The Grandmother Who Sang While She Worked

Every morning at 5:30, before the rest of the house stirred, Margaret Okonkwo stood at the kitchen sink in her small Lagos apartment and sang. Not quietly — Margaret sang with her whole chest, hands deep in dishwater, voice rattling the window louvers. Yoruba hymns, English choruses, sometimes just a melody she made up on the spot. Her grandchildren would wake to it, padding into the kitchen rubbing their eyes. "Mama, why do you sing so early?" her grandson Tobi once asked. She dried her hands on her apron and cupped his face. "Because I woke up. Because God gave me these hands, this kitchen, and you. What else would I do but thank Him?"

Margaret had buried a husband. She had survived a civil war. She had known hunger that hollowed out her cheeks. And still, every single morning — singing.

This is the spirit the psalmist calls us into. "Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth. Worship the Lord with gladness; come before Him with joyful songs." Psalm 100 is not an invitation reserved for easy days. It is a declaration that the God who made us, who calls us His own, whose love stretches across every generation, is worthy of our praise before the coffee is even brewed. Margaret understood what the psalmist knew — gratitude is not a response to circumstance. It is a response to the Almighty Himself.