Brokenness & Idolatry

When I get lost, I lose myself. It is not that I have wandered and need to return, I feel more like the prodigal son who has forgotten he was someone’s child and completely gone rebellious. I don’t know if this is for everyone, but when sin takes over my life, I just don’t feel like me anymore. Well, at the very least, I don’t feel like the me, I was intended to be or have been for a while.

I am lost. Last year, I spent time generating themes for my life. There were four and they were cyclical: chaos/erosion, creation, brokenness, restoration. Chaos or Erosion is external. It is the process of my life in some fashion being completely dissembled. It can be through displacement or job loss or broken relationships or switch churches. Sometimes, it is erosion simply because it’s a natural progression or wearing away. Creation is the process of something being generated out of disorder, finding my current job, developing a personal sense of authenticity, finally getting counseling. Brokenness is my least favorite. Brokenness is internal; it points at my sin and depravity and does the most damage. Brokenness has been the most haunting of my seasons. Broken is how I came to Christ. Broken is how he finds me time after time. Brokenness frustrates me. It preys on every wicked desire for self-sufficiency that I have. Brokenness points a hard finger to God demanding that He back off and let me do this myself. Extended periods of brokenness lead to numbness. I am numb, and it’s my fault. I don’t state this condemningly. I did this to myself. I’m in bad need of a spirit defibrillation. I know, I am made alive in Christ, but sometimes, it feels like I am barely hanging on. Restoration, God is a good God. He is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast compassion. Restoration is entirely the working of God. I wish, I could jumpstart it, but I know that He will come.

I am in between brokenness and restoration. It is in this limbo, I have felt God nudging at me. Reminding me of who I am, “You’re a worshipper”. It’s my primary identity. I was created for worship. My open hands moved towards an idol that I worshipped wholeheartedly. It’s only in repentance, I find restoration. It is my hope that it comes soon. Brokenness is completely unideal. I feel like if we as humans were more honest, it is not that our success that drives us. It is not our desires, but the brokenness that drives us to idolatry, but no idol can fix it. No job, no relationship, no item, no person can set our wayward heart set straight. My only hope. Our only hope is in someone completely external. Oh, Lord let it be you.

Before, my idolatrous season began, I wrote a song named Idolatry. As I look back on the lyrics, I had idolatry more right than wrong. May it not overtake me once again.

Idolatry, you pull me straight down to my knees

I worship you, hoping you’ll make me complete

Your siren sound, echo my unanswered prayers

Those hollow words, I’m helpless you leave me so scared

I’m paralyzed; you’re draining the life out of me

I cannot move, silently suffocating

Another drink, pour it up watch it go down

Your praise begins, prostrate I lay on the ground

I will return, for you are my stale daily bread

You’re killing me, but you also keep me well fed.


I always need You, but I need you especially in this place, where I feel fragile and fragmented. Mind me of the work of Your blood. Help me to understand it, trust it, and live in it, not just for today, but especially for tomorrow and the days after.

In Christ,



Day 7: Meaning Behind My Blog Name

Life does not progress in a linear fashion. There are assumptions on how life should be ordered, but the older I get the more I realize that’s not going to happen. However, I am grateful. Life is nonlinear and I’m grateful for it.

It’s my nonlinearlife.

If you want to know more about it. Start at the beginning when I have kids with four other women.

December Blogtember

If you have followed my blog at all this year, thank you. I write from my heart and experience. However, I know I hyperfocus on the melancholy and complexity of simple things. It’s a flaw. This year has been difficult for me. The last time, I had a year this struggle-ridden a friend sent me a link to something called Blog-tember where I was given prompts on different topics.

It has been three years since my last Blog-tember and about five years since, I started this blog. I’ve decided for the month of December to post daily with prompts. I may post other things, but I want to do something light. Also, prompts generate creativity.

So, stay close and attentive, and enjoy Blogtember.



Tuesdays begin early. Alarm ringing at 5:30am, telling me I have 30 minutes more of rest before I need to get up. School begins in an hour and a half. You know 7:00am is real early to discuss when the union between soul and body. I love it. By the time, my mind arrives my body is prepared. Theology was meant for the beginning of the day. To ponder and discuss the divine as light breaks the chill autumn morn. It’s a transcendent three hours. Where the mystery somehow gets revealed but all the more becomes more enigmatic.

Transitioning to the tiniest of spiritual formation groups. Lead by a girl who is spiritually disfigured. Hands inverted inward, spine distorted twisting, limping hobbit-like with two women who find me “insightful”. Constantly wondering, finding truth in the quote, God draws straight with crooked lines.” So crooked, I don’t know if I could be considered a line anymore. I’m trying to align myself with the One who sees straight, but it is hard to straighten what is twisted without breaking it. Two white women and one black woman talked about race. It was good. It makes me grateful for grace.

Time between school and work is minimal. Scurrying, my drive is mindless. I just begin composing my mental to-do list, while chatting with a friend. Drafting up conversations I will have with my staff. Dreaming up ways to change the world. Damning myself for my weight. Dropping the responsibility of caring about it this week.

Tip-toeing into the office, hiding from those who want to talk or task me with what is not mine. The youth floor is so self-contained. I don’t even know what goes on beneath me. I’m more aware of matters taking place elsewhere in the facility. Texting my Chick-fil-A order to a friend who loves me beyond what I deserve. Receiving her love and general presence was a gift. Once she left, the afternoon soared. Until it pummelled into having to find a lost student. We found him.

Tears flowed this evening, unexpectedly. Trying to reach a beautiful adolescent mother, who needed encouragement. I was never told my heart would be taffy in the hands of adolescents with strong hands. She trembled in my arms, tears falling out her eyes, torn hearted. I held her as my own. She is my daughter, browned and slight with glimmering eyes.

Tired, I refuse to stay late. I walk to my room and author this to commemorate a Tuesday. Thankful that it happened.



Frailty is essential to humanity. In all our collective efforts to be strong and amass wealth, protection, and muscle mass, there are some things in which we cannot be protected from natural disaster, heartache, and a bullet through the skull. Frailty, not strength, is what heightens my senses and emotions to engage and experience all of life. It is with the frailty that I exist in this season. I welcome the #houstonstrong hashtag, but strength is only necessary for those who feel weak. I am weak. Boy, am I weak.

The past 23 days have brought change. None of it planned. None of it expected. None of it wanted. All of this change beating against the doors of my insecurity and fears. The change has reacquainted me with an adolescent version of myself filled with questions and wonder but disillusioned to the “answers” people give me. How does one define family? Where is home? Why am I still here? Fittingly enough, this semester I am taking an Anthropology and Hamartiology course, that may provide direction for answering these questions. God has always used my studies as a not so subtle way to provide direction. I’ll probably write about all of this in more depth later, but to explore the inner workings of my mind in isolation and then publish them on the internet seems foolish…ice cream is a much better idea.

I am adrift.

I don’t know what is to come.

I don’t know which way, I’m coming from.


I wonder if humanity was always meant to be frail. Is frailty a product of a fallen world? Or is it just a natural element to being human? It might be the second. It makes us need one another, but it also proses potential for amassing weapons or isolating oneself. Lord, I am a confused little girl. God, be a lamp unto my feet.





In Harvey’s ending, many people, for the first time, considered what it means to be displaced. I did not. 2014 raced through my head. I saw the hand of believers move to serve me, yet I focused on the depression of that year. Remembering the August night spent in my car, terrified and alone. I dwelled on the isolation of that year. The many nights, I remained in my office hours past close simply to be alone. I concentrated on the loss of that year. Initially, it was a job, a home, and children, but by the end, it was a sense of identity, value, and self. When 2014 ended. I was broken.

When you are displaced you lose much more than a home. You lose a rhythm and a schedule. You lose your daily patterns and cadences with people. You lose your ability to control meals. You lose the ability to shut the door in people’s face. You lose control. The only thing I gained in 2014 was weight. 25 pounds exactly and I still haven’t even lost that three years later.

God, I am at a total loss. My heart lies somewhere in the debris of drywall and flooring. I don’t know if it is even worthy of repair. I do know You are the Original Creative. I know You take chaos and disorder and bring life, sustainable life. Take the chaos of a dismantled heart and bring about life and order. I know I have been distant from You. I have wandered from You, but I need You for You to find me. I am done being prodigal. Be my home.

In the Son. Through the Spirit. To the Father




My Name is Funke

Four hundred and seventy-seven pages into Americanah, I saw it. Shocked by its presence, I sat and stared. Fixated so deeply by the letters, they ambiguated into modern hieroglyphics. I couldn’t decipher them. Familiar but distant. I took a picture and what I saw was my name.

Tosin (toe-seen) is a name of modernity. I didn’t actually discover my first name was Tosin (actually Oluwatosin) until I was in 9th grade. For a significant time of my life, I was called by my first middle name, Funke (foon-keh). As a child, Funke lent itself to humorous, but uninspired name calling: funky monkey, funky chicken, you smell funky. The one time, I fought, it was because someone made fun of my name. His name was Caleb Brown, and I hit his head against a window sill. (I won). Unfortunately, I didn’t have the resolve as a child to own my name.

When I transitioned into middle school, I went by Ola, taken from my second middle name, Dolapo (doe-lah-poe). Ignorantly unaware of the Spanish language, anyone reading this could clearly see how Ola got real old, real quick. Unfortunately, I was highly temperamental in middle school, and “Hola, Ola” lost its humor quickly. I never got into a physical fight in middle school over my name, but I did have mastery of a couple of choice curse words, that aided me in my verbal assaults.

In high school, I landed on Tosin. My most preferred moniker. Half of my life, I have answered to Tosin. I love my name. It fits me well. It has a balance of edge, softness, wisdom, and verve. It has followed me through high school, college, and Texas. I have heard “Tosin” pass beautifully through the lips of friends who have loved me like family. There are not any American songs written about girls named Tosin, but I don’t really need them. Tosin is unique for me. I like that when a friend hears my name, they are not filtering through millions of Tosin’s. There is (typically) a singular Tosin, whose name creates some sort of reaction for them. It is me.

So, why was I so startled by Funke?

Two reasons. First, it was awesome to see my name in the pages of a book. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was not thinking of me when she wrote Americanah, yet I felt represented. I joined along with a 1,000’s of other Funke’s who never thought they would see their name in a novel. Dumbstruck and awestruck. I was mesmerized by the idea that me a Nigerian-American second generation immigrant, whose name was caricatured, would see my name as a complex character even for one paragraph.

Second, it brought back memories of childhood. Dormant beautiful memories of Funke, who was spunky and sweet, tomboyish and rugged. Funke, whose mind was a wonderland of colors and stories and weirdness and spontaneity. I don’t revel in my childhood. Reflections of that time period are embittered by abuses and terror. It was nice to get a morsel of it back.

Hi. My name is Funke.

Next to my many names are the proper phonetics for accurate pronunciation.