A Stranger Who Fit Perfectly

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If an old photo could tell tales.

A woman walks into a bar, well into a nightclub… and somehow, straight into our story.

The night was loud—the bass was heavy, music thumping, lights flashing cutting through the dark, everyone still buzzing from our friend’s performance with her band. She was famous back in the days. We squeezed together for a picture, laughing, trying to capture the moment before the night slipped away.

And then she burst in—there she is on the left in yellow.

Not calm. Not subtle. She came in laughing—really laughing, like full-on joy—like she’d been with us all night, like we were old friends she hadn’t seen in years. Before anyone could even question it, she jumped into the frame, grabbed the moment like it was hers too, and snapped the picture.

We barely had time to react.

Because just as quickly as she appeared… she was gone.

We looked at each other, confused. “Wait—who was that? No one knew. No one had seen her before. No one saw where she went.

But when we checked the photo later, there she was—right in the middle of us, glowing, laughing like she belonged, like she’d always been part of the night.

A stranger… who somehow fit perfectly into a moment she was never invited to.

Oh Hello, There!

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Woke up this morning grateful, smiling at the world. Life may not be perfect—no one is—and complicated sometimes but it is simple: we are here, breathing, living, laughing, dancing and making it through, like a mermaid dancing the hula on a Hawaiian beach.

The Almighty always has a purpose. We may not see it or touch it, but we walk within it under His carefully guided grace and watchful eyes.

So rock your day and your week the best way you can, as you see fit. Tomorrow is another day, and it always looks promising as life is for the living.

Here’s to you—cheers!

Dear Kairo, The Thing About Grief

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The thing about grief—the journey you involuntarily find yourself in—is that the time for condolences comes with an expiration date. There is a limit to those moments of bereavement that come pouring in like an avalanche of discarded, almost robotic messages, when everyone seems to care, or is genuinely concerned, or pretends to be—about your well-being, your state of mind, your spirituality.

The first hours, days, weeks, and months become a blur. It feels like a game of soccer, or maybe ping-pong, where the ball goes up and down only to return to the same place where it started. The most disappointing part of this game is when some you believed cared enough don’t even try to check on you. And yet, there are those you least expect, appearing out of nowhere, calling just for the sake of calling—to see if you’re okay.

They don’t always say much, but they say enough for you to understand their intentions.

I have come to value these sporadic conversations. They can feel “annoying” sometimes, as I struggle to pick up the phone, but I do it anyway—because I don’t want to postpone the interruption. Either I answer now or deal with it later. Why put it off?

I am grateful for them. I welcome them. They make the nights and days less heavy. For a moment, I don’t feel like a lost bird. The house feels full.