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Parish Youth Fellowship, 4pm/6pm at Old Pastors' Conference Room, Street Dominics, 356, Herbert Macaulay Way, Yaba, Lagos (2026)

Q: What is the address?

4pm/6pm At Old Pastors' Conference Room, Street Dominics, 356, Herbert Macaulay Way, Yaba

27/05/2026

TODAY’S TIP: CHILDREN OF WHO?

DEAR TOPPER,

The yellow generator smoke from the neighbour’s boys’ quarters drifted through the window mesh, smelling of burnt oil and Lagos night. Prince sat at his desk, the single rechargeable lamp casting his shadow against the white-washed wall of his Surulere room. Outside, a danfo driver roared a curse at a Keke rider, his voice sharp enough to slice through the humid air. But inside, there was only the scratch of Prince’s elegant fountain pen against the heavy pages of his leather-bound journal.

He looked at the date he had just written: May 27, 2026. Children’s Day.

To my future children, he began, his handwriting steady, mimicking the cursive the Reverend Sister had beaten into his hands at St. Finbarr’s.

I am writing this to you from a time when the world feels too fast, too loud, and entirely too expensive. Lagos is vibrating today. People are rushing, yet staying in the same place. I must confess to you that patience has never been my native language. I have spent my twenties fighting God for his calendar, demanding that He match my speed. I wanted the promotion yesterday. I wanted this apartment furnished last year. I forgot too often that the word of the Lord endures forever, while my complaints are just vapour.

He paused, a small, self-deprecating smile touching his lips. He took a sip of lukewarm water.

You must learn from my foolishness. Before your mother, there were misadventures. Lagos girls with acrylic nails that clicked like castanets against their iPhones, girls who measured my worth by the engine capacity of a car I did not yet own. I chased shadows because I wanted to feel grown-up. But then came Chiamaka.

Prince’s pen slowed, the ink flowing more richly now, as if the paper itself wanted to savor her name.

She does not shout. In this city where everyone screams to be heard, her silence is a fortress. When she speaks, every statement is laced with a rare, old-fashioned respect and a tenderness that makes my chest tighten. She has the kind of peace that Psalm 147 speaks about—the kind that strengthens the bars of your gates and blesses your children within you. I look at her during Mass, her head covered in a simple lace veil, and I pray into the silence of the consecration that you, my future daughters, will be as beautiful and humble as she is. And you, my sons, will look for a woman who loves God more than she loves the world.

He shifted in his chair. The light from his lamp flickered once, then stabilized.

I will do my best for you. I will sweat in this Lagos sun so that you have a roof that does not leak and an education that teaches you how to think, not just how to pass. But hear me clearly: you will not find your identity in a glowing screen. I will buy you books about the saints—stories of Joan of Arc and Augustine—instead of handing you phones and tablets that steal your childhood before you even know what it is. We will go to the park near National Theatre, or what is left of it, and you will scrape your knees on real grass. I refuse to lock you inside a concrete cage to be raised by algorithms.

He sighed, his eyes wandering to the small crucifix hanging on his wall. The evening news from the television downstairs was still echoing in his mind.

Today, the news anchor spoke about more school children kidnapped on their way home. My heart broke. The vulnerability of innocence in this country is a heavy cross to bear. I prayed the Rosary for them tonight, asking the Holy Family to deliver them safely back to the arms of their weeping mothers. We live in a place that tries to break its youth, but you will be different. You will cherish your Catholic faith. You will speak the truth even when your voice shakes, remembering that you were not redeemed with corruptible things like silver or gold, but with the precious blood of Christ.

I hope to read this entry to you one day. I hope that day will be May 27th, many years from now. I want you to look at the parades, the uniform dresses, and the school match-pasts, and understand something deeper. I want you to always associate Children’s Day not with the state, but with your divine inheritance.

Prince closed the journal, the leather giving a soft, satisfying sigh. He imagined them—little boys with his wide eyes, little girls with Chiamaka’s serene smile—asking him the question that always lingered in the background of a modern, status-obsessed Nigerian life.
“Daddy, whose children are we?”

He knew his answer. It wouldn’t be the name of a wealthy politician, a billionaire businessman, or a tribal chief.

Takeaway Message
In a world that demands we define ourselves by our lineage, our bank accounts, or our digital influence, we forget that true greatness is found in service and humility. Christ did not come to be served, but to serve. The world asks, "Who is your father?" to measure your social currency. But when you are secure in your redemption, that question loses its power.

Let Us Pray
Heavenly Father, spread Your divine mantle of protection over our nation, over the vulnerable school children who are missing, and over every family navigating the storms of this life. Grant us, O Lord, a spirit of true service. Strip us of the pride that makes us want to rule, and clothe us in the humility that makes us want to serve. Kindle in our hearts a deep, burning love for You, so that everything we do may echo Your grace. We ask this through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Readings: 1 Peter 1:18-25; Psalm 147:12-15,19-20; Mark 10:32-45

Thank you so much for supporting Dominican Media:
Order of Preachers 2 (Media), 2033966454 (First Bank)
© FriarJay

25/05/2026

TODAY’S TIP: MOTHER CHURCH

DEAR TOPPER,

The air in Chiamaka’s Lekki apartment tastes of expensive citrus reed diffusers and impending rain. Outside, the Lagos traffic hums a low, impatient bassline, but inside, the only sound is the sharp click of Chiamaka’s acrylic nails against her iPhone screen.

Blessing sits across from her on the cream tufted sofa, her iPad balancing on her knees, scrolling through a PDF of the weekly bulletin for her Pentecostal megachurch. They have been friends since their days at the University of Ibadan—surviving bad roommates, erratic lecturers, and broken hearts—but Sunday afternoons always brings an unspoken, fragile truce between Chiamaka’s quiet liturgy and Blessing’s loud, fire-and-miracles faith.

Chiamaka presses the phone to her ear, adjusting the silk scarf protecting her edges. "Yes, Mummy, I’ve reached home," she said, her voice dropping into that rhythmic, respectful cadence she reserved for her elders. "No, I didn’t forget. I booked the Mass for the family. Tomorrow is the Feast of Mary, Mother of the Church, so I lit a candle for you. Yes, Ma. Greet Daddy."

She hangs up, smiling faintly, but the smile withers under the heavy glare Blessing is throwing from across the coffee table.

"Mary, Mother of the Church?" Blessing repeats, her tone dripping with the patronising pity she usually reserved for politicians and beggars. "Chiamaka, honestly, sometimes I wonder if you people read the same Bible we read. Where is that one written? It is this your Catholic contrivance, this need to elevate a human being to the level of God. It’s not scriptural, Amy. It’s traditions of men."

Chiamaka breathes in the citrus-scented air. She expected this. Blessing wears her faith like a newly tailored lace iro and buba—stiff, vibrant, and loud.

"It isn’t a contrivance, my dear," Chiamaka says softly, her voice holding the steady weight of someone whose faith did not need to shout to be certain. "It is as old as the Word itself. Do you remember Genesis? Right after the fall, when God looked at the serpent? He said, ‘I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers.’ Even then, before the world truly began its long ache for salvation, God was already designing a Mother to crush the enemy’s head. And later, Adam called his wife Eve because she was the mother of all the living. Mary is the new Eve. Where the first mother said no, the second Mother said yes."

Blessing rolls her eyes, shifting her iPad. "Ah-ah, Amaka. You are stretching it. Eve is Eve. Mary was just a vessel. A blessed vessel, yes, but a pipe doesn't claim ownership of the water flowing through it."

"She wasn't a pipe, Blessing. She was a mother," Chiamaka counters, her eyes flashing with a sudden, quiet heat. "Look at John’s Gospel. At the foot of the cross, when the agony was tearing Jesus apart, He didn’t look at John and say, ‘See your landlord.’ He looked at His mother and said, ‘Woman, behold your son,’ and to John, ‘Behold your mother.’ In that moment, when water and blood flowed from His side—the very moment the Church was born from the wounded side of Christ—He gave her to us. John represented all of us. If you are a disciple of Christ, then Mary is your mother. It’s a package deal."

"But why give her titles she didn't ask for?" Blessing asks, her voice rising into her Sunday-sermon register. "The Church belongs to Christ! He bought it with a price!"

"And who accompanied Him to that buying?" Chiamaka says, standing up. She walks toward the balcony doors, watching the dark clouds gather over the Lagos lagoon. "Saint Ambrose writing in the fourth century says that ‘Mary is the type and figure of the Church’. This isn’t a modern Vatican invention. Think about it, Blessing. The Church is inherently feminine. Psalm 87 talks about Zion, the city of God, and says, ‘Of Zion it shall be said, This and that man was born in her.’ The Church is a Mother because she conceives us in the baptismal font, she nourishes us with the Sacraments, she protects us from the wilderness of this world, and she gathers her children together in faith, just as Mary gathered with the Apostles in the Upper Room, praying for the Holy Spirit."

Blessing sits back, silent for a moment, tracing the edge of her iPad case. The certainty in her eyes wavers, just for a fraction of a second, before she hardens it again. "It still sounds like you people are looking for a mother because you think God the Father is too harsh."

Chiamaka turns back from the window and looks at her friend. She doesn't look angry; she looks deeply, beautifully rooted.

"No, Blessing," Chiamaka says, her voice dropping to a fierce, unforgettable whisper. "We don't look for a mother because we think God is harsh. We love the Mother because we see how much the Father trusted her. If the Almighty Creator of the universe could submit Himself to the womb of a woman, depend on her breast milk for survival, and let her teach Him how to walk, then who am I to tell God that His taste in mothers wasn't good enough for me?"

The room falls completely silent. The only sound left is the sudden, heavy downpour of Lagos rain against the glass. Blessing looks away first, her fingers turning her iPad screen off.

Let Us Pray
Most Holy Virgin Mary, Mother of the Church and our Mother, we fly to your maternal protection. As you stood faithfully at the foot of the Cross and prayed with the infant Church at Pentecost, accompany us now in the bustling currents of our daily lives. Intercede for us, dear Mother, that we may obtain the grace to hear God’s word and keep it. Help us to grow daily in the love of your Son, Jesus Christ, so that our choices, our speech, and our very way of life may be a living gospel. Gather us always in faith, console us in our sorrows, and guide our steps toward the eternal kingdom. Amen.

Readings: Genesis 3:9-15,20; Psalm 87; John 19:25-34

Thank you so much for supporting Dominican Media:
Order of Preachers 2 (Media), 2033966454 (First Bank)
© FriarJay

23/05/2026

Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful and enkindle in them the fire of your love.*

This is a gentle invitation to join us for tomorrow’s fellowship - *The Pentecost Experience*

Fellowship start 4pm sharp because of May Devotion. Come with Faith.
One Family…In Jesus. Parish Youth Fellowship

22/05/2026

TODAY’S TIP: LOVE OR GUILT TRIP?

DEAR TOPPER,

The evening traffic along the Lekki-Epe Expressway crawled like a sluggish, metallic beetle, but inside Nnamdi’s metallic-grey Lexus, the world was quiet. The AC hummed a cool, steady tune against the oppressive Lagos heat. Chioma stared out the window, watching a hawker expertly balance a tray of plantain chips on her head. This is the end of the story. Let me take you to some hours earlier.

Some hours ago, they visited the Perpetual Adoration Chapel at Catholic Church of the Divine Mercy. It was the exact spot where they had met eleven years ago. Chioma still remembers the silence of that chapel—the heavy, sacred stillness that seemed to absorb the frantic chaos of Lagos outside. They sat there tonight for an hour, the monstrance glowing under the soft amber spotlights, before heading to a dimly lit restaurant in Ikoyi to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary.

The restaurant smelled of rosemary, charred protein, and wealth.
"To ten years, Chom-Chom," Nnamdi said, raising his glass of Merlot. His wedding band caught the candlelight. At forty-two, Nnamdi still carried the easy, broad-shouldered grace of a man who did not let life ruffle him. "Ten years of waking up to the most virtuous woman I know."

Chioma forced a smile, the wine tasting like ash on her tongue. "Ten years," she murmured.
"I mean it," Nnamdi continued, his voice dropping into that deep, resonant tone he used when he was deeply moved. It was the voice that always reminded Chioma of a high court judge delivering a favourable verdict, not unlike the ancient tales of Festus and Agrippa debating matters of law and life. "In a city like Lagos, where everything is transactional, your loyalty has been my anchor. Your fidelity, your purity of heart... it’s what keeps this family standing. I look at you and I see Psalm 103 in motion. God’s benefits poured into a person."

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. A sharp, cold lump formed in her throat. Each word of praise felt less like a crown and more like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Virtuous. Loyal. Faithful. The adjectives pierced her.

"Nnamdi, please," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "Don't."
"Why not?" Nnamdi laughed softly, reaching across the white tablecloth to squeeze her hand. "You deserve to be praised, my wife. You have never given me a single reason to doubt you. Not once."
"Stop it!"

The sharpness of her voice cut through the soft jazz playing in the background. A waiter nearby paused, then discreetly moved away. Nnamdi froze, his eyes widening in mild surprise.

Chioma withdrew her hand, pulling it back into her lap where she wrung her fingers. The guilt, which had lived as a dormant, coiled serpent in her chest for the past eighteen months, suddenly reared its head.

"I am not the woman you think I am," she said, looking down at her plate of grilled croaker fish. She could not bear to look into his warm, brown eyes. "I haven't been entirely faithful, Nnamdi."

The silence that followed was heavy, reminiscent of the chapel, but stripped of its peace.

"Two years ago," Chioma started, her voice shaking but resolute, sounding exactly like a woman making a confession she could no longer hold inside. "When you were traveling to Abuja every week for the ministry contract. I got lonely. And then Tunde joined our department at the bank."

Nnamdi did not interrupt. He sat perfectly still, his glass halfway to his mouth, before slowly lowering it to the table.

"It started with lunch," Chioma said, a tear finally escaping and tracking through her makeup. "Then late-night WhatsApp chats. He listened, Nnamdi. He noticed the new hairstyles you were too tired to see. We talked for hours about everything and nothing. It became an emotional lifeline. And then, one rainy Thursday evening, we were the last two in the office. He came into my cubicle. He leaned in to kiss me. We were... we were so close. Our lips almost touched."

She swallowed hard, a sob catching in her chest. "And then I saw my reflection in the dark window pane. I saw my wedding ring. I pulled away, picked up my bag, and ran out into the rain. I blocked his number that night. I requested a transfer to the Victoria Island branch the next Monday. I ended it. But in my heart, Nnamdi... in my heart, I crossed the line. I betrayed you."

She finally looked up, bracing herself for the storm. She expected the Lagos man’s rage—the shouting, the shattered glass, the righteous indignation of a husband scorned. She prepared herself for the ultimate guilt trip.

Instead, Nnamdi just looked at her. His expression was not one of shock. It was filled with a profound, quiet sorrow, mixed with something that looked terrifyingly like tenderness.

He took a slow sip of his wine, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, and leaned forward.
"I know," Nnamdi said softly.
Chioma blinked, stunned. "What?"

"I knew about Tunde," Nnamdi repeated. "I saw the way your phone stayed face down on the nightstand. I saw the sudden flush on your cheeks when a notification popped up at 11:00 PM. I even saw him drop you off near our estate gate once when your car was at the mechanic."

"You knew?" Chioma’s voice was a breathless whisper. "And you said nothing? You didn't accuse me?"

"Because I knew the woman I married," Nnamdi said, his eyes locking onto hers with fierce intensity. "Like Peter on the beach in John 21, when Jesus asked him three times, 'Do you love me?' Jesus didn't ask to guilt-trip Peter about his denials. He asked because He wanted Peter to remember who he truly was. I saw you struggling, Chioma. I saw the battle in your eyes every evening. And I chose to pray for you. I chose to let you fight it, because I knew that if I forced a confrontation, it might drive you further away into his arms out of defensiveness."

He reached across the table again, and this time, he didn't let her pull away. He held her trembling hands firmly.

"Tonight is not a guilt trip, Chioma. Love doesn't keep a scoreboard of near-misses just to throw them in your face when you stumble. Psalm 103 says God removes our transgressions from us as far as the east is from the west. If the Almighty can do that, who am I to hold you hostage over a bridge you chose not to cross?"

He smiled, a genuine, beautiful smile that melted the ice in her veins. "You came back to your senses. You chose us. You chose our covenant. Tonight is about celebrating the resurrection of our love, not mourning a temporary lapse. I love you, Chioma. Not because you are perfect, but because you are yours, and you are mine."

Chioma let the tears fall freely now, but the suffocating weight was gone. The serpent in her chest had vanished, replaced by a clean, burning warmth.

Takeaway Message
True love is not the absence of temptation; it is the presence of redemption. Grace does not look at a scar and remind you of the wound; it looks at the scar and celebrates the healing. When relationships hit a rough patch, we are faced with a choice: we can either take our partner on a devastating guilt trip that paralyzes them in their past, or we can extend the kind of love that empowers them to rise. Guilt highlights the fall, but love commands the resurrection.

Let Us Pray
Heavenly Father, send the Holy Spirit of Love into our hearts and our relationships today. Lord, You know our weaknesses and the silent battles we face in a world full of distractions. We ask that when we falter, Your grace will find us. When we trip, do not let us scatter; grant us the strength to rise. In moments of intense trial and temptation, anchor our hearts in Your truth. Help us to extend the same radical, forgiving love to others that You so freely lavish on us, so that our lives may always reflect Your mercy. Amen.

Readings: Acts 25:13-21; Psalm 103:1-2,11-12,19-20; John 21:15-19

Thank you so much for supporting Dominican Media:
Order of Preachers 2 (Media), 2033966454 (First Bank)
© FriarJay

20/05/2026

TODAY’S TIP: CONSECRATED IN TRUTH

DEAR TOPPER,

The ceiling fan in Nkem’s Lekki apartment did not rotate; it chopped at the thick, humid air, making a rhythmic tack-tack-tack sound that usually calmed her. Today, it only sharpened the irritation prickling beneath her skin. On the screen of her iPhone, a woman with perfectly sculpted contour, wearing a wig that fell in glossy, unnatural waves past her waist, was laughing. It was a loud, triumphant laugh that grated on Nkem’s nerves.

"I am just being real, abeg," the woman on the screen said, waving a hand adorned with extra-long acrylic nails. "My last production alone bought the Range Rover you people see me driving around Ikoyi. And my DMs? Chineke! It is full of Lagos big girls, even church girls, begging me to connect them. Poverty is the real sin here, my dear."

Nkem dropped the phone onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a sharp clink.
"The audacity," Nkem muttered, her voice tight. "The absolute, unvarnished audacity."

Her friend, Tolani, walked in from the kitchen holding two mugs of steaming hibiscus tea. She took one look at Nkem’s rigid posture, the furious flare of her nostrils, and set the mugs down carefully.

"Nkem, what is it?" Tolani asked, sitting on the adjacent sofa. "You look like you want to bite someone."

"Look at this," Nkem said, shoving the phone toward Tolani. "Just look at what is trending on TikTok. An interview with that adult performer. She is bragging, Tolani. Bragging about how much money she makes from selling her body, and how thousands of girls are begging her for connections to do the same."

Tolani picked up the phone, her eyes scanning the video, then drifting down to the comment section.

Nkem leaned forward, her hands gesturing wildly. "And you know what the worst part is? She actually said—with her own mouth—that she used to 'carry Bible on her head.' She said she used to read the Bible more than anyone in her village, as if to say the word of God is useless, that it didn't help her until she turned to this. And look at the comments! People are praising her. They are calling her 'authentic.' They are commending her courage for speaking her 'truth'!"

Tears of genuine frustration pooled in Nkem’s eyes. It was a modern Lagos malaise, this glorification of decay masked as empowerment. "It makes me sick, Tolani. If the church girls are sliding into her DMs, then what is left? Is anyone actually holding onto the truth anymore? It feels like the enemy is just sweeping everyone away, and the world is clapping for it."

Tolani watched her friend quietly. She reached out, placing a warm hand over Nkem’s trembling ones. The contrast between the chaotic digital world on the screen and the quiet sanctity of the room felt immense.

"Nkem, look at me," Tolani said softly, her voice carrying the steady weight of someone who anchored her anchor deep. "Do you remember the prayer of Christ in the Gospel of John? Before He left, He looked at His disciples and prayed specifically for them. He said, 'Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth.' He knew a time like this would come. A time when Lagos, when the world, would call evil good and good evil."

Tolani retrieved her own leather-bound Bible from her bag. She didn't need to turn the pages to find the reassurance Nkem needed; the truths were already written on her heart.

"The scripture warns us in Acts," Tolani continued, her eyes reflecting a fierce, protective light. "Paul told the elders to keep watch over themselves and the flock, because savage wolves would come in, speaking perverse things to draw disciples away. This woman on your screen is just a symptom. But Christ promised that of all those the Father gave Him, He did not lose one, except the one doomed to destruction so scripture would be fulfilled. He has consecrated us in His truth. The evil one cannot just steal you away when you belong to the Saviour."

“We don't need to panic over a viral interview. The truth does not shift because the comment section is loud."

Nkem looked at the phone, then back at Tolani. The glossy image of the performer suddenly looked small, fragile, and desperately in need of the very grace she was mocking. She let out a long, slow breath. The tight knot in her chest began to loosen. The words did not change the viral video, nor did they change the harsh economic realities of the city outside, but they reoriented her axis. The truth felt steady. Permanent.

"She thinks she escaped," Nkem said quietly, thinking of the girl on the screen. "But she just traded one master for a harsher one."

"Then we pray for her," Tolani said, sitting back down. "And we guard our own hearts, so we don't bleed into the culture while trying to change it."

Takeaway Message
We live in a generation that mistakes exposure for empowerment and marketplace value for human worth. When the world redefines compromise as 'courage' and celebrates the shedding of shame, the faithful are often tempted to feel left behind. But do not envy the prosperity of the faithless. A crown bought with compromise is just a gilded collar, and the applause of the crowd is a poor substitute for the peace of a clean conscience. The world can market the illusion of freedom all it wants, but remember this: You cannot out-hustle the holiness of God, and a life built on a lie will always collapse under the weight of the Truth.

Let Us Pray
Holy Spirit of Truth, Divine Counselor and Light of our souls, we invite You fully into our hearts today. Guard our minds against the subtle compromises of this age. Grant us the supernatural strength to flee from every suggestion of sin, no matter how beautifully packaged or highly praised by the culture. Consecrate us in Your truth, keep us under the shadow of Your wings, and let our lives be a living psalm to Your majesty. Amen.

Readings: Acts 20:28-38; Psalm 68:29-30,33-36; John 17:11-19

Thank you so much for supporting Dominican Media:
Order of Preachers 2 (Media), 2033966454 (First Bank)
© FriarJay

20/05/2026

Reflections For Wednesday
[Acts 20:28-38]

Apostle Paul on his departure from Ephesus, meets with the elders of the Church, admonishing them and encouraging them to be alert, especially considering that after his departure from them, certain rebels shall arise from within them, with the intention to scatter the flock.

He pricks them to keep alert.

Many of the problems happening within the Body of Christ today, is simply as a result of many who refuse to be on the alert.

Lack of Alertness is responsible for the sudden infiltration of bad characters and habits overlooked in the name of it will soon change....but not so!

May God grant us the ability of sensitivity to spiritual things.

{Gospel Reading}
[John 17:11b-19]

Are there godly visions, purposes, missions, and assignments you have received?

Prepare to pass it on.

It is an obligation for us to make our "God-given vision" to endure.

Jesus knew when it was time to go.

He passed on His vision to His disciples and blessed them.

Every Believer is a leader and every leader has an obligation to pass on the gospel legacy to others.

Teach someone what you are doing.

Let someone receive your blessing.

[PRAYER]

O God, who taught the hearts of the Faithful by the light of the Holy Spirit, grant that by the gift of the same Spirit we may be always truly wise and ever rejoice in His consolation, Through Christ Our Lord....🙏

Written by Emelife Okechukwu John

19/05/2026

TODAY’S TIP: BE GLORIFIED

DEAR TOPPER,
Outside St. Jude’s Catholic Church, the air smelled of dry earth, roasted groundnuts, and the faint, lingering exhaust from the ‘keke napeps’ roaring past the parish gates.

Bulus (which means “Paul”) pulled at the stiff collar of his red altar server cassock. His surplice was already damp with sweat, but he refused to take it off. He stood by the sacristy door, his small fingers drumming against the worn wood, waiting. Other servers had already changed into their t-shirts and slippers, eager to run to the pitch for a game of football, but Bulus’ mind was still trapped in the sanctuary.

Father Thomas emerged from the inner room, his chasuble folded neatly over his arm. He looked tired. His dark face bore the faint lines of a man who spent his nights reading by candlelight when the Kaduna electricity grid failed, which was often.

"Bulus," Father Thomas said, a gentle, knowing smile tugging at his lips. "The Mass ended thirty minutes ago. Your mother will be looking for you."

"Good afternoon, Father," Bulus said quickly, taking a step forward. "She knows I am here. Father, during the homily, you read from the Gospel of John. Where Jesus looked up to heaven and said, ‘Father, the hour has come. Glorify your Son, that your Son may glorify you.’"

Father Thomas sighed, but it was a pleasant sound. He sat on a wooden bench, placing his folded vestments beside him. "Yes, Bulus. Chapter seventeen. The High Priestly Prayer."

"But Father," Bulus’ eyes widened, filled with the intense curiosity that made him the terror of the parish post-mass routine. "You also read from the Acts of the Apostles, where Saint Paul was crying, saying goodbye to the elders of Ephesus, knowing he would face trials. And Psalm 68 says God scatters the wicked like smoke but makes the righteous glad. If God’s glory is so bright and joyful, why does sharing in it look like Jesus facing the cross? And Paul facing prison? How do we share in that glory today without disappearing like smoke?"

Father Thomas looked out the window, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light. He nodded slowly, beckoning Bulus to sit beside him.

"Bulus, do you know how your mother makes her special 'miyan kuka' or her jollof rice?"
Bulus blinked, caught off guard. "Yes, Father. She uses tomatoes, onions, maggi, pepper, and meat."

"Exactly," Father Thomas said, his voice dropping into the rhythmic, storytelling cadence Bulus loved. "Think of our life in God as a great pot of soup on the fire. When your mother starts, the pot is just sitting there. Then she introduces the oil. Then the onions. They sizzle. It looks violent, doesn't it? The onions are weeping in the heat. But if she stops there, is it soup?"

"No, Father."
"Then she adds the tomatoes, the bitter leaf, or the locust beans. Each condiment has a different taste. Some are sweet, some are sharp, some are incredibly bitter on their own. She introduces them into the cooking pot at different times. Not all at once. She knows exactly when the fire needs to be high, and when it needs to be turned down to a low simmer."

Bulus listened, his hands resting on his knees.

"That is how God works in us," Father Thomas said softly, gesturing toward the crucifix on the sacristy wall. "To be glorified means to be made perfectly like Christ. But we are not born ready for heaven. So, God introduces Himself to us. First, the water of baptism. Then, as we grow, He adds His Word to give us structure. He adds the Sacraments to nourish us. These are the sweet condiments."

The priest paused, his eyes turning serious. "But then, because He loves us and wants the soup to be rich, He introduces trials. He allows the heat of the fire. Like Saint Paul in Ephesus, we face moments that make us weep. We face disappointments, sickness, or the harshness of this country. These are the bitter herbs. Alone, they taste like ruin. But inside God’s pot, they are purifying us. They are scraping away our selfishness, our pride, and our doubts. They strengthen us."

"So, the fire doesn't destroy us?" Bulus whispered.

"No," Father Thomas smiled, patting the boy's shoulder. "The wicked disappear like smoke because they refuse the pot; they want to remain raw and unchanged. But for the righteous, the fire only blends the spices. Every trial, every good work, every prayer is God stirring the pot. He introduces them at the exact right point in your life. And when the aroma is perfect, when you are completely transformed and ready, He lifts the lid. That is heaven. That is what it means to be glorified."

Bulus looked down at his white surplice. The heat in the sacristy didn't feel as oppressive anymore. It felt like preparation.

Let Us Pray
Holy Spirit, Divine Counselor and Comforter, we invite You into the deepest spaces of our hearts today. Completely dispose our hearts to hear, cherish, and obey the Word of God, even when it calls us to difficult places. Give us the grace to endure the trials that purify us, and the joy to celebrate the blessings that strengthen us. May we yield completely to Your divine timing, so that through our lives, Christ may be revealed, and we may ultimately share in His eternal glory. Amen.

Readings: Acts 20:17-27; Psalm 68:2-7; John 17:1-11

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