✨One Bright Morning (In a Twinkling of an Eye)✨

✨One Bright Morning (In a Twinkling of an Eye)✨ By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

One bright morning, that sun we all take for granted will stretch her golden fingers across rooftops and slip into your room like an old friend. But here's the catch your eyes and mine might not be there to see her. One day, just like that, the lights go out. Game over.

That full moon, the one that hovers like a watchful eye behind drifting clouds, casting a glow on quiet waters? It’ll shine again, sure but we won’t be around to notice. That bird perched outside your window, singing like it's trying to mend the world with melody? Its song will keep flowing, but our ears won’t catch it. There’s a day with our names written on it, and when it comes, this body of ours will clock out. No ifs, no extensions.

And when that curtain drops, everything we were too stubborn to say or too proud to admit gets buried with us. That "I love you" you kept tucked in your chest like it was fine china? Gone. That simple "thank you" you never bothered to say? Lost. That apology you thought you'd get around to someday? Never coming. Words, like missed buses, don’t circle back.

Now, let me keep it real I’ve been there too. Holding back kindness like it's some scarce resource. Judging quick, loving slow. I’ve walked through town with guilt hanging off me like soaked laundry. And yeah, if they handed out stones for every wrong, I’d be in the front row of that public stoning with my head bowed. But here’s the beauty: the Creator, in all mercy, gave me a mirror and a mop. I faced myself. I cried into the winds of repentance. I made Tawbah. I sought to be stitched back together by grace.

I’m not writing this from some mountaintop. I’m in the valley with you dust on my shoes, knees scuffed from falls, trying to find my way back. This is me, telling both of us: clean house. Not the kind with brooms and bleach but the one inside. Your heart. Your spirit. Your peace. Rebuild what you broke. Let go of ego. It’s crowding out the light.

And let me shoot straight: we ain’t self-made. All that hustle, that social media glow-up, the alphabet soup after your name without the Creator, it's noise. Like a drum with no skin hollow and pointless. You ever see folks chasing shiny nonsense like their soul doesn’t need food? Running marathons for approval, clapping back for sport, living for likes? Yeah, they sparkle. But inside? Empty. Like gold-painted cages.

Let me toss you a riddle: "What belongs to you, but everyone else uses more than you do?" Answer? Your name. And when yours is said in past tense, will it bring smiles or sighs? Will people speak it with warmth or wince at the memory?

Now picture this. Freetown, Sierra Leone. A place where mango trees lean heavy with sweet burden, and the wind doesn’t just blow it carries tales. Up in those hills lived Ma Yele, wise like the moon and gentle as sunset rain. Kids adored her stories. They weren’t just words; they were medicine.

One evening, young Sorie, full of pride and noise, stomped up the hill. "Old woman," he puffed, "I’ve been places. I’ve got cash. What can your dusty stories teach me?"

Ma Yele smiled like she knew time’s secrets. She handed him a gourd of water. "Drink."

He chugged. Then gagged. "Ugh, bitter!"

"That gourd sat full for years," she said. "Water turned." She stared deep into his spirit. "So does the soul—when it's all potential and no pouring. Don’t be that gourd, child. Share yourself. That’s how you stay sweet."

Sorie left with his pride shattered like stale bread. But he listened after that.

That story? It sticks. 'Cause too many of us are walking gourds. Too full. Too proud. Too stale.

Don't be riding a chariot made of dust thinking it’ll get you anywhere. In the end, it’s not your ride or your résumé that gets weighed. It's your essence. Your vibe. Your heart. Were you good? Did you help? Did you heal?

I’m not your preacher I’m your fellow traveler. Trying to wipe the dirt off my spirit. Reaching out for something greater. Talking to you yeah, you. This was meant for your eyes. Not by accident.

You’re part of this divine mural. A vital thread. Not to shine solo, but to hold others together. Speak less with pride, more with heart. Words are like arrows. Once they fly, you can’t pull 'em back. Make sure they land gently.

Still breathing? Good. You’ve got time. To say sorry. To love deep. To laugh till your belly aches. Even if you gotta crawl through the dry wastelands of your own stubbornness it’s worth it.

Been praying for years and hearing nothing? Don’t build idols out of impatience. Don’t light your own fire just to watch it burn you. Be still. Wait. The Creator sees you. And when the moment’s ripe boom. Blessing. Just like that.

And hey don’t forget to laugh. Even in the heavy moments. Life’s got its divine comedy. Like me thinking I lost my soul, only to find it chillin’ next to my grandmother’s fishing pole, soaking in her quiet wisdom. Life’ll humble you with a grin.

So here’s what I’ll leave you with: It’s not about how many breaths you take. It’s about who you lift, how many hearts you touch, how much peace you grow. Plant good. Water it with compassion. Harvest grace.

And when that one bright morning comes, and our names fade into memory may the echoes we leave behind still sing in the trees and whisper to the moon.

You ready? Good. Me too.

Understand your role You are here to serve others not to draw attention to yourself.