There was a time my blood group was neither A nor B… it was P for Pilot. Sometimes it even upgraded itself to C for Captain. I wasn’t one yet… but I lived like I already was. Long before I understood the language of faith, I was already practicing it: ‘calling things that were not as though they were.’ So one day, stepping out of an Umoinner, I spotted a bead artist crafting those beautiful Kenyan bands. I didn’t hesitate. “Write Pilot on mine.” And I wore it… Faithfully. Almost prophetically. That band wasn’t fashion; it was a declaration.
Fast forward to flight school. The dream was within reach, the runway finally visible. One afternoon at the control tower, as we observed ATC operations, Like we used to do as ground school students, a lady there noticed my band. What followed wasn’t admiration; it was a sharp, unsolicited reality check. A full breakdown of why I was acting like I’ve already made it, & I hadn’t even landed solo yet… My voice hadn’t even requested an engine start through that tower, and yet, I was already calling myself… Pilot. She thought I was just one of those spoiled brats who were ready to lie about our achievements when they hadn’t. Man, I hadn’t even known where people were getting epaulets from. If that was my intent… I would already be having the real captain epaulets… anyway…
I don’t remember defending myself. But I remember the sting. What they didn’t know… was that the band wasn’t claiming arrival; it was announcing direction. The Habakkuk kind of move, writing the vision and making it plain. And by God’s grace… I flew.
“And the Lord answered me: ‘Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so he may run who reads it.’”
Habakkuk 2:2 (ESV)
Years later, life looks different. The cockpit gave way to a calling. The skies opened into something higher than clouds & altitude – purpose. Then a few Sundays back, at church, after VBS, the children placed a simple beaded band in my hand.
“Love. Pst Chris.” No striving. No proving. No becoming. Just… being. And in that quiet moment, I realized something: Back then, I wore what I was chasing. Now, I wear what I’ve been called. I wear the assignment. A little turbulence here and there. Holding patterns once in a while with eventual safe landings… This wasn’t a detour; it was divine rerouting to a higher assignment.
Ministry… Ministry is not a fallback plan – It is the destination. And sometimes, God will use the smallest hands… to remind you of the biggest truths, the real joy, the true satisfaction. Serving God is beautiful.
Thank you, FHIC Church School. There is something sacred about being named, especially when the name comes from hearts that expect nothing in return. That simple beaded band did more than warm my wrist; it affirmed a calling. What followed has been quietly overwhelming. Since that moment, gifts of all kinds have come my way, each one carrying that same title, spoken not as a wish, not as a projection, but as a recognition. A settled knowing. A gentle, unwavering affirmation.
Recently, I had the privilege of ministering at the Kingdom Man Conference… under the Men’s Ministry of The Wonder Workers Bible Study and, honestly, I was undone. The love was loud, generous, and deeply intentional. The gifts were not random gestures; they were specifically branded, thoughtfully prepared, and deliberately given. Every detail carried the same message: we see you, and we honor what God is doing through you. That kind of honor does something to a man.
Because there is a kind of legitimacy that cannot be manufactured. A kind of acceptance that no platform, no title, no striving can produce. It is received. It is witnessed. It is given. And I do not take that lightly. Because somewhere along the way… someone saw rightly. Not the striving. Not the process. Not the becoming. And it is not pretence. But the calling.
And they called it out.
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”
Jeremiah 1:5 (ESV)
Grace & Peace.