The Day I Stopped Running from the Word “Widow”
Today, God did something I did not expect… and honestly, something I had been quietly avoiding.
He placed me in the presence of other widows.
Not in theory. Not in prayer. Not in a sermon. In real life. In a room. With women who understood without me having to explain every sentence, every sigh, every silence.
And for the first time in a long time… I felt seen.
You don’t really understand what it means to be a widow until you meet one. And even then, you still don’t fully understand—until you become one. It is a strange space. You are alive, but something in your world has died. You are surrounded by people, yet somehow, you feel like you are speaking a different language.
I used to wonder why some of my friends became uncomfortable around me. Why conversations would shift. Why silence would grow heavy. Why I felt like I was “too much.”
And if I am being honest… I also struggled to show up for them.
Grief has a way of making everything revolve around survival. You are trying to breathe, and someone else is asking you to run. You are trying to stand, and someone else is asking you to dance.
It is not that you don’t care. It is that you are still learning how to live.
So I did what I have learned to do—I took it to God.
I asked Him for a new set of friends.
Not just any friends. I was specific. (Because at this point, vague prayers were no longer working for me.)
“Lord, give me a pilgrim. A destiny connector. A mentor. A friend who will ground me in You.”
And today… I walked into that answer at the Diamonds group in CITAM.
Now let me confess something: I almost didn’t go.
Because I didn’t want to be “grouped” as a widow.
In my mind, joining that group felt like signing a lifetime membership card—“Congratulations, you are now officially a widow forever.”
And I thought, “No, thank you. I rebuke that label.”
But what I didn’t realize is this:
Running from the word does not remove the reality.
God was not trying to label me. He was trying to heal me.
And healing often happens in places we initially resist.
What was shared in that room felt like someone had secretly read my journal.
The fears were the same.
My children losing their identity.
My sons growing up without a male figure.
The silent questions that keep a mother awake at night.
And then came a voice of wisdom—steady, calm, and deeply anchored in God.
She spoke of those same fears—not as theories, but as battles she had fought.
And her message was simple, yet piercing:
“Commit it to God.”
Not halfway. Not occasionally. Completely.
She reminded us not to deny our children their hearts’ desires—to let them speak about their father, to let them remember, to let them express.
Because healing does not come from silence. It comes from truth.
Then she said something that shook me in the best way:
“We are complete without our complementors.”
At first, I wanted to argue a little. (Just a little… respectfully, of course.)
Because how do you tell someone they are complete when something so significant is missing?
But then it settled in my spirit.
We are complete—not because nothing is missing,
but because God is not missing.
There is a difference.
She spoke about asking God for what seemed impossible—even for things like strength in areas we feel unequipped.
And God responded.
Not always in the way expected, but always in a way that confirmed His presence.
And I sat there thinking about my own life.
My garden.
The things God has already restored.
The quiet ways He has been showing up.
My car.
My land title.
Even that estranged land in Kisii.
God has been restoring—piece by piece.
And somehow, I had been noticing the gaps more than the miracles.
Isn’t that just like us?
God rebuilds a whole house, and we are still staring at the missing window.
Then came another reminder—one that brought unexpected comfort:
God hears our children’s prayers.
Not just ours as parents.
Theirs.
Just as He heard Ishmael.
That means my children are not voiceless in heaven.
That means their cries are not ignored.
That means I am not carrying this alone.
And suddenly, prayer with my children felt even more powerful.
Not just a routine—but a partnership with God.
There was also a warning. A gentle but firm one:
Do not leave a place of constant supply.
God’s presence is not a place you visit occasionally like a supermarket when things run out.
It is a place you dwell.
Because the moment you step away, you start trying to survive on your own strength again—and we all know how that goes.
(Spoiler alert: it doesn’t go well.)
And then came a perspective shift that I know I will carry for a long time:
Every crisis is an opportunity.
Not an interruption. Not a punishment.
An invitation.
An invitation for God to step in and reveal Himself in a new way.
As a husband to the widow.
As a father to the fatherless.
As a redeemer.
As a restorer.
She said she knew God before—but now she knows Him differently.
And I realized… I am also meeting God in a new dimension.
Not the God of convenience.
But the God of survival.
The God who sustains when everything else falls apart.
My prayer today became simple:
“Lord, if You are pleased with me, continue to teach me Your ways, that I may find favour with You.”
Because at the end of the day, what will distinguish me is not my story, not my struggle, not even my strength—
It is His favour.
We were reminded to have a victorious mentality.
Not denial. Not pretending everything is fine.
But choosing to rise above adversity.
Because trials are temporary—but testimonies are permanent.
Joseph did not get bitter.
And let’s be honest—he had every reason to.
If Joseph had WhatsApp, his status updates would have been… intense.
But he chose purpose over pain.
And so must we.
We were also reminded to be practical.
(Yes, even spiritual people need practical wisdom.)
Get help where needed.
Build support systems.
Be around valuable people—and also be valuable to others.
Because healing is not just about receiving.
It is also about becoming.
And finally, the call that ties it all together:
Build a godly generation.
Not just surviving children.
Not just successful children.
But children who know God.
Because long after our pain fades, long after our stories are told—
What will remain is the legacy we leave behind.
So today, I walked into a room I almost avoided…
And walked out with healing I didn’t know I needed.
Sometimes the place you fear the most…
is the place God has prepared the most.
And maybe—just maybe—
I am not becoming a widow for life.
I am becoming a woman who has seen God…
and lived to tell the story.
