It is a difficult season in Namibia.

We have recently been reminded just how vulnerable we are to the things we cannot control. Foot-and-mouth disease has returned to our country after more than 60 years, bringing worry to farmers and everyone whose lives are connected to cattle, farming and the movement of livestock and meat. For many of us, it is not simply about animals or exports—it is about livelihoods, families and the future of our farms.

And then there is the rain.

We watch the skies, listen to the forecasts and wonder what the season ahead will bring. There is talk of El Niño and the possibility of a dry year, and here in Namibia, we know what that can mean. Rain is never just rain to us. It is hope. It is life.

Whether we live on a farm or in town, we are all connected to it in some way.

These are the things that have been on my heart as I sit on my Kalahari porch. There is so much we cannot control, and if I am honest, there are days when I find myself wrestling with it all.

Wrestling with the uncertainty.
Wrestling with what tomorrow may bring.

And yet, in the stillness, I am reminded of His goodness.

His faithfulness.

His presence.

I am reminded that sometimes faith isn’t about having all the answers. Sometimes it is simply about being still.

Be still, and know that I am God. — Psalm 46:10

Be still.

Not because there is nothing to worry about,
but because He is God.

He is faithful.
He is present.
He is enough.

And so, as I sit here looking out across the Kalahari, I choose to remember that we are not carrying this alone.

God is our refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble. — Psalm 46:1

We may face difficult days.
The future may feel uncertain.

But God is not. He is ever-present

So today, I will be still.

I will trust.

And I will remember that the God who has carried us through every season before is still with us now—faithful, present, and holding us through this one too.

Be still, and know that He is God.

And perhaps on difficult days, there is something comforting about coming back to the simple things we can still do: gathering around a table, sharing food, and making time for the people we love.

There is something deeply comforting about a meal that takes its time.

A pot simmering slowly in the oven. The aroma of garlic, tomatoes and herbs filling the kitchen. Tender meat falling from the bone. Orzo soaking up all those beautiful flavours, finished with creamy feta, fresh basil and a squeeze of lemon.

Today, I am cooking slow-cooked Greek lamb shanks with orzo.

It is hearty, generous and unhurried—the kind of food that asks you to slow down and linger a little longer around the table.

And perhaps that is what I need right now.

To slow down.

To give thanks for what we have.

To share a meal.

And to remember that even in uncertain times, there is still goodness to be found in the ordinary moments.

And a faithful God beside us through it all.

With love from My Kalahari Kitchen, Aldalene