Golden Days

Copyright © 2022 Daisy Adora Ilonzeh.

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ISBN: 978-1-6642-6400-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-6401-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-6399-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022906976

WestBow Press rev. date: 05/10/2022

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication page

Introduction

Chapter 1 Disappointed Hope

Chapter 2 Sweeter Than Honey

Chapter 3 Doubts

Chapter 4 Cup of Salvation

Chapter 5 Valleys & Hills

Chapter 6 Evergreen Pastures

Chapter 7 Purity

Chapter 8 Tongue like Gold

Chapter 9 Mended with Gold

Chapter 10 Deep Calleth unto Deep

Chapter 11 The Greatest Happiness

Chapter 12 Heirs of Grace

Chapter 13 Recreational Thanksgiving

Chapter 14 Golden Days

Chapter 15 Simple as the Gospel

Acknowledgements

DEDICATION PAGE

This book is dedicated to all who will grab a copy of this book, the Lord had you in mind. To those who will come to Christ because of the words in these pages.

To Pastor Cornell, a faithful worker and apostle of Christ. May God continue to keep you, you have the best gift of teaching and edifying.

To anyone that has been affected by brokenness, and to anyone who is insecurely holding on to a secure Christ. The Lord sees you.

To my imperfect family, including myself, forgiven by Christ. I love you, in a better circumstance, I would choose you all over again.

To Mia Bakery, Brooklyn, where I struggled to write the first two pages of the introduction section. I had the best bought pecan pie there. I remember going for a second. Also to Wework Company, where I wrote almost every Monday without fail; thank you for the space.

To the known God that saved me and allowed me to live and write about my little story and about His grand salvation. You have watched over me since I was in my mother’s womb and You still continue to do so. Your providence is unmatched. Your love for me is wild.

Thank you.

INTRODUCTION

Golden days are here! Those were the words I heard in my head as I struggled to rise up from my bed in the late summer of 2019. I knew those were not my words; I am not naturally built to imagine good things. At least not a woman like me, not the way I was raised or brought up into this broken world, that is in need of fixing.

Prior to that morning, I had dialed into a bible study conference. The host and Pastor, Dr. Cornell, was talking about the Topical Bible Study Method. He taught us that this method of bible study was about choosing any topic of your choice and studying it, throughout the bible. He told us that, if we chose a topic that we had no interest in, we would easily lose interest in the study. Like a single lady that has no interest in being married, need not focus on choosing the topic on Marriage. She would immediately lose interest.

Then suddenly a dialer, interrupted the flow and asked, What is the difference between happiness and joy? The host answered, that happiness is based on what happens around you; if it’s all good, you are happy. But if something changes for the worse, you are no longer happy. But joy is different; it is an inward, good feeling that is constant even if things aren’t; no bad news can take your joy away.

He went on about what joy was. Then the callers meditated on what Joy was; which made them to praise God over the phone for like over ten minutes. They said things like, Praise God and Thank you Jesus.

I was silent, I did not participate with them. I felt out of place for not doing so. But minutes later as they were still praising God, I laughed at the thought of joy. How could I not, after the thought of the good revelation I had about Jesus and his healing power!

Then the host said that, the bible mentions that there are different manifestations of joy; some shout for joy, some make a joyful laughter. We were so filled that day. We felt God as we meditated on joy! What felt like an interruption from a dialer, turned out to be something good. Something we could hold on to for that day, for life. The host explained being sensitive to what the Spirit of God is doing; he encouraged us to also be sensitive to God’s Spirit; we do live in a day and age that we are not always sensitive to the Holy Spirit.

So, it was the bible study that ushered me into hearing more of what God is doing in this season and days to come! I knew nothing of what golden days meant. Thankfully I searched the web and it gave me eventually almost nothing on the subject. I almost felt hopeless. But there was just one hope as to what it might have meant. It likened it to golden years. It meant a period of great happiness, achievement and prosperity. I would say, great happiness means joy. I am in need of joy, we all are.

There was this struggle and fear that, I would not be able to be this joyful at all times. Or that, I would fail God, through my actions. There was this fear that, I can’t hold on to his promises for my life; that something would take me away from his promises. I thought I would forget it; forget him. What if pain, doubt or sin comes again and overshadows this joy?

1

DISAPPOINTED HOPE

"The creatures cause pain by being born, and live by

inflicting pain, and in pain they mostly die."— C. S. Lewis

He used to beat me, even when I was pregnant with you, said my mother; she was also shocked that I recalled one of their fights, at a young age. When my mother said this, my reaction wasn’t that of a shocked person; I was calm and quiet. I only felt sad about my parents fallen marriage. I was used to it by now. I knew not for what reason the beating happened, I did not have to know; it could have caused my mother’s life and my unborn life as well.

Psychologists say that, Unborn babies can recognize their mother’s voice and emotions. This means that, I must have been afraid when I was unborn. My trauma began in my mother’s womb; in her amniotic sac, the place where I should have felt the most protected, I was not.

I wonder the pain that mothers have to endure, when they introduce their beloved babies into the world for the very first time. The birth pangs into labor; when the nerve cells send a signal to the mother’s brain to release a hormone, oxytocin from a pituitary gland which then causes more contractions until the child is born.

It must be really hard to endure the moment of pain, but afterwards, it is rewarding. I never heard of a mother that ever regretted bringing a child into this world however broken it may be. Mothers might mention of their regret, but the sight of a precious child would remind them of a need of the child.

In the late 80’s, I was born in the late summer. My parents are both from the Eastside of Nigeria. My father came from a royal family. His father was the king of a small village and he had nine wives and multiple children; his Mother, Philomena, a very beautiful woman, caught the attention of my grandfather. Her gentleness may have caused him to marry many more wives after her.

My mother never spoke much of her father; only that, he was a choir director. He was also verbally and physically abusive towards her Mother, Victoria Nwankwo. My grandmother, Victoria, was very ambitious and wealthy. She took great care of her family. She was also a devout Christian. She passed away on August 28th of 2021. The whole family and people who knew her, mourned differently; we were fortunate to mourn with hope, that she will be with the Lord.

My mother gave me two brothers. One of them, named Francis and the other one, Richard. Richard and I do not share the same father. Francis is my elder brother; I always saw him as the gold in all of the pain and hurt. One look at him and I see the beautiful union of my parents. It kept me going; it must have been a healthy coping mechanism.

My parents got married at a young age. The marital relationship between them was short-lived. The separation between them, however old, must have changed my life, in ways I didn’t know it must have.

In my childhood years, I can’t frankly remember anything about a peaceful, happy home. I can’t remember my parents going out on dates or holding hands and being affectionate. All I remember is, the loud bang of a door and my mother locking it, with us on the inside and my dad on the outside. I could remember fear.

My teacher wrote a letter to my father complaining that I was reckless at school; that I interrupted the other students who were prepared for class. Coming to think of this, it must have been because of a disorderly home. Children pick up fast from their parents.

I was left mostly in the hands of a babysitter named Barbara Jean. Barbara was a lovely woman. I remember her welcoming smile and caring hands. I used to confuse her for my mother whenever I was with her. Being with her was always something I looked up to as a kid. It must have been because of the peace that was there.

My father worked a lot at a restaurant. He usually returned home late from work. There was a night when I got up late and went to the living room and found my father eating there alone. He asked me to join him. He had broccoli on his plate. It was probably take-out. As I ate with him, I thought the broccoli were small trees. I had enjoyed the peaceful time with my dad that night. That was the only good memory I have of him during my early childhood years.

After that, I soon moved with my mother and brother to Nigeria. Little did I know that, it would be the last day that I would dream of seeing my parents together. It would mark the day when I would forever be insecurely attached to my father.

I grew up in Nigeria, while my father stayed back to make a living. We first settled in a wonderful neighborhood named Festac, in Lagos State; the home was beautiful on the inside and out. I loved my room. It was simply furnished with paintings. My mother loved paintings, mostly by the Artist, Monet. I appreciated his work at my young age. At home, I would often stop and admire his simple art. That was how I knew about him before I started college, where I learned that, his drawings are viewed as unfinished.

My mother is a talented cook. Her gift of cooking runs in the family and it was passed on to me and my brother. She loves to cook. She also enjoys music, even from a genre that most people don’t like, that is, Country music. I enjoyed listening to Dolly Parton, Trisha Yearwood, and Mary Chaplin. Even as a kid, I knew that no woman would want Jolene around her man.

I remember the wonderful hymn book that my mother had in my childhood bedroom. I would read it and I had two favorite hymns. One of it were Rock of Ages by Augustin M. Toplady and the other one was, God be with you, till we meet again by William G. Tomer. I cannot frankly remember the other songs because I barely read or sang them.

I also had access to a bible. My favorite bible story then, must have been, The Golden Calf. When Moses went up to get the ten commandments and the Israelites were impatient and could not wait for him to come back, so they pressured Moses brother, Aaron to make them a god. Aaron asked them to hand in their golds and he made a false calf (Exo 32:1-9). I read that as a child. And I remember the emotions I felt towards God’s people. I was very disappointed in them. But probably not as much as God was. They acted as if Moses was gone forever.

My mother was not very clingy to me. She would go out around early noon and come back home at night. She often traveled outside of the country. The days she traveled, she would leave me with my cousins and their babysitters. My mother’s parenting style was not authoritative.

My mother has an elder Sister, Aunty Eby. My aunty married an African King. He was previously married. He had five children from his first wife, but one passed away at a young age; they soon became cousins to me. My Aunty soon had three handsome boys of her own.

I spent a great deal of time with my cousins of which I enjoyed. And because of that, I attended their Catholic Church on Sundays. I never really got anything out of the service. My cousins and I always looked forward to the ice-cream we got after Church service. I was grateful I got to attend Church at a young age. Although at the time, I desired to be in a more Charismatic Church; where I would fall out, as the pastor laid hands on me or clap my hands while the congregation sings.

My Aunty had a Chef, named Inyang. He was short and dark. He cooked us warm meals. He was not the best Chef. We enjoyed mostly his breakfast meals. We would all go down and eat; each time, my eldest cousin would choose the largest serving first. Meanwhile, I looked for the next large meal, because I had a large appetite.

When he made certain meals like Plantain porridge, I believe it was on Tuesday nights; we would all pretend to be asleep. That was how untasteful the meal was. It tasted really bland and peppery and he made it mostly with unripe plantains.

Inyang was a man of God. He was a blessing to us. Food was always available. He did his work diligently and faithfully; he worked as unto the Lord. He was very faithful to his employers, even till the end. I barely heard him get into trouble with my aunt. He would host prayer meetings in the spare room, where we used to have after-school lectures. During the meeting he would pray for us. And he once took us to his Charismatic Church. I enjoyed it! The Pastor laid his hands on me. At the time, I thought that I had to fall out or something was wrong with me. So I did! I did not know when to get up and so I spent some time on the floor. I got up eventually and went back to my seat, to be with Inyang.

In year 1999, I attended boarding high school in the Southern part of Nigeria. My aunt cried and rushed out of the room as I prepared to leave for my first day of school. I thought she was joking, until my mom told me to run after her. It was bitter leaving my family behind. But the new friends I made, made it a bit worthwhile. At the boarding school, I attended their Anglican Church service. I was not the best mathematics student. I had a wonderful math tutor, Mr. Ogedegbe; he explained it to me in a way that, it turned out to be my favorite subject. I told my mother then, that I wanted to become a doctor, but she told me that I could not handle it.

I had a close friend in high school. I remember telling her that I was sad because my parents were not together. She did not even say a word to me. I did not know at the time that, it was a trauma response and that, maybe I was hoping my friend would play a therapist’s role; her parents were happily married.

Six years later, I graduated from high school. I cried because I had to leave my friends behind. We all parted to different parts of the world to seek a higher education. I attended Saint Francis College because it was a twenty-two minute walk from my apartment in Brooklyn. And also, because it was my brother’s college as well. Francis and I were very close. Wherever he was, I was; even if he went out with friends, I followed. This closeness made us argue often. But the anger never lasted, it ended before the next day.

After college, I did not know what to do with my degree. I tried to apply