I am my father’s daughter. The daughter who lived under her father’s covering. The daughter whose head was anointed for greatness and leadership.
He taught me my place. He taught me my ancestry. He reminded me that I belonged to tribes so great that nations bow at the mere mention of them.
He gave me a mantle of rulership. He leveled the ground before me so that wherever I went, I would be acceptable to rule.
I was a natural leader. A priestess.
And he told me, “My daughter, when you leave home and go anywhere I choose for you, you can serve and lead in my name.”
Wonderful, right?
But guess what?
I am still that daughter who bowed to a strange altar.
Yes, I did.
I left home, just as it was destined, to a land far away in search of a better life. I believed that in that distant land, my story would be rewritten, or perhaps that I would finally rule.
In that faraway place, I knew I was different. The people there knew it too.
The aura of my father was still upon me. My ways were not like theirs.
Curious, they asked, “Whose child are you?”
And I answered boldly, “I am my father’s daughter,” And I described who my father was.
Immediately, they recognized his name. They pleaded with me:
“Come live among us. Rule over us. If you dwell with us, your father will recognize us too and shower us with his care.”
Exciting, right?
But there was a clause.
Their houses were different from my father’s house. Their altars were different from my father’s altar. Their ways were not his ways.
Their land was full of idols.
As my father’s daughter, I knew better. I knew not to bow to another altar. I knew not to let my consecration be polluted.
But I needed comfort.
And I settled for the comfort that felt enticing.
They said to me, “You may rule. You may lead. You may be a priest over us, but you will do it at our altar, using our idols.”
I should have fled.
But I chose comfort over obedience.
And now here I am, bearing my father’s name, but living a life that desecrates it.
Did I think about it? Did my conscience prick me?
Who knows?
But one thing I know for sure:
This will not be my end.
Because I am still that father’s daughter. And one day, I will trace my steps back home.
My father will always find me.
But until then, I pray it won’t be too late.
For I have ignited a strange flame in my bosom, and slowly, for pennies and comfort, I feel myself forgetting his teachings.
Lesson Learnt:
Dear friend, a strange altar is anything that rearranges the order your Father God established for your life, anything that corrupts your consecration or robs you of your right standing. Be careful what you trade your consecration for. Not every altar that offers you influence is aligned with your consecration and inheritance; some look like opportunity, but slowly erase your order. Comfort is seductive, but no comfort is worth the quiet departure from who you were called to be.
Yet even now, the road back home is still open, because the call of my Father is stronger than the comfort of strange altars.
Inspired by the story of the Levites in the Book of Judges, chapter 17.
