The Hidden Weight of Blessings

The Hidden Weight of Blessings

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I’ll be honest.

For the longest time, I didn’t even realize how ungrateful I was. Not because I meant to be no, it was because I got used to all the little blessings showing up like clockwork. A breath. A step. A smile. A chance. They were just... there. Always there. So frequent, so familiar, they felt small when in truth, they were miracles stacked on top of miracles.

This isn’t some heavy-handed guilt trip. It’s a mirror. It's a splash of cold water across a sleepy soul.

Because like a lot of us, I slipped into thinking I was self-sufficient. I started believing I was steering the whole ship alone, rowing by my own strength, my own cleverness.

But that's a lie dressed up as ambition.

When I strip it all down when the noise fades, when the lights dim, and the distractions die off what’s left standing in the middle of the room is faith.

Faith the size of a mustard seed.

Tiny, almost invisible, but carrying the kind of power that could turn a desert back into a garden.

I’ve got faith to reach for things that seem out of reach.

I’ve got faith to tame wild storms, to stand toe-to-toe with giants.

I’ve got faith that my Creator isn’t scratching His head wondering what to do with my broken pieces.

I’ve got faith to break barriers that were built to keep me small.

I’ve got faith to move what everyone else calls immovable.

Faith.

Not because life is easy.

But because even when everything looks destroyed charred, dead, hopeless I know dry bones can live again.

I believe that.

I carry it.

I hold it close when the nights get long and the walls start closing in.

Nothing and I mean nothing is impossible when you plant your feet in real faith.

Now, I know a lot of folks throw around the phrase, "Faith without works is dead."

But listen that ain't just about doing stuff.

It’s deeper.

It's more colorful, more alive than just hustle and grind.

Let me paint it plain:

Faith isn’t just "believing hard" while doing busy work. It’s living like the invisible is realer than what you see. It’s raising your hands in surrender, even when your arms are shaking. It’s trusting while you’re still thirsty before the rain comes.

Victory lives in lifted hands.

Victory walks alongside obedience.

Victory stands behind faith.

We serve a Creator who breathes victory into dry places.

Your win your breakthrough is stitched together by faith and obedience, not by how loud you shout or how long you cry.

I found myself thirsty once.

Bone-dry.

Walking through days when it felt like every door had slammed shut.

Begging Heaven for answers right now, not five years from now.

Not six months from now.

Not after one more heartbreak, not after one more no-show opportunity.

I needed it now.

But even in the silence, even in the dry places, even when frustration filled up my lungs I still had faith.

Not a clean, polished, sparkling faith.

A tired, sweaty, limping kind of faith.

But it was real.

And real faith moves mountains that polite prayers can't.

Sometimes you gotta stand still and watch the salvation of the Lord unfold right in front of you.

Other times?

You better pick up your sword and fight.

You gotta know the difference.

You gotta lean in close enough to hear the whisper that says, “Wait,” or “Move now.”

And now I need to say something real personal.

Because I hear people whispering about my writing voice, saying it’s too repetitive, too simple.

Maybe they can't see it yet, but I’m not here trying to impress you with cleverness.

I'm following the instructions given to my hands.

I write what the Creator lays in my palms.

There’s more purpose stitched into these words than any approval or applause could ever validate.

You might overlook my calling, brush past my gift, shrug at my talent.

You might think the world has better, flashier, shinier voices to offer.

But hear me clearly:

You're making a mistake.

My grandmother Celestine used to tell me I was a chosen scribe.

My mom said the same again and again planting that truth deep in my chest.

And an elder from Sierra Leone once stopped me in Georgia, looked me in the eyes, and said,

"Baba, you are different. I’ve never seen someone like you. If someone doesn’t like you, it’s because they have a problem inside themselves. The Creator made you special. Don’t you ever forget it."

I haven't forgotten.

And I won’t let anyone talk me out of what Heaven already wrote in ink that doesn’t fade.

So I’ll keep writing.

I’ll keep watering dry ground.

I’ll keep raising my hands in victory.

And I’ll keep having faith

even when it’s the only thing left standing.

Will add audio on tomorrow before 11am...

Love Kateb.