Just an Aunt

 They say being an aunt is easy fun, even. You get to play with the babies, spoil them with toys and sweets, and then hand them back when they cry. That’s what people think. They call it “just being an aunt.”

But what most people don’t understand is that being an aunt is everything at least to me.

My story begins not with me, but with my beautiful sister and her loving husband, my dear brother-in-law. When they gave birth to their first child, a precious baby boy named Anda, something inside me shifted. I can’t fully explain it, but it was like my heart opened a new room I never knew was there. A room filled with love, tenderness, and fierce protection. A few years later, when their second child arrived my sweet niece Aka that room grew even bigger.

These two little souls, Anda and Aka, didn’t just make me an aunt. They made me someone I had never been before.

They made me the best version of myself.

From the beginning, it was more than just visits and playdates. I became someone they could run to with open arms, someone who sings their favorite lullabies, who whispers prayers over their tiny heads while they sleep. I became someone who doesn’t need to be their mother to love them like one.

And that’s the secret of aunt life no one tells you:

You don’t birth them, but somehow they still feel like yours.

Watching Anda say his first words, hearing Aka laugh for the first time, feeling their little hands hold mine with full trust…those are the moments that made my world brighter. They made ordinary days feel like holidays. They brought joy that dances through every corner of my life.

In our home, everything changed when they arrived. My parents transformed too suddenly they were no longer just Mom and Dad; they became Grandma and Grandpa. And oh, the joy that brought! Watching my dad play on the floor like a child again, or seeing my mom rock her granddaughter to sleep with a peaceful smile it’s like watching our whole family rediscover love in its purest form.

But here’s something I rarely say out loud:

When it comes to Anda and Aka, I don’t feel like “just” an aunt. I feel like I’m theirs. Entirely.

And they’re mine.

They’ve taught me to be selfless, to be patient, to laugh louder, and to love deeper. I’ve learned that it’s okay to cry when you miss them. That it’s okay to get excited over baby steps and toothless grins. That the simple act of holding a tiny hand can heal something inside your heart.

People often underestimate the power of aunt love. But let me tell you it’s a love that runs wild and true. It’s a love that rushes in like a flood and never leaves. It’s a love that makes you show up at birthdays, at school plays, when they’re sick, when they just want to be held.

Because for me, this isn’t a side role.

This is one of the greatest callings of my life.

When Anda shouts my name with joy, or when Aka clings to me like I’m her whole world, I feel it in my bones:

I was meant to be their aunt.

I was born for this.

So no, I’m not just an aunt.

I am their guardian in spirit, their cheerleader in life, their second mama in disguise. I am the one who will always be there, through every milestone, every heartache, every celebration.

And I thank God every day for my sister and brother-in-law for gifting me the two biggest joys of my life.

To Anda and Aka, I may only ever be “Auntie.”

But to me, they are my heart.

Forever.

Church Trauma is Real

 Eunice loved the church. It wasn’t just a building with stained glass windows and wooden pews , sit was her second home. From childhood, she had grown up learning memory verses, dancing in the choir, and holding onto every word spoken from the pulpit. She believed that the church was the safest place in the world. A place where broken hearts found healing, where the rejected were embraced, and where love was more than a word , it was a way of life.

But everything changed.

It began with whispers. Comments about how she dressed, how she asked too many questions in Bible study, and how she seemed “too close” to certain people who didn’t fit the church’s perfect image. One day, a close friend of hers , a girl who had made a mistake and gotten pregnant was silently shunned by the church. Eunice refused to abandon her. She stood by her, visited her, and prayed with her. For that, Eunice herself became the next target.

A church elder called her aside and said coldly, “Be careful. If you keep associating with such people, you’ll be seen the same way.” The words cut deeper than she expected. That Sunday, the preacher delivered a fiery sermon about “rebellious spirits” and “hidden sins corrupting the youth.” No names were mentioned, but every glance in the congregation confirmed what Eunice already knew the message was about her.

Her heart sank. The place that once uplifted her was now crushing her.

Psalm 41:9 says, “Even my close friend, someone I trusted, one who shared my bread, has turned against me.” For Eunice, those words became painfully real.

She stopped going to church. No one called. No one asked if she was okay. The silence was louder than any sermon she’d ever heard.

Eunice entered what she called “the silent season.” She tried to pray, but the words felt dry. She opened her Bible, but the verses seemed distant. Worship music, once her greatest joy, now brought tears instead of peace. She felt as if her relationship with God had been buried under the weight of people’s judgment.

She often asked, “Lord, if your people have hurt me like this, where are You?” But she held on to one verse: Psalm 34:18  “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Then, one evening, everything changed.

Scrolling through Instagram, Eunice paused on a post. It said, “Healing is still holy. Church trauma is real. But so is restoration.” The words stopped her in her tracks. It was a quote from Pastor David Ford, the author of Church Trauma. She had never heard of him before, but something about those words felt like a lifeline.

She followed the link to his book and read a line that brought her to tears: “Sometimes you have to feel the weight of your pain so God can carry it for you.” In that moment, she realized that what she had gone through had a name. It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t backsliding. It was trauma. Church trauma.

Eunice bought the book that night and began to read. Page after page, she felt seen. Every chapter was like medicine to her soul. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t the only one. She wasn’t faithless—she was wounded. And healing was possible.

She started journaling. She poured her heart out to God again—not in perfect churchy words, but in raw, honest cries. And slowly, healing began. She forgave those who never apologized. Not because they deserved it, but because her heart needed to breathe again.

She found a small Bible study group filled with people who had similar stories. No one judged. No one pretended. They simply loved. For the first time in a long while, Eunice felt like she could breathe again. She wasn’t afraid to be herself. She didn’t have to be perfect to be accepted. She realized that God had never left her . He was just waiting to heal her outside the walls that had hurt her.

Psalm 147:3 became her anthem: “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

Eunice’s faith was restored. Not in people, but in God. She began to speak at youth meetings and church conferences. Each time, she would begin with the same words: “Yes, I was hurt in church. But I met Jesus again outside the building. And now I’ve returned not to the same system, but to the same Savior.”

1 Peter 5:10 spoke deeply to her: “And the God of all grace, who called you to His eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will Himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.”

Today, Eunice’s story is not one of bitterness but of breakthrough. She doesn’t hide her pain. She shares it, because she knows there are many others like her silent, wounded, and afraid to speak.

To them, her message is simple:

Church trauma is real.

But so is healing.

And healing is still holy.

The silent struggle of a pastor’s kid

I grew up surrounded by the Bible, prayer meetings, church services, and ministry life. From the outside, it looked like a dream: a spiritual home, Christian values, godly parents. And yes, it’s a blessing to be raised in a Christian family. But not everyone sees the weight that comes with it, especially when you’re the pastor’s child.

There’s this unspoken expectation placed on us. People assume that because our parents serve God, we are automatically holy, mature, or even perfect. But the truth is, we’re just human. Being a pastor’s kid doesn’t make you born again. It doesn’t mean you automatically love God or understand faith. It is by grace, not by birthright.

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God.”

(Ephesians 2:8)

When I was younger, I started noticing how people viewed me differently. At school, if I failed a subject, it wasn’t just seen as a bad grade. It was seen as a disgrace. “How can a pastor’s child fail?” they would say, as if I wasn’t like every other student trying to figure things out.

In the community, I couldn’t be myself. People expected me to be quiet, polite, full of scripture, and spiritually mature at all times. If I laughed too loudly, questioned something, or dressed differently, I could feel the silent judgment. I was no longer seen as a person, but as a reflection of my parents’ ministry. That pressure is heavy.

But we’re not angels. We are people. We have struggles, doubts, and even pain. And we often hide it because we don’t want to bring shame to our families or hurt the church. We suffer silently, afraid to say, “I’m not okay.”

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”

(Romans 3:23)

I had to learn that salvation is a personal journey. Just because I was born into a Christian home doesn’t mean I had a relationship with Jesus. I needed to discover Him for myself. I needed to understand grace, not just hear about it from the pulpit, but experience it in my own failures, questions, and mess.

“Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

(John 3:3)

There were days when I didn’t feel free to cry. Days when I couldn’t ask for help. Days I wore a smile but felt like I was drowning inside. And all the while, people kept saying, “You’re the pastor’s child. You should know better.” But what I really needed was someone to say, “You’re allowed to struggle. You’re allowed to grow. You’re allowed to be human.”

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

(Galatians 6:2)

To everyone reading this: Please remember that pastor’s kids aren’t perfect. Don’t expect us to be our parents. Don’t expect us to already have all the answers. Talk to us. Pray for us. Let us be honest. Let us grow.

And to every pastor’s kid out there who has ever felt the pressure: You are not alone. You are more than the expectations placed on you. You are not a role. You are a person. And you are loved by God for who you are, not just who people think you should be.

Composition and patterns

 

1. Leading lines 

2. Pattern of lines

This is the arrangement of cups and it forms a lines of cups 

Types of photography

 1 . Political photography 

2. Arts photography 

3 . Food photography 

4. Weather photography 

5. Commercial photography 

6. Wild life photography 

 7 .  Architecture photography 

8. Disaster photography 

9 . Potrait photography

10 . Street photography