church. I canstill hear the good preacher's voice piercing the pregnantsilence, and the occasional sniffing of mourners as he readout words with such fervency and compassion.

He painted the most vivid picture of Heaven I'd everheard or read. I could almost feel my feet kiss the pure goldon its streets as he catapulted us all onto Heaven's shores.He gave an exhortation that lifted every heavy spirit and,with great anointing, gave us renewed hope. He spoke withincomparable eloquence, yet with great simplicity.

There, I understood my darling mother and sister hadmerely relocated. They were not gone forever; they justrelocated. They had been transported on heavenly wings tobe with the Lord, where there shall be no curse or death;a land where God himself is the sun that never sets. Hewould wipe away tears from their eyes, and sorrow andsighing were things of the past. They now rejoice in thatglorious city of perfection, peace and eternal bliss; alongwith the angels, the twenty-four elders and all who havegone before.

An altar call was made after the exhortation, and asurprising number of people came forward to surrendertheir lives to Christ that evening. I dare say that even indeath God still got the glory. My sister and mom, Tope andmummy, had lived a worthwhile life and had taken theirleave. The service rounded up, but not before I rendereda special version of the song `His eye is on the Sparrow.'I knew my mother was listening and singing along too.my sisters joined in and soon, we were worshiping theAlmighty God before the people gathered. Everybody leftour home challenged, marvelling at how children whojust lost a mother and sister could still raise their voices inpraise to God.

A slow convoy led us the next day all the way fromLagos state to the city of Ibadan. It was a two-hour drive.Mummy was buried in the family home at Ibadan. She waslaid to rest in her well-tended rose garden.

I could never forget her green fingers that could growanything, even in a desert land. I believed as a child thatmother knew the name of every flowering plant. I oftenbrowsed through her library of flower books, trying hard tomemorize some of the names myself, but I guess I didn't govery far.

Her flowers were like babies, and she gave themthe tender-loving care they required. Bougainvilleasand well-manicured green bushes laced the entranceto our home in Ibadan, tucked away in the heart of thegovernment reserved area of the city. Kissing the sidewallsof the house were roses of diverse colours. Sprawled alongthe back quarters are tall, swaying masquerade trees whichI often look upon today proudly, because I planted them.

I remember the lovely evenings when mummy gotall of us tilling and weeding her garden while she prunedher plants. Carrying watering cans and wheeling barrowsheaped with manure were tasks every one tried to avoidthough. That part was no way as thrilling as using the handshovels which made me look less amateur and more likea green-fingered florist. Now, those are memorable times;precious moments that make reminiscing worthwhile.

Tope was laid to rest in a cemetery somewhere in theheart of town. As is customary among the Yoruba people,a young child is not to be buried by her parents. `It is thechildren's honour to bury the old and not otherwise', theywould often say. Dad and two of my elder sisters attendedmy mother's funeral, while my other siblings, somerelatives, and I witnessed my sister's.

Looking on with hot tears running down my face, Iached. There was so much I wished I had said to her longbefore now. I longed to tell her that I loved being hersister, and to let her know just how much she meant to me.I wished she had heard me say things like, `Tope, I thinkyou're an excellent ballerina and you have the prettiest faceI have ever seen'. But right there and then, all I could dowas break down and cry bitterly because I had my chanceand I blew it. In so many ways, it was rather too late. Ifthere was ever any cause for regret in my entire life, it wasstaring me right in the face now.

The pallbearers lowered the coffin and one of themhanded me the shovel.

`Ashes to ashes, ... dust to dust'.

My heart heaved in my chest as my head pounded hard;a large part of me was being lowered and would soon begone forever.

I knew an angel had taken leave. Though cold, she stilllooked as pretty as ever with her long, silky, black hair. Shewas a sweet girl and quite soft-spoken too. We would pickfights with each other, and often times childishly rantedabout a whole lot of stuff, ranging from salad dressing toT.V. commercials. But looking back now, I realize howthose moments made our relationship unique and how Iwould give anything to have them back. It hurt so muchletting her go!

The most amazing thing happened two days before theaccident. Tope came to visit me on campus. Usually, I'dcome home every weekend, so it wasn't as though she hadmissed seeing me for a long while. In all the three and ahalf years I had been in the university of Lagos, this wasthe very first time my sister paid me a visit. Unknown toboth of us, it would also be the last.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from And The Storm Came by Kikelomo Mudiaga. Copyright © 2013 Kikelomo Mudiaga. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Publication date: 2013
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1481719947
• ISBN 13: 9781481719940
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 196