God: “Ask Me Anything”

There is a recurring pattern in Scripture that has captured my facination.
We often see scenes where kings or even God Himself estends an open invitation, “Ask me anything,” their response are rarely as lofty as the offer itself. They rarely asked for the life of their enemies, nor for half the kingdom, nor for personal comfort. Instead, they often asked for something that revealed the condition of their hearts.

Take Solomon, for instance.
When God appeared to him in a dream saying, “Ask what I shall give you” (1 Kings 3:5), Solomon didn’t rush into ambition or vengeance. He asked for wisdom — a discerning heart to govern well. His request was not self-seeking; it was aligned with divine purpose. And God, pleased with the purity of that desire, gave him more than he asked for — riches, honour, and peace in his days.

But in stark contrast, there was Salome, Herod’s daughter in Mark 6:21–28. Offered that same royal favour; “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it to you, even to half my kingdom”. Prompted by her mother, she however asked for the head of John the Baptist. One request came from a heart aligned with God’s purposes; the other, from a heart corrupted by vengeance. Both had access. Only one used it righteously.

This is what I’ve been meditating on; the true meaning of access to the King. Whether it’s access to God, to authority, or to influence, the “Ask Me Anything” moment is not a test of opportunity, it’s a test of heart. When we’re granted this access, what do we ask for? What occupies the forefront of our petitions?

In our world, access is often seen as privilege: having the ear of leaders, the number of influential people in our phones, or a seat at important tables. Yet, in the Kingdom, access is not a symbol of arrival; it is a test of alignment and trust. God will never entrust “the ear of the king” to a heart still driven by lust, envy, or self-preservation. He will not hand over the key to the city to one who still burns with self-interest.

That’s why even when we pray, “Lord, give me favour before kings,” heaven’s response is often not instant access but inner refinement. God trains our hearts before He grants us influence. He purges our motives, reshapes our desires, and aligns our asking with His purpose. And even when we have access, there is a constant watch over the state of our hearts to weigh our intentions, for God is a God of Knowledge.

So maybe “Ask Me Anything” is not merely giving an open-ended license but a divine heart test, like an invitation for God to weigh our desires against His intentions. It’s as though He says, “Let Me see what you will ask for now that you have My attention.”

It is an invitation of self discovery before the throne. It is not the freedom to request anything, but the revelation of whether we understand what is truly worth asking for.

When Esther stood before King Ahasuerus, he said to her,

“What is your request? It shall be given you, even to half of the kingdom.” (Esther 5:3)

Yet, Esther did not ask for wealth or power. She asked for a banquet, for a space for purpose to unfold. Her restraint was wisdom. Her timing was faith. And through that divine restraint, an entire nation was saved.

So, when God says to you today, “Ask Me Anything,” pause before you speak.
Examine what rises in your heart first. Is it vengeance? Is it validation? Or is it vision? Maybe the point was never the question, but the heart revealed through your answer.

Because in the end, divine access isn’t about what we can get from the King; it’s about what the King can trust us with.

The Parable of the Butterfly

One day, I sat in the driveway of my aunt’s compound with her driver, waiting for her to join us as we set out for work. Usually, he would drop me off after dropping her at hers. On this particular morning, while we waited, I noticed a white butterfly fluttering restlessly through the green bushes, presumably searching for a place to bed.

As I watched, I silently rooted for it to find the only budded flower among the “yellow bush” hedge that lined the corner of the house. But as the seconds passed, I got lost in thought, kind of projecting my own state of mind onto the little creature’s struggle. Could it be, I wondered, that I have bloomed like this butterfly, yet not found a flower to rest upon? Could it be that I am in my season of beauty and maturity, but still seeking my place of purpose?

Scripture says in Romans 1:20,

“For since the creation of the world, God’s invisible qualities—His eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made.”

In other words, creation is a living classroom. Through it, God speaks, reveals, and teaches us His ways. Creation is not just decoration; it is revelation. Through it, God teaches us about Himself, and often, about ourselves.Proverbs also echoes this mystery:

“I went by the field of the slothful… then I saw and considered it well; I looked upon it and received instruction.” (Proverbs 24:30–32)

That morning, as I looked upon that butterfly, I too received instruction. It struck me that this small creature had survived so many phases. It began as an egg, hidden and insignificant. It endured the slow confinement of being a larva, the silent transformation within the cocoon, and finally emerged radiant and free. It had every reason to be at peace, to rest in the beauty of what it had become. Yet at the very moment of bloom, it seemed lost: a perfect creature without a resting place.

And I thought about people, how many of us are like that butterfly? We survive the long seasons of becoming. We endure pressure, loss, stretching, and delay. We fight to grow wings. But when we finally bloom, we still feel displaced, restless, unseen. Could it be that we have focused so much on surviving that we missed the meaning of the season? Could it be that some have blossomed in the wrong gardens, existing in spaces that stifle their essence instead of releasing it? There are beautiful people living in restless motion, fluttering through jobs, relationships, and cities, yet unable to find where they truly belong. It’s not always because they are lost but sometimes, the environment simply isn’t right for what they carry. A butterfly may be perfect, but without a flower, it starves.

The more I pondered, the clearer it became that every butterfly needs a flower, but not every flower is appointed for every butterfly. In the same way, not every environment, friendship, or opportunity is assigned to your destiny. There is an appointed place for every purpose. The tragedy is not in waiting; it’s in settling too soon in a place that cannot feed your purpose.

As the butterfly flew away, I heard within me: You, too, have permission to change your position. We are not sentenced to remain where purpose cannot breathe. God gives us permission to shift; sometimes in thought, sometimes in geography, sometimes in identity. Migration is not rebellion; it is often a covenant step in destiny alignment. God is not static. He moves His people into appointed places, and in those places, He establishes them.

Scripture says, “Moreover, I will appoint a place for My people Israel, and will plant them, that they may dwell in a place of their own and move no more” (2 Samuel 7:10). That promise still stands. God doesn’t merely call us to grow; He calls us to be planted. When we follow His leading, He leads us beside still waters, makes us lie down in green pastures, and restores our souls. In the appointed place, when we go through dark shadows of valleys too deep for words to express, He is still with us and usually, that makes all the difference (Psalm 23).

So if you ever find yourself fluttering without rest, take comfort. The Gardener has not forgotten you. The flower appointed for you still exists, in the field He has chosen. And in time, you will find it, or perhaps, it will bloom right where you are, because the One who began your transformation will not abandon you mid air. He knows the field where you will find rest. And when He plants you there, you will finally understand that it was not just about flying; it was about finding home. A secure place.
And for the one who has wandered afar off, still searching for the place to land , the good news is, God is still coming for you. He is the Shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine to find the one.

Wait, while working

To live with vision is to see beyond the limitations of the present. A man who has no sight of tomorrow is easily swallowed by the narrowness of today. Yet, a man who only dreams of tomorrow without grounding himself in the weight of today builds castles in the air that vanish with the wind. Scripture reminds us, “Where there is no vision, the people perish” (Proverbs 29:18). But it also says, “Give us this day our daily bread” (Matthew 6:11). There is vision for tomorrow, and there is bread for today. One does not cancel out the other; both must be held in a delicate balance.

Living with the broad view allows one to endure the straitness of the now. It stretches the heart beyond the discomfort of the moment, reminding it that these light afflictions are but for a moment, working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory (2 Corinthians 4:17). Yet, living fully in the now is what gives strength to the vision. For today is not a wasted filler; it is the smallest indivisible part that makes up the whole. Every vision is built from a thousand todays, faithfully lived, consistently endured.

The prophet Habakkuk speaks with a voice that still whispers to us: “The vision is for an appointed time… though it tarry, wait for it, for it will surely come and will not delay” (Habakkuk 2:3). The vision of tomorrow has its date in God’s calendar. It will not arrive because you are restless; it will arrive because He is faithful. Yet the same God who sets tomorrow’s timing calls you to stand ready in today. He calls you to wait, to watch, and take the stance of Habakkuk; standing upon your watch. “I will stand upon my watch, and set me upon the tower, and will watch to see what He will say unto me” (Habakkuk 2:1).

The question then arises: how should a man walk in this world where every day demands urgency, but eternity demands patience? Should he run ahead into tomorrow, or settle into the quiet rhythms of today? The answer is not in choosing one and discarding the other, but in living with balance: to know the broad view, but to deliberately walk in the now, in alignment and hope towards the whole. To be rooted in today, yet stretched towards tomorrow.

But here is a warning. The vision for tomorrow can help you stay the course today, yet if you live every moment in today chasing after tomorrow, you may never truly live at all. Tomorrow was never meant to be chased; it was meant to be prepared for. Every faithful act of obedience today is a brick laid on the road that leads to tomorrow. It is the farmer who sows, waters, and tends the soil today who has the right to expect a harvest tomorrow (Galatians 6:9).

The danger of chasing tomorrow is that it blinds the eyes to the becoming of today. A man can spend his whole life staring so hard at the horizon that he forgets to take the step in front of him. Yet without steps, even the brightest vision remains unreachable. Tomorrow is not given in one sweep, it comes as a garmen woven with the thread of days, and days, and days.

Perhaps this is why the Lord tells us, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself, sufficient for the day is its own troble” (Matthew 6:34). It is not a dismissal of vision, but an invitation into trust and obedience. For to live rightly is not to idolize tomorrow, nor despise today, but to weave both into one vision; keeping you steady with today shaping you ready.

So, for me, I choose to live in the tension. Today as seed, tomorrow as harvest. Today as faith, tomorrow as sight. Today as obedience, tomorrow as reward. This posture has built in me the capacity to endure uncertainty, has silenced the urge to complain or murmur, and has equipped me with answers when anxiety comes knocking. And as I stand in the middle of both seasons- waiting, yet still working, I cannot help but wonder:

What if the fulfilment of tomorrow’s vision is already hidden in the faithfulness of today?

The Gamble of Love

Love is not polite. It is not neat or measured. It is extreme. It pulls us to the very edges of ourselves, where patience wrestles with longing, where waiting feels like a slow unraveling, and where silence suddenly grows louder than a thousand words.

We’ve all been there.
Waiting for a reply that never came when we thought it should.
Hearing silence in a place where we longed for reassurance.
And wondering if our hope was real, or if our hearts were gambling on something one-sided.

But silence is not always what it seems.
Sometimes the silence isn’t rejection but grief.
Sometimes it’s exhaustion.
Sometimes it’s the unspoken weight of battles no one else can see.

That’s the risk of love. We never hold the whole picture. We never fully know what waits on the other side of our giving, our hoping, our reaching. We extend ourselves without guarantees. We lean in, praying to be received, but knowing full well that distance, miscommunication, or even heartbreak could meet us instead.

It feels unfair. It feels fragile. But then I remember! the greatest gamble of love was not ours.

It was God’s.

He gave His only Son for us.
He stretched His love across a cross, not with a contract that bound us to reciprocate, but with hope. Pure, reckless hope.
Hope that we would see His sacrifice. Hope that we would choose Him in return.

He risked rejection. He risked betrayal. He risked indifference.
And still… He gave everything.

That is the nature of love: a gamble.
It is not safe. It is not predictable. But it is always worth it. Because when love is received, when it breaks through the silence and lands, it births something eternal.

So maybe the ache of risk isn’t wasted. Maybe it’s a shadow of the risk God Himself took when He gave His Son for us. Love at its purest form is not safe, but it is sacred. It dares to hope in the face of rejection, it gives even when misunderstood, and it stays even when there’s a cost.

And here’s the invitation: the greatest gamble of love is already before us. On the cross, Christ risked it all, without guarantees and without forcing our hand, but simply with the hope that we would say ‘yes’. That we would receive His love, and in doing so, make His heart glad that the chance He took on us was worth it after all.

The gamble of love is this: He has already played His hand. The question now is, will you receive it?

The Paradox of Desire

There’s a strange moment that happens when you finally receive what you once prayed and hoped for. At first, it feels like joy fulfilled like proof that waiting was worth it. But then, with time, you realize something else; you’ve grown past the very thing you once wanted so badly. The version of you that prayed, fasted, saved, and dreamed for it has shifted. What you chased with passion no longer fits the person you’ve become. And instead of fulfillment, a new longing rises.  While this doesn’t mean the gift is worthless, it often means your soul has outpaced your old desires and that’s okay.

Still, it makes you pause and ask: are our desires truly insatiable? Are we doomed to endlessly chase after something more, something just out of reach? Or could this restlessness be less of a burden and more of a whisper, an invitation pointing us back to the only One who satisfies?

In today’s fast-paced, ever-turning world, we often find ourselves chasing what feels distant, as though tomorrow owes us clarity. We carry hope like a credit slip, living “on tab,” postponing joy until the day our desires finally arrive. Yet in doing so, we trample past the sacred currency of the present, mismatching wants with true needs, exalting what glitters and dismissing what’s been graciously given. The truth is, what we hold now is neither small nor insufficient. It is provision, measured and meaningful. And unless we awaken to this consciousness of valuing the present, we risk mismanaging the very gifts placed in our care for today. Scriptures reminds us, “Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might” (Ecclesiastes 9:10). That means today matters. The task before you matter. The season you are in is not a placeholder, it is God’s stage for your growth, joy, and obedience.

The paradox of desire is this: God wired us with longings, but He never meant for our longings to be our master, neither is it up to us to fulfil every one of those desires. It is written;“He has also set eternity in the human heart” (Ecclesiastes 3:11), but with it comes the call to seek Him, as Scripture reminds us, “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart” (Jeremiah 29:13).

These desires, by God, will stretch us, and drive us to achieve great things, but they are not the measure of our worth. They point us forward, but they are not the anchor of our joy. Only God Himself is enough. As Jesus said, “Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him” (Matthew 6:8).

So what if we learned to rest here—in the now? What if instead of anxiously striving for the next thing, we trusted that God is already in tomorrow, arranging the thickets, setting the stage, preparing the provision? Maybe contentment would no longer mean settling for less but learning to feast fully on what’s in front of us.

Tomorrow is not a surprise to Him. And today is not a waste for us. It is enough.

The Blindsided-ness of Faith

There’s something both terrifying and beautiful about following God: you often can’t see what’s ahead.

Faith has a way of leading you into rooms you never planned to enter, conversations you didn’t script, and seasons you didn’t prepare for. One moment, life feels like a straight road with clear signs. The next, you’re walking with no map, only a voice saying, “This is the way, walk in it.”

The truth is, faith blindsides us because it refuses to work on our terms. It dismantles our neat timelines and calculated plans. It teaches us dependence in ways nothing else can.

Think of Abraham on Mount Moriah, lifting the knife in obedience, when suddenly a ram appeared caught in the thicket. It’s easy to say God made the ram appear in that moment— but what if we pause to see the deeper wonder? That ram might have wandered off days before, climbing the same mountain Abraham was sent to. Step by step, unnoticed, it moved into position, waiting for the exact moment when faith and provision would meet.

That’s the nature of God’s hand: He doesn’t always impose His reality upon us with spectacle but manifests Himself through the fabric of our everyday experiences. What we call coincidences are often divine harmonies; things like the right person at the right time, the open door just when you’re ready, the “chance” conversation that changes everything. Sometimes it’s the missed flight that spares you from harm. Other times it’s the job delay that positions you for something greater. Or even the quiet moment when a friend accepts a long-forgotten social media request and it becomes the start of the relationship you didn’t know you needed.

I’ve learned that the blindsided-ness is not God being cruel or distant, but God being Father. Because if I could see every turn, I wouldn’t need to trust Him. If I could calculate every outcome, I would only rely on myself.

Sometimes God calls you to move without the full picture. To step into a role, a city, a project, a conversation and you don’t yet know why. The faith walk is often less about clarity and more about confidence in Who is leading.

And here’s the paradox: what blindsides you in the moment often becomes the very proof of His faithfulness later. You look back and realize, “Oh… that’s why He led me this way. That’s what He was protecting me from. That’s the blessing I couldn’t see yet.”

Faith blindsides us, but it never abandons us. It’s the holy invitation to trust that even when you can’t see ahead, you are fully seen, fully known, fully guided.

Why I Finally Started This Blog

Why I Finally Started This Blog

I remember one quiet afternoon many years ago, I went on a Date with Destiny.

I had walked into the old Botanical Garden in Calabar, Cross River State. Once a bustling zoo, it had gradually become a tranquil corridor of trees and time, after the animals were moved elsewhere. That day, I came with a drink in hand and questions in my heart, ready to commune with nature and the parts of me I often ignored.

I’ve always carried an inner compass. A gentle guide that whispers what to do, where to go, and when to wait. And on that day, I was seeking clarity about my life’s central question:
“What is the one thing - that if I did it fully - I would have fulfilled destiny?”

I sat with that question in the stillness of the trees, and I left with an answer, clear as light: I was born to write.

And suddenly, it all made sense. Writing has always been the most natural, most familiar thing. It didn’t matter the format; whether it was journaling my prayers, crafting strategy memos at work, or composing lengthy reflections, I came alive when I wrote.

But life kept moving. And I kept deferring.

Each year brought its own demands — career progress, projects, success. On paper, everything looked right. I had no lack. My steps were ordered. But inwardly, something was always missing. A quiet ache I could no longer silence.
Not for a better job. Not even for a new season. But for obedience to the call I kept postponing.

I began to realize I was like the people God spoke to through Haggai. (Haggai 1:2-9). Building everything else. Neglecting the House of the Lord within me.

This blog, these words, they are my act of obedience.

Not to showcase, not to perform, not to prove anything.
But to build the altar I left in ruins.
To give voice to what God has always whispered in me.
To return.

What This Blog Is — and Isn’t:

It’s not a portfolio.
It’s not a side project.
It’s not a step on a personal brand ladder.

It is a place of language , to say what’s often felt but rarely voiced. It’s where I make sense of the ways I see the world: through faith, through purpose, through growth, through work, and through womanhood.

This blog is a quiet rebellion against performance. It’s an invitation to reflect, to realign, to remember.

I’ll share stories, some that sound like prayers, my posts may trigger questions that wait with you in the dark. And reflections that linger long after the scroll has ended. I don’t know where this path will lead , only that the time has come to walk it.

So whether you’re here by divine accident or a long-followed breadcrumb, I’m honored to have you.

May these words feel like home.
Let’s grow together.

Sary Moonchild.

The Book of Nehemiah

Rebuilding the Walls

Recently, I joined a new church community, and it has been a blessing to me. Before I started attending physically, I had observed them online, joining in their services and programs regularly. If I saw a program where the lead pastor would be preaching, I would stream it too.

One thing that endeared me to the church was the active role the pastor’s wife played in services. She was well worded — and it showed. The love and regard the members gave her on a Sunday morning when she ministered made me want to be part of such a balanced family. Not one ‘superhero pastor’ and so many questionable things, but a healthy body where each part matters.

Another thing I love about my new church family is the habit of communal word study. This is in close tie with the acts of mercy, but for today, word study takes the lead for its direct relevance here. At the end of each month, in the last midweek service, we are invited to share what we’ve learned. Even as an online worshipper before, I’d always feel like I missed out on that fellowship of one-mindedness with the brethren. It takes deliberate effort to make a people of one mind, and this church ensures we get it — diving into more than one book of the Bible each month. Minding the same things together. I’m certain the same is replicated in many local assemblies, and it’s always such a rich experience.

This month, we are in the Book of Nehemiah. The caption gave it away, I know. But still — we are in Nehemiah. And while the plan is to take it one chapter a day, alongside other books, I’ve been drawn deeply into the story of one man.

A man passionate about the beauty, dignity, and glory of Jerusalem. When he heard of her state, he wept for many days, fasting and praying with every breath. He maintained his focus, paying the price of building in the midst of opposition and always being battle ready. If he had waited for the naysayers and scorners to stop talking, the wall might never have been built, and the gates never restored.

Proverbs says, “Like a city whose walls are broken through is a person who lacks self-control” (Proverbs 25:28). Without boundaries, life keeps happening to you. One emergency after another. Barely getting by — paycheck to paycheck. Or even if you’re making ends meet, never truly satisfied; as though your belly is a pit or your pockets have holes.

But if, like Nehemiah, you take stock and give yourself an honest review, it should spur you into a more determined, blinders-on focus. And here’s the thing: most people won’t be comfortable with that. They’re used to your broken-down walls — your lack of boundaries, your high tolerance for low-impact conversations, your unclear path — and they’ve learned how to exploit that.

The responsibility lies with you. The Lord has already granted you favor by the good hand of God upon your life. You have every resource you need to live according to purpose, to rebuild your walls, to set boundaries, and to be accountable for your choices. Every grace is supplied.

And when you finish building, just like Nehemiah, it will be said of you: “When all our enemies heard about this, all the surrounding nations were afraid and lost their self-confidence, because they realized that this work had been done with the help of our God” (Nehemiah 6:16). People will adjust. Just focus on the task God has committed to you — and at the end, it will be obvious that the Lord has done it.

Your Desk Is Not Too Small for God

Because what seems small to man may be the altar God has chosen.

We tend to think altars must be massive, elevated, or drenched in spectacle. But sometimes, they are laminated with paper and coffee rings, nestled in cubicles, or dimly lit home offices. We often reserve the sacred for Sunday and the spectacular. But your desk - yes, your ordinary, overlooked workspace - might be the stage of something deeply spiritual.

Consecration isn’t confined to the pulpit. It is the daily offering of our time, our thoughts, and our labor unto God. And in this age of hustle, it takes courage to pause and see that the space where you respond to emails, review reports, take calls, or serve clients is not outside of God’s gaze. In the quiet hours between meetings and the moments when no one sees, we are being shaped. We are not just working; we are becoming.

Paul Tillich, in his profound work The Eternal Now, speaks about the mystery of time and presence:

“The mystery of the future and the mystery of the past are united in the mystery of the present.”

He reminds us that eternity enters time not in rare, dramatic interventions but in every real present; every moment of full presence. When we live consciously, work consciously, and honor the time we’re given, we experience kairos, i.e., divine timing; even in mundane tasks.

Work as Unto the Lord

Scripture reminds us in Colossians 3:23:

“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters.”

This is not just motivational advice. It is a redefinition of workplace identity. You are not just a banker, a teacher, a designer, a customer care agent. You are a servant of God in disguise; clothed in KPIs and job descriptions, doing sacred work in secular settings.

To work consciously is to work consecratedly. It is to be awake to the divine weight of your daily labor. Even when the desk seems hidden, or the task seems menial, heaven is watching how you handle what you’ve been given.

Reimagine Your Work

Let this be your reminder:
Your desk is not too small for God.
Your schedule is not too packed for worship.
Your output is not too “corporate” to be consecrated.

If God could breathe on five loaves and two fish, He can breathe on your 9 to 5. The question is: Will you invite Him in?